One of my favourite teachers died this weekend. He was diving with a friend and another, inexperienced diver. He and his friend went into a cave while the inexperienced guy stayed behind. When they didn’t show up at the designated time and place, he waited six hours before calling search and rescue, who didn’t find them until this morning. As much as I hate him for not calling them sooner, with how long it took to find them, they wouldn’t have found them in time anyway.

I spoke to his wife today, another of my favourite teachers, who called me in tears because I texted her and asked if the news was true. Apparently she didn’t know what had happened. She asked me for details about it, so I told her what I’d read in the news.

How fucked up is that? That she had to find out about her husband drowning from one of her students?

Last week, a friend of mine had his class, and he told them that he’d be diving this weekend. He said, “I’m diving this weekend, so if I’m not here next week, you know why.”

He was a wonderful teacher, and a brilliant man. He was caring, vastly intelligent, beautifully sarcastic, and it was sincerely a privilege to learn from him, and I was so looking forward to learning more.