I made a series of studies on scuba and breath. I wanted to place my breath movement practice in a condition where it would be challenged, where the constraints imposed by the environment would require me to adapt my usual patterns of breathing and adopt technology to enable the body to continue breathing. What I learnt from this was the chemistry of air, the physics of water on the body, and bubbles as a materialisation of breath: breath’s dependency on pressure, equipment, depth and physiological state within water bodies.
Breath is essential to life. It is the intake of oxygen that enables cells to function and keeps the entire body’s organs moving and alive. The air in our atmosphere is approximately 20.95% oxygen. The gas in scuba tanks is usually around 21% oxygen, while specialised Nitrox mixes can contain higher concentrations, sometimes up to 40%, allowing divers to extend certain aspects of their dive within specific depth limits. There are also technologies such as rebreather systems, in which exhaled gas is processed and recycled for reuse. These technologies are important in sustaining the function of the lungs at depth and negotiating the effects of increasing pressure on the body’s intake of breathing gas.
Diving is a practice of breath—its control and extension within a watery environment. In preparation, I squeeze into a neoprene wetsuit to reduce the drag of water against my skin, put on an eye mask to create a pocket of air around my eyes so that my flat cornea can see clearly underwater, and attach a pair of fins to my feet. It is not as easy to sink as one might think. We are mostly made of water, making our density relatively close to that of seawater, while the air in our lungs acts like a balloon, keeping us buoyant. Weights are therefore strapped around the hips to help us descend.
The tank, regulator, gauge and buoyancy device become part of the breathing body. The air is cool and tasteless in my mouth as I double-check the tubes for holes. All is working fine. Breathing underwater is possible through the extension of a rubber tube connected to a metal canister tank and a mouthpiece in the mouth. These precious pieces of equipment are held gingerly in my hands as I screw the parts together and check the gauge. A tank should last me around an hour and a half underwater, but this depends on factors such as my breathing rate, exertion and depth. I am aware that depth affects how quickly I consume the gas. The deeper I descend, the greater the ambient pressure, and the more breathing gas I consume with each breath.
On land, the air spaces inside the body are largely imperceptible. Underwater, pressure makes them matter. I squeeze my nose to equalise the pressure building in my ears. I am careful not to breathe too quickly, but neither do I want to hold my breath, especially while ascending, because as the surrounding pressure decreases, the air in my lungs expands and needs to escape. If expanding air becomes trapped, it can cause serious lung injury. I was not aware of all these pockets of air within me, or of the effects of pressure on my organs. I breathe as steadily as I can, inhaling and exhaling to control my buoyancy. My breath becomes like a balloon that I can use to pilot myself through the depths.
The environment is directly linked to my breath, as my breathing changes according to the water body’s temperature, visibility and topography. Navigating this new environment brings about emotions of fear, anxiety, mystery and peace, which in turn affect the depth and pace at which my lungs take in air through the apparatus. I become aware of how closely my mental state is tied to the physiology of breathing. I am deliberate and forcefully calm in order to stretch my air supply. This makes calmness a form of survival tactic.
Soon the gauge will show the tank emptying, and during the ascent, the same air in the tank used for breathing can also be used to inflate the BCD, or buoyancy compensator device. With that inflation, I float towards the surface of the water. My nostrils turn towards the sky, while the rest of my body remains in the water, the dense water holding the weight of the equipment and the lower half of me.
The body that has been completely immersed in water is suddenly confronted with smell and air again. The first thing that catches my attention is the salty scent of the sea, the food cooking on the boat and the lingering fumes from the boats. Above the water, air moves freely. The wind blows across the water’s surface. I see bubbles ascending and know that other divers are below me, breathing from the tanks strapped to their backs.
Normally, breath is invisible. Underwater, breath becomes an object, materialised into bubbles. With every exhalation, I see my breath externalised as bubbles pushed out of my mouth and ascending towards the surface of the water—a material reminder of what remains invisible when I am on land. These bubbles rip through the water, pockets of air wrapped in liquid. Their size expresses the force with which the air is pushed through. They vary in size, from a gush of explosive air to a tiny, teardrop-sized sphere. Bubbles are evidence that I have breathed, a kind of residue of the body. They mark my presence in the water and then disappear. Unlike breath on land, which vanishes almost immediately, underwater breath leaves a temporary trail. For a moment, my breathing occupies a space outside my body.
