Throughout most of my twins' adolescence, season passes to various local attractions were my go-to for having places to "go to". Curated destinations capable of supporting recurring and ad-hoc visits within a reasonable distance from our home. Happy Hollow, the San Francisco Zoo, the Discovery Museum, the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, and a handful of other places provided us with years of weekend options and summer entertainment.
The Monterey Bay Aquarium was a particular favorite, a frequent destination, and the starting point of something extraordinary.
On one of our earlier trips to the Aquarium, around the time they were between 6 and 7 years old, Lauren and her mom remained upstairs at one of the ’touch pool’ exhibits, examining various starfish, sea cucumbers, and urchins. At the same time, my son and I descended the nearby stairs leading to the base of their iconic kelp forest exhibit. Measuring 28 feet high, it is one of the tallest aquarium exhibits in the world —a meticulously detailed and accurate representation of the ocean environment, literally yards away from the shoreline location upon which the aquarium was built.
Tommy and I stood mesmerized by the gentle movement of the kelp and sea life within the 343,000 gallons of water, rhythmically swaying with its artificial tide. His attention shifted rather suddenly from the vibrant sea life illuminated by natural sunlight streaming in from above. It turned instead to the presence of a scuba diver entering the water amidst the rockfish, giant sea bass, sheephead, garibaldi, and a leopard shark or two.
His mouth unconsciously fell open in surprise and awe. His gaze followed the man in a black neoprene suit as he moved gracefully about the massive tank, air bubbles rising in rhythmic bursts as he breathed fresh oxygen from the tank strapped to his back.
Now crouched beside Tommy at the railing, an arm's length away from the 7.25-inch-thick glass wall, I placed my hand on his shoulder. I told him about a friend at Apple who was a certified scuba diver and how they had been given the unique opportunity to do just what we were witnessing: to be inside the kelp exhibit we were standing in front of.
He muttered softly, “I want to do that.” His voice conveyed a mix of desire and hope, along with a hint of inspiration.
I shared with him how that colleague had done so only after having met and become known to the staff as a volunteer, and, of course, having taken the classes and invested the time to become certified. “If you want to dive in this tank someday," I concluded, "if you do the work it takes, you might earn that same opportunity.”
His gaze continued to follow the diver navigating through and between the stipes of kelp within the underwater forest, my words likely nothing more than a faint and distant echo of subliminal encouragement. I vividly recall that moment almost every time I have walked down the stairs leading to that exhibit ever since, which has happened quite often.
Building confidence in our children is a parent's obligation. I routinely aspired to encourage them to believe in themselves, that they could accomplish anything they set their minds to. Experiencing their parent recognizing and supporting their potential serves as a source of motivation. At that moment, though, I felt a slight apprehension and a nagging concern. I worried that I might have been overselling the opportunity and was setting him up for disappointment, because he faced a formidable barrier.
Tommy was being seen by doctors rather consistently, if not excessively, for allergies, asthma, and a handful of other concerns that arose throughout his childhood. His mom and I approached her ongoing concerns from different perspectives and angles. Although I did not discount the possibility that there may have been occasional valid reasons to triage symptoms, I never shared her inclination to assume the worst. I instead felt a duty to balance the weight of her anxiety by leaning heavily in the direction of optimism.
His diving interest was brought to the attention of his asthma doctor. The concerns within that segment of the medical community were that the cold water and the changes in depth pressure during descent and ascent introduce physiological factors that may affect breathing. For anyone. A person with asthma might be more susceptible to these potential effects. I viewed these points as precautionary considerations to be proactively aware of, integrating them into his training and decision-making before and during any dives. Her perspective was the opposite. His having any possible risks of difficulties, no matter how slight, while out of reach and out of sight, was not something she would agree to.
We continued to return to the aquarium with increasing frequency. We stayed overnight, once as a family on New Year's Eve and twice again with his scout troop, sleeping in front of the jellyfish, reef, and ocean wall exhibits. We made numerous day trips there, occasionally accompanied by a few of their friends. Tommy read extensively about the ocean, watched educational videos, wrote school reports on marine life, and decorated his room in accordance with his interest in the subject.
He had developed such a strong and consistent interest in this that, during his mid-teens, I took him to the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute (MBARI) for an open house event so he could be exposed to their studies and the sciences they applied. We also visited the California State University of Monterey Bay campus, with the hope that he might land there after high school to begin his college education studying marine biology.
I bought him a used ‘starter’ wetsuit off Craigslist. He quickly obtained the necessary gear to enter the ocean, to snorkel among the otters and jellyfish, and to peer into the depths of the kelp forest from above. I would assure his mom each time that I would maintain constant and persistent oversight of his well-being and whereabouts.
In 2014, while visiting the aquarium on a summer weekend, we noticed a flurry of activity around their back deck, above their outdoor “Great Tide Pool” area. Several people wearing identical blue t-shirts were milling about, working at and around a pair of pop-up tents directly to the side of a staircase leading down to the exhibit waters.
An older gentleman in a wheelchair, also wearing a blue t-shirt and a Monterey Bay Aquarium hat, and sporting a classic white handlebar mustache, appeared to be a focal point for the others. We approached him when an opportunity arose, and I asked what they were doing. He introduced himself as Marv, one of a small group of individuals who founded an organzation working with the Aquarium to host this unique adaptation of their summer ‘Underwater Explorers’ program, which typically involves children 8 to 13 signing up in advance, putting on wetsuits and air tanks, and ‘surface scuba’ with aquarium dive staff members as guides.
Their adaptation is called “Day of Discovery.” Twice a year, during the summer, Marv and his team facilitated this experience specifically for severely handicapped children, ones who might otherwise never have an opportunity to participate in something like this. It was heartwarming to witness the participants’ excitement. It also served as a humbling reminder of being in the fortunate position to possess the range of mental and physical capabilities that we often take for granted.
The moment Marv mentioned that the staff in the blue t-shirts, as well as the divers themselves, were all volunteers, Tommy expressed his desire to volunteer as well. Marv promptly and kindly acknowledged his offer, noting that there were many ways he could help next year, but that this was the final one of the summer. We left with Marv’s contact information, and that same night, I set a reminder on my calendar to follow up with him next spring.
The following year, in the summer of 2015, Tommy joined Marv's volunteer crew. At the end of that first day, he shared on the drive home how moved he had been by the experience, and by the children. He was proud to dedicate his time to making this possible. This was a key influence in shaping the empathetic path he would continue down as an adult.
Over the next five years, he participated as often as our schedules allowed. Lauren and I would explore the Aquarium and Cannery Row while Tommy took part in this event. He would take photos, assist with forms and wetsuits, work closely with the divers by helping them with their tanks, and make friends and contacts within the Aquarium staff as well. By the time he volunteered and worked the event on his actual 16th birthday, the staff had gotten to know him well enough to surprise him with an end-of-shift gathering, a song, a card, and a birthday cake.
In parallel with these volunteering years, Tommy found another avenue to pursue his aquatic interest — freediving. He met and was taken under the wings of a couple of staff members at Bamboo Reef, a local diving shop just a couple of blocks from the bay.
Nick and Rebecca were both avid free-divers and offered to train him. For the next few months, through multiple excursions into the waters off Pebble Beach, Lovers Point, and Breakwater Cove, he was guided and taught how to hold his breath while safely diving into the ocean for a couple of minutes at a time. When watching from the shore or bluffs above, every second following his initial descent seemed to slow exponentially until they would finally resurface. At that point, I would start breathing again, too.
Skimming the ocean’s surface had only fueled his desire to venture deeper. The freediving experience opened his eyes to glimpse, briefly, what he longed to linger in and enjoy without the constraint of a minute or two’s supply of oxygen. It was time we revisited taking scuba lessons.
I succeeded in getting his mom to agree to his taking a set of introductory classes at Diver Dan’s, a dive shop in Santa Clara with an on-site swimming pool. She continued to voice concerns regarding his asthma, but was okay with this contained and controlled environment. He learned all he needed to know about the gear, safety protocols, and the critical steps for safely descending and ascending without getting the bends. He also got to practice sitting at the bottom of a 5-foot-deep pool for far longer than anybody could ever hold their breath.
As he continued getting closer to his dream, I considered that an appointment with his asthma doctor might be the logical next step. I wanted to revisit his interest and ask that they reassess Tommy's breathing strength and lung capacity. I was confident that, given the experiences with free diving over the past year, he would be capable of obtaining the doctor’s endorsement.
The test required him to breathe into a measuring device for extended periods, in a repetitive rhythm, measuring his lung strength and capacity. He started strong. He aced the first two of three timed cycles. However, the duration and repetition of the test lasted longer than either of us anticipated. He was still doing well, but his stamina faded, and in that final pass, his results felt just below the minimum acceptable range of ’normal'.
The doctor, a scuba diver himself, stated clearly that he had no concerns regarding Tommy's ability to manage any possible and highly improbable scenario. Yet, that third score falling below the prescribed line prohibited him from being professionally cleared.
Disappointed and frustrated by our unsuccessful attempt to reset the doctor’s position, after a year of free diving and his recent training sessions, Tommy declared to me in no uncertain terms that as soon as he turned 18, he would obtain his certification. That birthday was now less than two years away.
Tommy’s engagement with Marv and the Day of Discovery stalled in the latter part of his high school years. COVID played a role, as did significant challenges in his home life. Tragically, in early 2021, his mom, who had been suffering from increasingly debilitating headaches for several months, was unexpectedly hospitalized after a scan found a massive glioblastoma tumor in her brain. They performed an immediate surgical procedure to remove all they could, but they were unable to fully eradicate it. The following year, her last, was spent managing her treatments and progression, moving her from home into a care facility, and eventually into hospice. She passed away 7 months after their 18th birthday, 2 months before their high school graduation.
Those two years, between 17 and 19, were difficult ones for all of us. For him, learning to swim amongst ocean tides, fish, and reefs was a walk in the park compared to navigating the diminishing presence and gradual demise of a parent with brain cancer at 17 years of age. He managed to stay afloat through some of the most turbulent emotional waves one can imagine, leading up to and in the wake of her passing, by immersing himself in several areas of interest and activities, including the continuation of his diving endeavors. As Linda slowly sank into the depths of her final months, Tommy began taking the scuba diving classes he had waited almost ten years to start, and quickly earned his certification.
After the tidal wave that was his mother's sudden illness and passing had subsided, Tommy gradually regained his orientation, followed his 'bubbles up', and resurfaced into the calmer emotional waters of our family recovering and stabilizing. He eventually went diving off Catalina, Oahu, and the Florida Keys. He accepted an assistant position at his childhood pediatrician's office, a step that then led to his volunteering at the Stanford Pediatric Cancer Center in Palo Alto. He applied for and received a summer internship, one of only 6 out of 1,300 candidates, working at the cellular level on cancer research. This, in turn, led to him making even more connections that opened even more doors to other opportunities, particularly in working with children and healthcare, with the goal of becoming a pediatrician specializing in oncology, a field in which he has exhibited an innate passion. A passion similar to the one he has for diving and for the ocean.
He returned to diving again this spring, traveling to Monterey with new friends from Stanford and old friends from the area as well. In early June of this year, he sauntered into our living room saying, ‘Guess who I reconnected with?’.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“The dive team at the Aquarium. I’m going back this summer to volunteer at the Day of Discovery again.”
My mouth unconsciously fell open in surprise and awe. “… Will you be IN the water this time?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ll be in the water, with the kids,” he replied. "I'm even working with them to bring one of the patients from Stanford to participate.”
Tommy returned to volunteer with the aquarium crew for the 1st of two Day of Discovery dates, reconnecting with familiar faces and new ones as well. He felt right at home in the water and with the children, a skill he had developed over the past two years. The time spent in pediatric oncology allowed him to form more than just new friendships and connections with colleagues; his compassion and empathy for the children allowed him to provide support to patients and parents alike, something I believe only a very unique person can do, given the realities of the circumstances so many of them face. It’s not for everyone. It takes a particular strength and heart.
He began working on coordinating the participation of a specific patient at Stanford, a boy not yet in his teens with whom he had developed a strong attachment, as well as to the family. The child had been through several ’touch and go’ situations. They found Tommy’s help and kindness invaluable as they worked through numerous treatment options, looking for the one that might save his life, or at least extend it until they found one that would. Tommy saw the Day of Discovery as a timely opportunity for the boy to experience something extraordinary and unique, perhaps distracting and inspiring, with Tommy at his side.
Thursday morning, just two days before the second and final Day of Discovery, after a sudden but anticipated turn for the worse, the young man passed away. Tommy was with him and the family when this happened. This was the closest he’d ever felt to a patient and the most challenging experience he’s faced so far. It impacted him deeply, as it did for their family.
I’d asked him afterward if he’d still be up to going to the aquarium for the event that Saturday. I had planned to go see and support him. He said, “I don’t know.” It was going to be difficult. I left it alone while he spent Thursday and Friday with the family and with hospice, being supportive and supported as well.
Late Friday evening, while coordinating my agenda for the following day, I checked again on what his plans might be. The loss was still fresh and painful. Yet it also reminded him why he was in this field in the first place. It goes back to having that particular strength and heart. He said “yes”, that he was going to be at the Aquarium for that second day’s event. Although the boy would not be there, others would benefit from his involvement. He wanted to continue helping.
I returned to the Monterey Bay Aquarium on Saturday. I saw Marv again, for the first time in 5 years. I stopped, reintroduced myself (he remembered me), and thanked him for the opportunity he had afforded an eager young teenager to participate in a facility he loved, doing something he had wanted to be a part of, exactly ten years ago this year. The opportunity extended in 2014 allowed Tommy to be exposed to the staff, the children, and the responsibilities and rewards of playing a pivotal role in nurturing his heartfelt desire to work with children facing struggles, needing someone to show them compassion, love, and support. The fact that it overlapped with his interest in the ocean is an ancillary catalyst.
I watched from afar as he worked with the crew and the children, exhibiting a comforting confidence as he helped them into their wetsuits. I witnessed him accompanying them by hand and, in one case, literally carrying a paralyzed participant down and into the water. I followed them from above. He and numerous other divers gently guided their eager and excited guests around the tide pool, affording each of them the experience of floating weightless above the scattered rocks. Face down, breathing effortlessly through their mouthpiece, they were able to observe starfish, urchins, and sea life in a manner they might otherwise only have dreamt of, and in many cases, never imagined possible.
On my way home, he called me from the aquarium, and we talked briefly about the experience. After discussing the kids and some of the staff, he casually mentioned that one of the people he’d worked with years ago was now a director or in a similar position at the aquarium.
Then, rather nonchalantly, likely without any recollection of a day some 15 years ago that I have never forgotten, he continued, “… and they may be able to arrange for me to dive in the kelp forest exhibit."
Roughly 15 years ago, I stood next to my son, a toddler, a young, wild-eyed, impressionable boy, as he got his first glimpse of an activity he has since pursued and strived to achieve, patiently surmounting limitations and obstacles along the way. I did all I could to support and encourage him, despite the constraints and barriers, to reach this moment, one that was once considered a long shot at best.
I hope to descend that same staircase soon, leading to the base of their iconic 28-foot-tall kelp forest exhibit. It’s consistently filled with children mesmerized by its wonder and magnificence. The undulating motion of the water, fish floating in place, kelp swaying, and, if you time your visit just right, a scuba diver.
I will be watching and waiting for the moment a child's attention shifts to my son entering the water from above. I’ll watch as they gasp, point, and follow his movements. I may even see a parent crouch at their side to say something I’ll be too far away to hear.
I’ll watch as he waves and they wave back, perhaps inspiring another future diver. I’ll witness him fulfill a childhood wish with a sense of gratitude and wonder at the closure of two circles. Because it was my wish for him, too.
