I Still Dive, Hike, Bike and Swim — Only Differently
I’ve always been a lover of the outdoors. I grew up on the shores of Carlingford Lough, where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I’ve always been a lover of the outdoors. I grew up on the shores of Carlingford Lough, where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea. That stunning landscape of rivers, woodlands and hills helped inspire C.S. Lewis’s Narnia, and I spent many a day hiking through it. I was 23 when I learned to dive in Carlingford Lough, full of life and up for anything, including freezing water, zero visibility and not a fish in sight. The gear was clunky and ill-fitting, and I spent my early dives bouncing off rocks and stirring up silt. It took me more than ten dives to sort out my buoyancy, but I was hooked. If I could dive in that shite, I could dive anywhere. In New Zealand’s crystal-clear waters, a world away from Carlingford, I became a scuba instructor. I paid for my son Conor’s diving lessons when he was 14, imagining the day we would explore the underwater world together.
Then came Parkinson’s, heart failure and, in 2022, a heart transplant. Afterwards, I emailed my cardiologist Jonathan an article about another transplant recipient who had returned to diving, expecting him to think I had lost my mind. Instead, he connected me with Chris, a leading dive doctor. Chris reviewed my history, tested my lungs and cleared me to dive no deeper than 20 meters, always with a buddy. My neurologist Barry was less enthusiastic. Parkinson’s, he said, could make handling the gear “challenging”. I imagined gripping inflate instead of deflate on my buoyancy jacket and rocketing to the surface like a startled penguin. I decided not to share that thought with Barry. It felt like the door to my old life had cracked open.
With my ear sorted, we glided deeper. Sunlight pierced the water and danced along the seabed. Blue maomao and demoiselles swirled around us. Stingrays swept past as though they owned the place. The water was a living canvas, alive with movement and flickering sunlight. It felt like I had never been away. I was diving again after my transplant, with Conor beside me. When I first dived at the Poor Knights, there was no Sam, no Kenzie or Conor, no grief, cancer, heart failure, Parkinson’s or transplant. Just me, excited and free. Now life had come full circle in a way I could never have imagined. When I climbed back onto the boat, my Parki tremor kicked into overdrive. Cold and exertion do the same after an outdoor swim. I shake, get warm and wait for it to settle. It is a side effect I am happy to put up with.
My transplanted heart has its own peculiarities. The nerve pathways that once told it to speed up were cut during the transplant, so it now relies on adrenaline travelling through my bloodstream to get the message. It takes longer to get going when I exercise. Oddly, swimming can be trickier for me than diving. My neurologist says it is one of the hardest things for a person with Parkinson’s because so many body parts must coordinate at once. My arms and legs do not always play nicely. I stay in the shallows so I can put my feet down if my body freezes. I warm up by aqua jogging, giving my heart time to catch on and helping my limbs find the movement before I put my head in and begin my very unique freestyle-ish stroke. Some days, the arms and legs cooperate. Other days, they seem to have made separate arrangements. When it falls apart, I put my feet down, aqua jog again and have another go.
Cycling can also be easier for a Parki than walking. Go figure. My walking is still good, and near my Auckland home I have North Head and Mount Victoria, two old volcanoes that are good for my heart and my bones. Being outdoors has always been about adapting to what my body can do. I adapted when heart failure started. As Parki changes, I adapt again. I know the window for diving is closing. I am not pretending otherwise. But for now, it is still open. In my twenties, I dived, hiked, biked and swam. I still do today. Only differently.
