As the sun tucks behind a neighboring island, I come up for a breath. I feel the raindrops hit against my back, so loud as they pound against the surface of the water. The air is cold but the water is warm. I might as well be alone out here, my friend is nowhere to be seen. I begin to shiver, seeking an excuse to dive back down. Because the sky is dark, everything on the reef looks the same from 35 feet above. Until it moves.

By the steady way this one creature glides I can identify it. I'm intrigued. I take a deep breath filling my lungs. The adrenaline hits. As I descend deeper the image of a big Fijian Green Sea Turtle becomes progressively unmistakable. I dive a short distance from her, trying hard not to make a disturbance. I know she sees me, but she doesn't seem to care. As I follow her towards the shelf of the reef the water gets increasingly darker, I can't see 20 feet ahead of me. For some reason that doesn't bother me, which is surprising after my teacher had just shown us videos of shark attacks to show examples of aggravated behavior.

I'm still tailing her. I see the flash of a juvenile Black Tip Reef Shark dart by. I know he's looking for food, reef sharks are crepuscular, meaning they feed during dawn and dusk. 

but it doesn't phase me. 

I have always loved the ocean. I was raised playing in the murky waters off the Gulf Stream in Long Island Sound. The first time I saw a coral reef I was twelve years old. My dad bought me a pink mask, blue snorkel, and black fins for our trip to Puerto Rico. As my face hit the water for the first time I saw the little Damsel Fish scatter and the Fan Coral sway.  My eyes had never been open so wide. While I loved playing in the waves, there was something more fascinating about still water, or maybe it was what laid beneath it. At that moment I had no idea where the ocean would guide me through the next four years.

Eventually the turtle dips below the shelf. I can't see her, which reminds me I haven't seen my friend in a while. I feel worried for a moment, and it hits me—I've been under the water for at least 3 minutes. I launch upwards, break the surface, and gasp. My friend shouts my name, “Neala! How long were you under there? I’ve been looking for you for so long, you scared me!” I'm still in shock, the longest I've ever held my breath was a minute and 50 seconds. 

At that instant, as I finally caught my breath and the adrenaline began to fade, I discovered the feeling I have been chasing ever since—being so focused and immersed in the moment that nothing else matters. I wasn't worried about a hungry shark, what was beneath that shelf in the darkness, or my emptying lungs. I felt free beyond the limits of my body and mind. That feeling has returned me to the ocean continuously across the past few years to study the biology and ecology of the marine world.

It doesn't surprise me so many people are afraid of the ocean and what lies beneath the surface. Most would never dive that deep or swim that far out, especially not alone. I used to sit in the sand on the beach while my dad and brother played in the waves, feeling uncertain. That was before I discovered the focus and freedom the ocean brings me. Nothing can make me feel the kind of relentless curiosity that the ocean does. I want to find this state of flow and focus in all of my future challenges in life, especially when I need it most. 

It's June 8th, 2024. I wake in the morning to a gripping calf cramp, my gift from the day before and a great way to start day two of the 2024 High School National Invite. It is a cloudy morning in Rockford, Illinois; the air is warm and damp. Nice. I slip on my Birkenstocks and walk down the stairs. My whole body aches. “There is no way I will make it through three more games today,” I think to myself as my legs buckle when I step off the last step onto the cold hotel lobby floor. 

After devouring a carb-filled continental breakfast, consisting of potatoes, sausage, yogurt, granola, waffles, biscuits & gravy, and a cup of OJ, I start my journey back up the stairs. Back in my hotel room, my teammates and I fight over the mirrors and the sink, blasting music and singing while we get ready for another long day of ultimate frisbee. I slick my hair back into a ponytail and use baby elastics to turn it into a long blonde bubble braid, using globs of gel to make sure it holds all day and still looks good in pictures by the time we hopefully win the tournament.

I put on my purple jersey and black shorts, pulling on my brand-new white Adidas socks and slipping my Birks back on to head downstairs and load up into the team vans. As we drive to the tournament fields on the long, flat Midwestern highways, the van is quiet. I wonder what my teammates are thinking, if anything at all. My brain seems to tune out the music, and all I can think about is what it would feel like to win nationals again, that feeling when all the hard work and patience finally pays off. The moment of glory and pride.

As we warm up to play quarterfinals against a team from Utah, my body starts to come back to life. I am excited, not nervous. The vibes are up; I'm braiding my teammate's hair and singing our pregame songs out loud without scratchy voices from cheering and yelling the day before. We blew out Lone Peak in the quarterfinals with a drubbing 15-4 score. 

The semifinal, against Nathan Hale from Seattle, is next. The weather takes a turn for the worse. We play through pouring rain and bone-chilling gusts of wind, continuing to plow our way towards finals with a 15-6 win. It's almost time.

We rush back to the hotel; everyone is freezing and soaked to the bone. We all throw our jerseys and shorts in the dryers and run upstairs to change our sports bras and touch up our hair. Coaches and parents lay out snacks and drinks for us to refuel our bodies with. The semifinal game on the other side of the bracket hasn't finished yet; we all wait to hear the news on whether we are playing Lincoln or our rivals from the previous year, Roosevelt.

While I'm eating my crackers and cheese with a side of pickles, news breaks that Roosevelt beat Lincoln in a tight 12-9 game. This is what we had hoped for: they would be tired, and given that we beat them previously at the “Seattle Invite” in March, we know we have a chance. Despite this, they are a very intimidating team, consisting of 3 players who played on the U20 Team USA and lots of other fast and athletic players.

We make our way back to the fields; the rain stops, and the sun begins to peek out from behind the clouds. We grab our bags from the trunk of the van and begin walking across the showcase field, where we will do our last warmup of the season, our last pregame talk and cheer, our last game of the season, and for many of my teammates, their last high school game ever.

After what feels like a blur of nerves, excitement, anger, hard work, exhaustion, and so many other feelings, I find myself on the end zone line. The score is 14-14 in a game to 15. We are on offense, so we get to start the point with the disc. We put our hands up, and an opposing player pulls the frisbee towards us. This feeling is unmatched. I watch as the handlers work quickly and decisively until Lizzy finds Samaya in the end zone with a tight, risky throw between two threatening defenders. And that was it. 

I feel the tears rush to my eyes and my legs finally giving out; I don't know what to feel. I am so grateful to be here, coming out of being injured and sitting on the sidelines watching my teammates do what I love most. The most frustrating thing is when my teammates complain about being tired or sore. I remember sitting on the sidelines at States after I got pulled from the first game of the day because I was in crippling pain, bawling out of pain, but mostly frustration and envy. 

I have worked so hard to get here, and now it is over. The last game I will ever play with this team, and we won. What a privilege it is to be exhausted.