All language subtitles for Diving.Into.the.Darkness.2024.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264

Cave diving is often referred
to as the world's most dangerous sport.

But is it a sport?

It's the closest thing I can think of
to going to another planet.

It's this interesting yin-yang
of light and dark, of beauty and danger.

Cave diving is like swimming
in the veins of Mother Earth.

I'm literally swimming
through water-filled passages

beneath your feet.

And these caves
are like museums of natural history.

We can learn about
where our drinking water is

and how we can protect it
for the next generation.

We can learn about Earth's past climate.

We can learn about ancient civilizations
that have left artifacts.

We can learn about the unique animals

that live in the darkness
of an underwater cave.

When you're exploring a cave,

you must solve
all of your problems underground,

underwater, with no mission control
to call for help.

There are a lot of physical risks.

The silt can rain down from the ceiling.

It's also easy to get lost.

You can also get trapped.

Anything can go wrong
at any time with your gear.

It's critical to know when to turn around.

I know a lot of people
that didn't do that.

I swim through the graves of my friends
all the time.

I've lost over a hundred friends
to technical and cave diving accidents.

You really ask yourself,
is this something I should be doing?

Is this fair to my family?

Do I wanna take these risks?

But in those dark, confined spaces,

I'm happy, I'm comfortable,
I'm in my element.

But I am scared.

I'm not fearless.

The day that I'm not afraid
about what I'm doing

is the day that I should hang up my fins.

I'm not in this for adrenaline.

I've learned so much
about the plumbing of the planet,

but also about myself through cave diving.

I think cave diving
is a metaphor for life.

We all have to face change
and uncertainty.

Humanity needs people that push
on the edges and step into the darkness.

That's how we evolve.

Jill's been diving at the cutting edge
of cave exploration for so long.

You know, she's had this stellar career
of filmmaking, exploration, and adventures

with all the big names around this planet.

Jill literally wrote
the book on cave diving.

She makes documentaries,
she's an excellent photographer.

She's an author, she's a public speaker.

I think by 2001, she was probably...

the world's best female diver, period.

Forget "cave diver." I'm just talking
about "underwater explorer."

She's there because of
the excitement of exploration,

the satisfaction of curiosity.

Jill always...

I guess she needed to see
what was around the next corner.

She was always very curious.

I could easily say that she was
an explorer from the beginning,

and same as she is now.

Our parents
always took us out on hikes.

The Bruce Trail
was a big thing that we enjoyed.

I loved hiking
the trails, but even more,

I loved climbing down
into those cracks and crevices

and looking around

in this three-dimensional,
below-ground space.

Those were my first experiences in caving,

and often those were cozy,
comfortable, small places.

We had a set of National Geographics

that were gifted
from my grandmother and grandfather.

From the light of a bare bulb,

I would go through these volumes,
page by page.

Those pages showed me
what was possible for me in the future

and inspired me to study and learn

and create a future
where I could be an explorer, too.

Launch commit. Lift off.

We have lift off with Apollo 14.

You know, back in the day,
astronauts were heroes,

pushing the envelope of human physiology.

Just the scale, the magnitude,
all that technology.

It was like you were looking
through this peephole in history,

seeing something so incredible.

I knew I had a burning desire
to be an explorer.

I was so excited and thrilled.

I ran home and couldn't wait
to tell my mom about the experience,

the thing that I had just seen.

You know, "Mom, I wanna be an astronaut.
I'm gonna be an astronaut."

And then when she told me no,
it was like,

"Oh, like, am I not good enough?
Am I not capable? Like, what is it?"

She's like, "No, there's
no space program for Canadians.

There's no women astronauts.

It's, like, there's no place
for you there."

And it was discouraging.

I thought, "Well, what can I do?
How can I be an explorer?"

Watching and seeing Jacques Cousteau
on TV was that pivot point, really.

Here he was sailing around the world
to fantastic places

and then going underwater
with this wild-looking technology.

Breathing underwater,

and then encountering, like,
sharks and fish and whales.

And that captivated me.

And I thought,
"If I can't explore outer space,

if I can't be an astronaut,

maybe I can explore inner space

and the magical depths
of the ocean instead."

My first real cave diving expedition
was the Huautla expedition in 1995.

Huautla is situated
in the Sierra Mazateca Mountains,

and there's a cave system
inside the mountain.

So if you peel away
the face of that mountain

and you look inside,

you've got, like, this whole network
of tunnels and spaces.

And if you enter a hole
in the top of the mountain,

you might be descending down on rope

or climbing down a waterfall
deeper and deeper into the earth.

And the year before we got there,

that's how the explorers
were getting into the system.

So when I went in 1995
with that very same team,

we decided to work from the bottom up.

We were seeing the pieces
of this puzzle come together,

and one of the biggest unknowns
was this resurgence.

If we could dive in through that,

come up into air-filled passage,

maybe we could just connect
those two together,

and at that time we would have ended up
with roughly the world's deepest cave.

The expedition got harder
and harder in a series of stages.

I mean, just getting there
was tough in the car,

and we were exhausted
after four days of driving and car repairs

and getting up into the mountains

to an altitude where the car
could barely drive up the incline.

And it was hot, and there were bugs,

and the winds were so strong

that they would blow away your tents
if you weren't in them.

But then we experienced mudslides.

The rainy season came a bit early.

That shallow streamway
between base camp and the cave opening

would periodically be just filled
with this rush,

a tsunami of water down the canyon.

It felt like the physical hardships
were, at times, just too much to bear,

and that was even before we went
into the cave to go diving or surveying.

We didn't have enough burros
and people to carry everything we needed,

so the first and easiest choice was,

"Leave Jill's diving gear
on top of the mountain.

She's not gonna use it.

She's gonna have to do other things
during the project."

So Paul and Noel ended up
doing all of the exploration diving.

I got involved in supporting the base camp

and surveying dry cave,
and doing other things.

But as the dives progressed
and we reached some real physical hurdles,

Noel got to the point where he said,

"I've done everything that I can do,
and I've reached my psychological limit."

Noel was an experienced cave diver,
cave explorer, and a physician.

He was our expedition doctor.

And at that point,
either Paul could dive solo,

or there would be no more diving,
and we'd just dry cave explore,

or, in that split second,
I had a chance to say, "I wanna do it."

And that's what I did.

I said, "Hey, I could fit Noel's gear.

We don't even have to go get my dive gear.
I can wear Noel's diving gear.

I'd like to have an opportunity
to explore this cave."

And I remember Bill's look like, "Really?

What makes you think that you've got
the chops to pull off this dive

when Noel says it's too much
and he feels it's not safe to go on?

Why are you convinced
that you're not gonna die in there,

and I'm gonna have to carry your body
out of this canyon back up

and explain to your family what happened?"

Because just a year earlier
in the very same spot,

one of their teammates had died.

And it was a friend, a dear friend,

and they had to carry his body,
something that took 12 days.

That pall hung over that expedition,
and it informed everything that we did.

And I thought,
"Whoa, that didn't take long."

This is business.

This is really serious.

This is not just some fun lark
on a travel destination.

This is life and death.

What I wasn't sure of
when that conversation happened

was the level of her discipline, you know?

Was she the one that was gonna get
to 68 meters depth and panic,

you know, and take Paul down with her?

This is not some Boy Scout badge

that you put on your arm and use
to be some status symbol, you know?

This is deadly shit.

You go in there,
and there is a finite chance

that you are going to die
if you don't do things just right.

If you have somebody who's just gung ho
without considering the consequences,

that was what I was looking for.

Was this somebody who's just,

"I wanna make a name for myself
by getting in here

and pushing this
to some spectacular limit"?

Or is it
somebody who says,

"You know what,
the goal here is to get data

and not get anybody hurt"?

And by the time the sun came up,
Bill said, "I'll support you.

I'll help carry your gear.

I'll get you there
and do whatever you need to do.

I'm willing to give you a chance."

And that changed my life.

On the biggest dive,
we needed everybody's help.

The river was swollen

between the base camp
and the opening of the cave,

and it was very dangerous,

even to transport all the gear, the tanks
and everything to begin the dive.

And then as Paul and I
got ourselves prepared,

got all our tanks organized,

the moment that it was time to go,
the water started to rise.

Dirty water started
to flood into the cave,

and the current turned to reverse.

We had a split second
to make a decision to go or no go.

And I looked at Paul, and he said,
"Dive, dive, dive,"

and disappeared under the surface.

In that moment,
I remember thinking to myself,

"Are you an explorer or not?"

And I went for it.

And I dove underwater,

racing against
that flowing current of dirty water

that was running into the cave system,

and swam as fast as I could
to keep up to Paul.

It's like the die was cast,
and I was on autopilot.

It was happening.

So we surface in this pool

with a waterfall
cascading down on top of us.

But at this point,
in order to continue on,

we needed to climb up over the waterfall,
get our gear up there, and continue.

I mean, it's as close to,
you know, Jules Verne as you're gonna get.

The rest of the world disappears,
and you are an explorer.

Once we'd gone through that whole
ordeal and gotten into that upper pool

and continued into the water
that was clear...

I thought, "Okay, this is it.

This is the edge of the unknown.
I am touching the void and going forward."

My heart is racing.

There's no map, so you're gonna make it.

When I look back on that dive
into the deep passages,

we ended up too deep
for the traditional breathing gases.

The sounds in my mind were,
"Ooh, turn around, turn around."

It was that distance pressure.

"Whoa, we're a long way from home."

And when those nerves
start to creep in, it's really time to go.

You have to be willing

to get within a hair's breadth
of complete success,

but also know when to turn around.

When I got out of the dive
and I reached the surface,

the first thing that I saw was Bill Stone
crouched by the side of the water,

like a mother hen, and he looked down,
he's like, "Oh, thank God."

We have three rules
on any expedition that I organize.

One is that nobody gets hurt.

Second one is everybody has
a memorable time.

And the third one is
you come home with new data,

as much as you can get safely, right?

And so if you take all three of those,
we hit them all.

What they stopped at,
at 600 meters in and 68 meters deep,

was a gigantic underwater tunnel
carrying this subterranean river.

So that remains an open question,

and nobody has been back
to continue that work.

So it's still out there.

When I first met Jill,
I thought that she had skills.

They were undemonstrated to me.

So it was somewhat of a gamble
taking her on that trip.

And, you know, the end result is
she kicked ass and did a great job,

and was good at focusing
on getting the information that we needed,

the data that had to come out of there

so that we could think about,
"All right, how do we plan a return?"

So to me that showed that she had,
you know, the right stuff, you know,

the astronaut quality that we seek

when we're talking about people
doing this kind of stuff.

Working with Bill Stone in 1995
gave me an opportunity to explore

what we thought could be
the world's deepest vertical cave system.

So in 1996, I turned my attention

to what we thought would be
the longest cave system in the world.

Jill's forte has always been
as a coordinator,

getting the right people
in the right places.

She played a big part in that,

as well as going out there
and making discoveries on her own.

She wanted to be more involved
in cave diving.

She wanted to be
more involved in discovery.

She knew what her future was gonna be.

There wasn't anything gonna stop her
from getting there.

It was very affirming

to finally push the envelope
and be leading instead of following.

I began to recognize

how important my viewpoint
from inside the plumbing of the planet

could be to the rest of humanity.

I can see the influences of what
we're doing on the surface of the Earth.

We're in the middle of Mexico

in an area where people are having trouble
finding clean water to drink,

and yet they're living on top
of a prolific water source

that if they just knew exactly
how to access it,

it could change their lives.

If I can help people
not just understand where their water is,

but how they are affecting it,

then maybe we have a chance
at solving some of these issues

like water scarcity
and global climate change.

By the time we wrapped the expedition,

we pulled together all the maps
and discovered

that we had mapped 56 kilometers
of new passageways

and found the world's longest cave system.

That was incredible to me.
I was on cloud nine.

And it was like the possibilities
were now open to me.

We started to think
about how to make a better map.

And that's when Bill Stone
proposed our next great challenge.

He wanted to bring together
an international expedition

and make the world's first
accurate three-dimensional map

of any subterranean space, dry or wet.

And it seemed like
a bit of a crazy proposal at first,

but I thought, "I am in."

So from that point forward,

we started putting all of our efforts
into planning for this project

called the Wakulla 2 Project.

If you had asked
any respectable exploring cave diver

in the United States in those days

about what would be the greatest spring

and the greatest challenge in cave diving,

they would've instantly said
Wakulla Springs.

Everybody knew it. It was just gigantic,
in those days, air clear.

The sand funnel alone coming in
from this 100-meter diameter basin

was pristine white sand
kept clean by this aquifer.

It was like going to another planet.

Wakulla Springs is very deep,
and it gets deep fast.

So the first thing you do
is you get down to that maximum depth,

and that's about as high
as the Statue of Liberty, 90 meters.

But then we're going
in this overhead environment

where you cannot come up.

There's no way out.

You're going in over three kilometers.

But even when you're
out to the doorway of the cave,

you've still got 17 hours
of decompression ahead of you

before you're back safely on the surface.

It would take thousands of scuba tanks
to do the dives that we did at Wakulla.

We need a completely different technology
called a rebreather.

A rebreather
is a self-contained diving backpack

that recycles your exhaled breath.

It pulls out the carbon dioxide
that you create, it adds oxygen,

and allows you to just keep recycling
quietly for a very long time.

You can end up with between 100
and 200 times the efficiency

in terms of your dive capability
over the old traditional scuba.

Basically,
you're asking a diver

to manipulate
their life support environment.

And that could be

one of the most dangerous things
they've ever done.

Too much oxygen,
and you can have a seizure.

Too little oxygen, and you can pass out.

The wrong gas choices
can cost you your life.

And there's a lot that can go wrong

with a complex piece
of electronic equipment

when you submerge it underwater.

But I was so excited
by this new technology

and what it could enable me
to do as an explorer.

I could go further or deeper
than I'd ever been before.

And that's the beauty of that gear.

The most important part
of the Wakulla project to me

was the fact
that the perception of cave divers

was changing because of this project.

For the first time in history,

we could show people exactly
where water lay beneath their feet,

and how they could be affecting the health
of that water supply beneath their feet.

Cave divers were now respected
as valued citizen scientists.

One of the things that we did
at Wakulla was we were trying to condense

what other teams had done over 10 years
into a three-month period

with an international group
who hadn't dived together before.

So that's a huge undertaking.

And so trying to get people
to jell as a team

who have completely different disciplines
because of the environments they dive in,

that's a really tough, tough thing to do.

People didn't just go into the cave
with all that gear.

This massive support team of 160 people
would line up behind two people,

and those guys, they were astronauts
as far as I'm concerned.

You know,
when you saw the kit-up procedure,

there were two people per person

helping these people get all their gear on
because you can't do it yourself.

It's just too much stuff.

I looked like a giant rebreather
with two little legs sticking out.

You can't even see my head behind it.

Uh, it was not fun to dive.

It's serious back aches,
things like that.

And we didn't have the timeline
to get it dialed in

as well as we could have.

To me,
the entire project felt like a moonshot.

Everything about that project,

from the life support
to the mapping device

to the way that we handled
the decompression,

was all sort of borrowed
from concepts in space.

In fact, at one point,
Bill even reached out to NASA astronauts,

and their remark was,

"What you guys do is way more dangerous
than what we ever did as astronauts

because we had mission control.

You leave that entrance of the cave
and you go inside, and you're on your own.

That's way harder."

When we got past that point
of the previous world record,

we tied on a guideline

and we broke into new exploration,
and we kept on going.

And that was a huge victory for me,

but it was also a world record

for any woman going deeper
and further into a cave in history.

I realized I was on the cutting edge.
I was there. I was doing it.

And I had realized
my goals of being an explorer.

Nobody had ever worked
in that regime underwater,

and so Jill was one of those pioneers.

It was evident that she was the lead.

She was the only female on that dive team,

and she led
the whole exploration of B Tunnel,

which was arguably the most difficult
of all the options that we had looked at.

Um, you know, so she really rose,
in my opinion,

to superstar status on that project.

We produced a 3D map of Wakulla Springs.

We mapped 32 kilometers of tunnels.

Highly accurate, highly detailed.

You could see the features
of the cave going through

in a way that you never could
if you were doing it on a dive

because you simply couldn't see it.

I think when I started
down the road of the Wakulla project,

I wasn't as confident in myself,
in my abilities.

I learned a lot over those years
just preparing for the project.

But by the time I left that project,
I felt like I had leadership

and confidence to move forward
and take on the next challenging task.

Jill has, like,
7500 logged dives.

Well, you know, that 7501
might be the one

where, you know, a 25-cent O-ring fails
and she's too far back,

or a rebreather fails.

I liken it to maybe someone who's married
to a police officer or a firefighter.

You know, they go off to their job,
and it's inherently dangerous.

It's inherently-- It has some risks.

But I also know that Jill

does everything she can
to minimize those risks,

and she's very clear
about communicating that to me.

And that just kind of, you know, takes
a little bit of the edge off for me.

But yeah, I worry. I do worry.

I'm sure that what I do

contributes to anxiety
and difficulty for him,

and that's hard.

But I also know
that if I quit doing what I love,

then I'm not gonna be
the woman that he fell in love with.

So there's this weird, delicate dance
that we play,

and there are times when it gets acute.

I would say that cave diving
is probably more dangerous

than what I was doing in the military.

I mean, I was deployed overseas.

I was involved in skirmishes
and things like that.

I know which end of the rifle
the round comes out of.

But I did not go to as many memorials
or funerals in 15 years in the military

as I did in my first few years
of being married to Jill.

There are very few divers in the world
that are as experienced as Jill.

But sometimes she dives with scientists
and other people who--

Diving is just sort of a side thing
that they have to do.

And, you know, one of the rules in diving
is you have to be able to save yourself,

but you also have to be able
to rescue your buddy.

So I'm often very concerned
about who that buddy is.

Like, is that person gonna be capable
of bringing Jill out of a cave?

I was working with a young scientist

who needed to get
a critical bacterial sample

from inside a kind of gnarly, small cave.

And I had done plenty of dives
in this cave, and she hadn't.

In fact, we hadn't even
dived together before.

More often than not,
I work with different scientists,

extending the eyes and hands
into this remote environment.

These aren't necessarily linear passages
where you go in and you come out.

It's like swimming
into the branches of a braided tree,

and then you have
to find your way back out.

In cave diving,
we always have a guideline,

which is a thin, usually nylon line
that we place in the cave like a pathway.

It is vital to our safety

because it's a visual reference
to the exit.

When I called the dive,
when she had the samples that she needed,

and she turned to leave...

she got stuck.

And I realized that she was panicking.

All of a sudden, her fins were kicking,

and in this narrow space,
what that meant was a complete silt-out.

I grabbed onto her with one hand

and onto the guideline
with the other hand,

and I felt her wriggling
and fighting against being stuck.

And I'm holding onto the guideline
and holding onto her,

and they're separating
and getting farther and farther apart,

and then suddenly, the guideline breaks,

and I'm holding the bitter end
of our safety line in my hand.

The part that leads me
out of the cave is gone, and I can't see.

And for a moment, my heart was racing,
my respirations were going up,

and I'm thinking these crazy thoughts.

And at some point, I lost track of her.

I didn't know whether she'd left the cave,
whether she'd gone further into the cave.

I had no idea.

And I got out my safety spool
and tied in to the bitter end of that line

to begin searching
for the other end that I could tie into.

And I realized
I couldn't just run out of the cave.

I needed to go further in.

When we pass through a cave,
even with perfect technique,

we'll disturb the visibility a little bit.

But when you reach that clear water,
you know nobody's been there.

So once I went further into the cave,

and I confirmed that she hadn't passed me
and kept on going,

then I could work my way slowly out
and, like, clear the cave, basically.

Search every corner and every side passage
to ensure I wasn't leaving her behind.

And then my regulator packed it in.

With all the digging
and moving and patching guideline,

it was so packed with clay
that the valve was basically jammed open,

and the only way I could access
that gas supply is to turn the tank on,

take a breath, and turn it off.

So I searched and found a side passage

where all of her scientific gear
was laying on the floor of the cave.

When cave divers panic
and the end is near,

a lot of people start shedding equipment,

tearing their mask off,
throwing down any extras,

sprinting for the exit.

And I was fairly certain
that I would find her next.

And when I finally reached the exit...

there she was in the doorway.

She had surfaced and done the right thing.

She had called 911.

She had called the cave rescue team
to come out

and gone back in the water to wait for me.

But when I came out of that cave,
it was 73 minutes after her.

After an experience like that,

people tell you all the things
they wish they had said

if they wouldn't have had
the chance to say them.

They write you e-mails and notes,

and I recognized
that I was reading my own eulogy.

That's pretty hard to take,

for me, for her, and for Robert.

I think what really hit me
was when she told me

that sort of the SOS went out,

and all these cave divers
and rescue people

were on their way to rescue her, or--

I know what cave diving's about,
so they weren't gonna rescue her.

They were just gonna bring her body back.

That was the first time
in our relationship

that I really thought to myself,

"What am I gonna do
without Jill in my life?"

I mean, we had just created
this great life for ourselves,

and I don't know what I would do
if that piece was missing.

So I became very resentful
towards the whole idea of cave diving.

I don't think I became resentful
to her personally,

but just the whole idea.

And yeah, there were tears
at our house that night, me and her.

We had a real heart-to-heart,

and she explained to me
how she needed to do this.

You know, it would--
This may be just-- This may seem trivial,

but it would be like asking Tiger Woods
to stop golfing, you know?

That's not gonna happen.

But this was
more than just a sport to her.

This was a calling.

How do you keep engaging in a sport,
an activity where your friends go to die?

I've been to so many funerals

and written quite a number
of eulogies over the years.

And I'm sure some people wonder

how I could ever go back to a place
where a friend of mine died,

or where I even brought a body
out of the cave.

Technical diving means
that a lot of people have rebreathers

and stage bottles and high-speed scooters
that take them kilometers

to faraway places that would have been
world records a decade ago.

It's not the gear that kills people,

it's people that get themselves killed

by the decisions they make
before they go in the water.

I have to look at risk every day
and ask myself, "Is it worth it?"

I could lose my life doing this.

The point in my life that truly shattered
my sense of invincibility

happened in 2000

when I was exploring a place
called The Pit in the Yucatan Peninsula.

A few years earlier, Paul and I had found
these deep tunnels

that were connected to
this giant cenote sinkhole.

The Pit was unique because of the depth.

In fact, it's as deep as
the Great Pyramid is tall.

All the caves in the Yucatan
were far less than 100 meters deep.

So this could be a whole new
level of exploration.

And it might even attach
the two longest caves in the world.

At the time, I had thousands of log dives
under my belt,

and I had just been inducted
into the Women Divers Hall of Fame.

And that was a big deal for me.

So I headed off with a great deal
of confidence on that expedition.

At the time Jill was exploring in The Pit,
it was an entirely different world.

Everything was really remote.

Divers had to hike way back
out into the forest

to even access the dive site.

So there's a lot of risks involved
in doing this type of dive

because if something goes wrong,

you don't have a fast and easy
support network.

This is a dive that at the time

probably not a lot of people
were really qualified to do.

When you first put your face in
and you look down,

it's like you're in
a giant witch's cauldron.

Deep below you is this hazy, foggy layer
with tree branches sticking up out of it.

And that layer is caused
by rotting vegetation,

causing a chemical
called hydrogen sulfide.

When you actually descend
through the hydrogen sulfide,

all of your senses are just assaulted
with this rotten egg smell

that somehow gets past your scuba mask,
and even makes your eyes tear up.

But it was below the hydrogen sulfide,

deep into this witch's cauldron,
where the magic was.

There was nothing like this
in the Yucatan,

and we knew that we had found
something pretty remarkable.

I'll admit, it's a complete rush

when you are breaking into the unknown

and exploring a place
that nobody's ever been before.

It's enticing,

and there's definitely something
that's always drawing you forward.

We'd made it to 120 meters, and we were
at the back of a really large room.

But ahead of us was a small restriction.

Now, continuing on
might have netted a connection

to bring together the two longest
cave systems in the world.

But we were really deep,
and we'd been down for an hour,

so I knew it was time to turn around.

Every minute longer that we stayed there

was gonna start to net a lot more
decompression and a lot more risk.

So the deeper you go
and the longer you stand in water,

the more nitrogen you get
into your system.

You can't go straight up to the surface

without having that nitrogen form bubbles
in your system.

This can be avoided through
a series of stops as we ascend.

That will reduce the chances
of decompression sickness.

However, there is no way to guarantee

that a diver will 100 percent
not get bent on a dive.

Where we had to decompress
was a massive opening,

you know, the size of a football stadium.

When I got to the point
about 20 meters deep,

hours into the dive,
I felt something odd happening.

The first symptom
was this sense of impending doom.

I knew something was very wrong.

I sensed this odd sensation
in my thighs first.

It felt like there were ants crawling
all over my legs inside my suit.

And then it dawned on me.

It's not bugs.
This is decompression sickness.

I'm bent. Those were bubbles.

Absolute bubbles inside my body,
ripping apart tissues, causing pain.

I knew I needed to stay underwater
as long as possible

to let the effects of the pressure
maybe push those back into my body.

But it was already too late.

I started to feel pain from my neck
to my wrists to my ankles.

I was hurting, aching everywhere.

Paul was actually swimming laps
around the sinkhole at this point

because he was cold.

I expected him to sort of step in
and take over,

but I think he felt powerless to help me.

I felt so alone.

This explosion of thoughts
were just competing in my head.

What's happening? Am I going to get worse?
Am I going to be paralyzed?

Am I gonna die?

What about my career?
I don't know what to do.

It was so confusing and the anxiety
was just, like, filling my brain.

You're gonna die.
Your career's over. You fucked up.

You aren't good enough. You should quit.
You'll be left in the dive shop.

What are you going to do now?
People will think you screwed up.

What the fuck were you thinking?
You've wasted your life.

Your career's over. Stay out of it.

By the time I got
to the surface of the water, I thought,

"Oof, I'll just take off my gear,
and I'll climb the ladder,

and everything's gonna be okay."

But it wasn't.

With every rung of that ladder,

my body felt heavier, I felt more pain,

and the whole emotional sensation
of what was going on

was just starting to come to light.

By the time I got to the top,

I literally just rolled off into the dirt
and crawled over into the jungle

just to lay down on my sleeping mat.

But as I looked down at my biceps
and my thighs, they were swollen.

I mean, like, I looked like Popeye
swollen in my biceps,

and there were these, like,
weird, mottled,

like, ribbons of bruising
turning up on all over my body.

It was really, really scary.

What would this mean?
Would I recover from this?

Was this the end of my career?

And eventually,
I laid there and I thought,

I can't walk out of the jungle right now.

I'm gonna have to treat myself here.

So, the next morning,
I spent hours in the water,

breathing pure oxygen,
down to about 15 meters,

which, in a normal situation,
could throw someone into a seizure.

But I knew that was the best medicine
for what had happened to me.

By the time I got to the surface
of the water,

I called out to the highway
to the dive shop that was helping us out.

People hiked in and walked me out.

I was in agony and exhausted.

I could barely walk 10 steps
to just collapse and lie down.

When I finally got to Playa del Carmen
to get treatment,

what I needed was time
in a recompression chamber.

So a recompression chamber
is usually at a hospital facility.

Basically, it's a room
that can be pressurized.

The patient gets put inside the chamber,

the doors close behind them,

and then the environment inside there
is pressurized with air.

And once they're at that pressure,

then we give them 100 percent oxygen
to breathe.

And oxygen under pressure at those depths

has a couple
of really important mechanisms.

The first is just to provide oxygen
into the patient's body

to help flush out the inert gas,
the nitrogen.

There's a second
and equally important effect is that

oxygen under high pressure like that
is actually an anti-inflammatory.

It has an effect almost like steroids

to quell the body's inflammatory response
to this attack by the bubbles.

There was a whole week of treatments
and consulting with the doctor.

And at the end of that week,
he only had three words for me.

And they're the worst three words
I've ever heard.

"Never dive again."

When I was told "never dive again,"

my heart sank.

I don't even know what my identity was,

how I would move forward in my
friendships, relationships, career.

So much was tied to that.

The impact of being told by a doctor
in Mexico that you'll never dive again.

I mean, that is massive
for someone like Jill.

It would be massive
if that happened to me.

You know, you're suddenly facing
an existential crisis, really.

You know, your whole life
has been torn in half

by telling you that you can't do
the one thing that defines you

and makes you happy
and gives you an income as well.

So, you know, that's a really,
that's a big moment for her.

After getting bent,
that caused me to reflect on

whether I really wanted
to do this anymore.

I realized that there wasn't
a single scenario

that I could look at for a
quote-unquote "normal life"

that was gonna satisfy me.

I couldn't envision a life without diving.

And it made me reflect on what were
my motivations in the beginning.

When I graduated from university, I went
right into working in graphic design.

That meant at times that I'm sitting at my
drafting table trying to meet a deadline,

and I don't leave the office
for three days

over the Christmas holidays.

I'm there all night working,
and I'm never leaving work.

And in my mind, I'm going like, "You're
gonna kill yourself by the time you're 30

if you keep up this pace."

I was teaching scuba, but it was a hobby.

It was what I did on nights and weekends.

I was constantly daydreaming about diving

and envisioning that turquoise beauty.

And in the long Canadian winter,
that's what my mind and my soul needed.

With every day that passed,
that office felt smaller,

and the walls were closing in
and the ceiling's descending on me,

until the point where I felt trapped.

That's claustrophobia for me.

But I have to say, it's those societal
pressures and familial pressures

were the hardest to navigate
as a young woman.

"What are you doing?
You're gonna be a scuba diver?

You're doing what?
You're throwing it all away?

How do you make money?
Your biological clock is ticking.

You gotta move on. You gotta get married.
You gotta settle down.

It's time to stop this childish,
playful stuff."

I got to the point
where it was clear to me

I could not go on living the way
I was doing,

working the way I was working.

I needed to be my own full authentic self.

When I moved to the Cayman Islands,

I did some of my first real cave dives
and my first real cave exploration.

Every day was just an opportunity
to go around the next corner.

To get a little bit further away
from the entrance.

To see that next thing.

And that newness, the freshness
was just so invigorating to me.

I learned a lot about the psychological
development of a cave diver

and how fear
is an important part of what I do.

But I realized that fear and facing it

is something I learned about
before I even started cave diving.

In my third year of university,

four other women and I found a house

in the Lawrence West neighborhood
in Toronto

that we could rent for the school year,
and we'd each take a bedroom.

And the first night I slept in that house,
I slept there alone.

And in the middle of the night,
I heard something.

And then I realized, "Oh, my God,
there's a burglar in my house.

If I just hide here, he won't notice me."

Downstairs, I could hear footsteps.

I could hear drawers opening.

I heard his feet start up the stairs.

And I thought, "How can I get help?"

I don't have a phone.

And that's when I knew
that I needed to find a weapon.

I was gonna have to defend myself.

And click, I would see a minute pass,

and then I would hear him
coming up the stairs again.

And he came closer.

And he came closer.

And it felt like an eternity
waiting for that door to open.

And then suddenly, it's like an eruption.

Vroom! The door flew open.
He almost ripped it out.

And then he came after me.

And in that moment,

it's kill or be killed.

I thought he was going to rape me
or kill me or--

I didn't know what was gonna happen
but I just knew

that something awful was gonna happen

and I needed to find
every bit of strength that I had.

And as terrified as I was,

and shaking and barely able
to contain myself,

I reached out, and I slashed
with the knife across his chest

and ripped his shirt open
and tore into his flesh.

And I watched the blood
soak through his shirt.

I was staring into the face of impossible.

I don't know how I'm going
to get through this.

It took me so long to process
what had happened.

And at first, it was just
all the victimization

and the terror and just the violation

of somebody in my space
and coming after me like that.

I would wake up in the middle of night
in a cold sweat,

and I was already fighting
that burglar in my dreams.

I remember sitting with Kim, my roommate,

and I was probably complaining

and telling her the same story

that she'd heard over and over
and over again.

I was processing these feelings
with someone

who I really respected
and cared deeply about,

and then she turned to me and said,
"When are you gonna get over this?

What are you gonna do about it?"

And I thought, "What?"

Like, where are the hugs and love?

And I guess for her, you know,
it was time for tough love.

It was time to shake me out of it.

If I couldn't get past
that moment in my life,

it was gonna define everything
moving forward.

And I needed to find something
in that experience

that I could use
that would help me to grow.

Without that near-death experience,

I may well have not dealt with
some of my other near-death experiences

in cave diving as well.

It definitely defined
the direction of my life.

It definitely gave me the courage

to move forward and do things
that I thought were impossible.

After getting bent, my doctor told me

he knew I was gonna start to tread back
into that water one step at a time

to decide whether I was
gonna be diving again.

Ultimately, as the symptoms faded

and my confidence started to return,

I knew that I was going back to diving.

But it was gonna be a slow progression.

It was like dipping the toe in the water.

My first swim gave me anxiety.

My first dive I did on 100 percent oxygen

because there's no way you can get bent
on 100 percent oxygen in shallow water.

It was a slow progression,
a transition back to doing what I loved.

And I suppose as I started
to feel a little bit better

and my energy was restored,

so was my defiance and my stubbornness.

And there was this little voice growing
in the back of my head, "Just watch me."

I was working on television projects
with Wes Skiles

when we both decided
we wanted to do a full-length feature,

a documentary film.

The work that I do
in communicating about how

cave divers can be citizen scientists

and contribute to a better understanding
of the world,

I got that from Wes.

When he started cave diving, it was with
the intention to take pictures underwater.

He really set the whole genre
into motion and inspired a lot of people.

Both Wes and I
really wanted to go to Antarctica.

I just wanted the experience
of going to this part of the planet

that I'd never seen before.

And when you grow up in Canada,
you're interested in the polar regions.

And at first, we thought,

"Well, maybe we'll follow in the historic
path of Ernest Shackleton."

But we were also watching
these satellite images

because these cracks were developing
in the Ross Ice Shelf down in Antarctica,

and scientists were kind of interested
in what was happening.

When the B-15 iceberg
calved away from Antarctica

and I realized there was actually
more of a story,

that was a big draw for me.

And we pitched to National Geographic
that we were gonna go to Antarctica

and be the first people to ever go
cave diving inside an iceberg.

But not just any iceberg.

The largest moving object on our planet.

The biggest iceberg to ever calve away
from the Ross Ice Shelf in Antarctica.

To get up there in front of this moving
iceberg the size of Connecticut

and say, "We're gonna go under there
and see what there is."

I mean, that even in and of itself,

you're talking about water
that's minus 3C,

you know, probably around
27 degrees Fahrenheit.

And you go down there,

and even with the best dry suit,
within 40 minutes,

your hands are becoming dysfunctional.

You know, and these guys were going
for way longer than that.

Most tourists that go to Antarctica today,

they have about 24 hours
of uncomfortable seas

going from South America
to the Antarctic Peninsula.

But where we were going,

we left from New Zealand
and made a 12-day crossing

of the most violent seas on the planet.

We had 20-meter waves.

We had the boat icing so heavily
that it was starting to list.

We had to get out on deck

and smash the ice off the boat
with baseball bats and hammers.

And I was seasick.

I was seasick for 12 days.

Even going to the bathroom was dangerous.

The wave hit the boat and I was literally
launched out of that tub,

against the wall,

and cut and bruised and damaged.

So, I didn't even know
if we were gonna get there.

After 12 days of torture,
we finally made it to Antarctica.

It was like I'd landed on another planet.

Diving in Antarctica
and going inside an iceberg,

I would say that that's definitely
the most challenging dive of my life.

There's so many risks that we faced.

I mean, the wildlife itself,
leopard seals or orcas,

there are so many uncertainties there.

The cold water,
it's as cold as it can possibly be.

There's nobody to call
for help down there.

We don't have a recompression chamber,

so if somebody gets bent,
there's no way to treat them.

The US Coast Guard actually told us
we were on our own.

About a month into our time in Antarctica,
Paul and I finally found

what we thought was the cave

that would let us deliver what we had
promised to National Geographic.

We got to a place where we could swim
underneath the iceberg.

And the seafloor's on the bottom,
and there's this arch of ice over my head.

And it was beautiful.

There was a carpet of life
all over the seafloor,

just voraciously feeding in the current.

Meanwhile, I'm hearing creaks and cracks
and thuds and retorts

and all kinds of sounds

that I could not only hear,

but I could feel them in the sternum,
in my chest.

Paul and I, at one point, had returned
to where we'd gone into the iceberg,

and the doorway was blocked
with broken ice.

So, Paul and I just start swimming
around and under all these blocks,

and some of them
are sort of moving and shifting.

And when I finally swam through
these chunks and I got to the surface,

Wes is hanging over the boat
and his face was so animated.

And he's like, "What happened?
We thought you were dead.

When the ice wall just sort of broke away,
it created this huge wave

and it almost threw us out of the boat.

And then we realized where you
had gone in, it was blocked."

We had no idea the stress
that everybody topside had experienced.

I often look at expeditions,

and I realize there's a mounting pressure
that happens as the project moves on.

You start taking risks,

and it's to get the goods,
it's to get the job done.

It's because of the pressures
from everybody around you.

Wes hadn't even been inside the cave yet.

And we needed to show it to him,

to photograph what we needed
for our movie.

We descended down that crack
and went underneath the iceberg.

We were filming all these beautiful
filter-feeding organisms,

and the dive was going perfectly well.

And then I felt the current picking up,

and getting faster and faster,
and it had literally turned now,

and it was sweeping us into the iceberg.

And I thought, "Ooh, this is bad."

But simultaneously,
I also had a leak in my glove,

and my hand was soaking wet.

And I had put up with that
as long as I possibly could.

Between the current
and the pain in my hand,

I turned to the guys
and I called the dive.

It's time to go.

We turned around to try and escape
through this tunnel.

The current was getting too strong.

We dug our hands
into this doughy seafloor,

like throwing up these wispy silk piles

and displacing these animals
as we tried to pull ourselves along.

I'm fighting for my life,
and I hear Wes yell,

"Help me with the camera!"

I'm like, "Are you kidding me?

Fuck the camera.
We've got to get out of here."

I was doing everything I could to survive
at that point,

and I was leading the other two
out of the cave.

Well, Paul drifted back to help Wes,
and I'm thinking, "I'm pissed.

Equipment is not worth it.
Let's get out of here."

Finally we get to the point
where we're at the bottom of this crevice,

and we need to go up.

But the current is pressing me down
and back into the cave.

And I suddenly realized that these
little ice fish I'd been observing

had created burrows in the ice,

and I might be able to use those burrows
to stick my fingers in

and climb the ice wall.

And I thought,
"Uh-huh, you guys are pretty cool,

but I need those holes."

And I started using my finger

and pressing them into the holes
of the ice-fish burrows,

and using those like a climber
would to climb the ice wall.

And Wes and Paul copied and followed,

and we finally got up to the point

where we now had a decompression
obligation over our heads,

and we had to stay
in this freezing cold water,

turning a one-hour dive
into a three-hour ordeal.

When I finally swam back to that boat,

I remember the chief scientist
looking down on me.

And I'm holding on to the ladder and I'm
looking up at Greg on the boat and I said,

"The cave tried to keep us today."

And it was true.

I think that's as close
as I've ever felt to death.

We put our gear aside
and went to have dinner.

And then I heard screams on the deck.

I thought, "What's going on?"

And we ran up on deck
and Wes grabbed the camera,

and I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

That cave I'd just been inside of
and just narrowly escaped was no more.

After seeing that whole iceberg collapse,

and really even after just
going to Antarctica,

I felt so small,

but I also felt the majesty and wonder
of Mother Nature

and the fragility.

And I wanted to communicate to people
about climate change

and water issues and beauty and wonder.

And when I shared my adventures,

I was gonna shove a little truth
in there too.

And hopefully teach people about

how magical this planet is,

and how we can protect it

if we all take care of our square foot

and make good choices
about the next step forward.

I still ask myself this whole question
about what is my legacy.

What am I doing?

Why am I doing this?

And today, I think my ultimate goal is
to be the woman that I wish I had met

when I was 10 years old.

It's been my greatest honor

to come home and resettle myself
back in Canada,

and go into the school system and talk
to kids about exploration and discovery.

Education and outreach
are critical to what I do

and it gives me a sense of purpose.

I really hope that my work will inspire
young girls to know

that anything is possible,

anything they want to do,

despite the social, cultural,
or familial barriers

that they might be facing.

Anything is possible
when we put our minds to it.

If I can give people hope and optimism,
I will have done my job.

I've never lost sight
of wanting to be an astronaut.

It's been really exciting for me
to work with technologies underwater

that are now destined for space.

I'll be diving in one way or another
for the rest of my life.

I feel like an earthbound astronaut.

I want people
to really think about fear

and how that directs our lives,

how it can stifle us,

and how we can miss out.

If we don't face it and embrace it,

we're gonna run from it
for our whole lives.

Without exploration and discovery,
we are dead.

We will not progress as a society.

So the only answer is to face it...

and step into it.

Face the fear.

Step into the darkness.

Let your eyes adjust,

and then do something new
for yourself and for humanity.