One would think, with well over 3,000 dives and a decade of my life professionally wandering the tropical world for the next best reef, my bubble-loving genes would have passed down to my son, Nakoa. He even bears the middle name Roatan, for the island where he was born. Alas, he was late to swim, and flustered by snorkeling. I had almost accepted that this cobbler’s child would have no fins. That is until a trip to Bermuda, where my stepson, Colin, joined us.

Knowing the boys’ mild brotherly competitive streak, I floated the idea of PADI Discover Scuba Diving experience over dinner. Colin’s immediate “Awesome!” was shortly followed by a subdued “Sure” from Nakoa. First impressions are everything, so I chose Dive Bermuda at Fairmont Southampton, confident that a PADI Five Star Center would offer a safe and positive experience. The boys got a thorough mini lesson and skills workout in the soft-pink-sand bay before joining me on a boat with their instructor for a shallow dive in the pale aqua waters. Forty minutes later, as the fairy basslet and trumpetfish might say, they were hooked.

Nakoa still had some reservations, but agreed to do another Discover Scuba Dive on a trip to Jamaica that following winter. Conditions were fairly awful, the heavy surge and stormy weather dragging visibility down to 30-40 feet, with the second dive being called off for safety. I kicked myself for chancing it, but he clambered back onto the rocking boat with a huge grin and rattled on for two hours—saying more words than he had over the past four days combined—about the handful of fish and sea critters we had managed to see. “And you, like, did this for years?” he marveled, looking at me like we had just met.

Even the best of teens are, well, still teens. One of the most trying aspects of this stage of development is communication, or lack thereof. During that magical two hours, all the stoic pretense of his age had dropped—we connected. Shockingly, I was not merely tolerated with varying levels of exasperation, but begrudgingly admired, all over this common bond of diving and the incredible underwater world I had shared.

Sadly, the wall crashed down when I suggested the repetitive Discover Scuba Dive program could be bypassed if he would only get certified. “Three days of school on vacation?” He sadly shook his head at the idiocy of his poor mom and put earbuds in, sliding his shades down. But later that night as we settled in for sleep, a small voice from across the room: “Do you think … I mean, what if I just became a divemaster and that’s what I did. Like, in life.” I waited a second, trying to keep my voice neutral (and not leap onto the hotel bed in joy). “I think that sounds like a perfect plan—after college.”

When summer came around, Colin back with us, we plotted our big trip. Where to go—we’d done Mexico; Vermont; Hawaii; Vail, Colorado; California. “We could always get you guys certified,” I innocently suggested. Before the “school” objection could be voiced, I explained that PADI had come out with an eLearning option so the coursework, videos and testing could all be done from home. It was a lot like the online SAT prep work they had already been doing, with a much more fun underwater “final exam.” The boys were officially in.

Next came my turn to study. I researched all of the potential dive destinations. It had to be perfect. I wanted clean, warm waters without boiling temps or humidity. I wanted plenty of sun and great visibility. I wanted loads of cute, small and nonthreatening sea life. I wanted somewhere with accessibility to solid medical resources, even a hyperbaric chamber, just in case. I wanted a PADI Five Star Center with a great home reef so even their skills dives would be enjoyable. I also wanted somewhere that had a lot of fun island options in case the diving was nixed for any reason. After much deliberation—and selfish narrowing of the shortlist to places I had not yet been myself—I announced we’d be going to Curaçao.

We checked into the serene and picturesque Oasis Coral Estates Beach, Dive & Wellness Resort on Rif St. Marie. The villa setup was ideal for traveling with teens. Our two bedrooms with baths were connected by a covered outdoor living room with kitchen. The resort’s beach was packed with hammocks, cabanas and loungers for post-dive relaxation, and the two restaurants (infinity-pool adjacent Koraal offering incredible sunsets overlooking the sea, and Karakter offering toes-in-the-sand dining with live music) and a bakery kept the bottomless-pit boys happy and well-nourished for their long days of diving. The best part was well-appointed PADI Five Star Coral Divers Curaçao was just a barefoot stroll from our room.

I dropped the boys off for their review class and confined water dives with instructor Laura Van Loon and headed out to explore the Rif St. Marie and Corals Habitat sites on a two-tank shore dive with divemaster Dayenne de Windt. Both dive pros exuded an infectious passion for diving, the reef and its inhabitants—so I kicked away from the dock feeling very smug about my choice of destination … until I descended.

Instantly, I knew I had made a grave error in judgment. The reef was gorgeous. The soft corals, colorful fans, sponges and elkhorn/staghorn were only outdone by the near comically abundant schools of fish. Curaçao boasts over 350 species, and it seemed like they had all congregated at Rif St. Marie with several hundred of their friends. I felt like I was an underwater Snow White, with various critters alighting on and about my shoulders, beckoning me on, as spotted morays wound through the colorful reef, a smattering of jacks and barracuda impassively swimming by. I was equally thrilled for my own benefit and worried Curaçao would set insanely high expectations for the boys. Sharp-eyed Dayenne only made it worse, pointing out an octopus here and a juvenile spotted drum there. Last week she’d found a seahorse, she shared as we surfaced.

Out of the water, we visited the ostrich farm and an aloe plantation, and took a thrilling tour on an electric balance tricycle through Otrabanda to enjoy the street art and murals—a true highlight was an evening at “Williwood,” with incredible eats (try the goat burger) and even better music and dancing. Playa Piskado, a bay where fishermen come to clean their catch, offered otherworldly close encounters with numerous (and quite chubby) resident sea turtles.

Throughout the trip, there was no bickering, teasing or blank stares into their phones. The boys were engaged, chatting about their dives and challenges, sharing what this flounder looked like or how big this green moray was and listening with rapt attention to old dive tales of mine. They didn’t even notice or comment on the fact that the hotel didn’t have TVs.

We celebrated their official open water diver status with a two-tank tour of incredible Mushroom Forest and Blue Room, a shallow cave with glowing blue waters and open air space to surface. Sea turtles, morays, schools of glittering silver glassy sweepers, and an endless highway of blue creole wrasse topped off with a spotted eagle ray sealed the boys’ love of the underwater world forever. It also seemed to mark a difference in our communication. Underwater, we were now peers. The subtle change of attitude surfaced (slow and steady, with a constant exhale on my part) into real life as well. Diving not only changed the boys for better, it changed them for good.

Shortly after we returned home, I sat on the soccer sidelines as Nakoa went up for a header. He won the ball and a fair knock by an opponent attempting to do the same. As he fell to the ground, I maintained my seat and composure as a coach helped him off the field to the bench and a waiting ice pack. I offered a weak “OK” sign with my fingers, knowing he would probably play it too cool in front of the other players to let me know all was well. As I started to look away, a movement of the hand not holding the ice pack to his temple caught my eye. It slowly raised into an “O” shape, tapping the top of his head as he smiled. It was confirmed, we were going to be OK.