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The shivers that racked my body were not from cold, but shock.

I wasn’t cold. Far from it. This was St. Barth’s in March—sunny and dry, a gentle swell from the east. Great visibility beneath the clear water, the current not too strong. Perfect conditions for diving.

My hands trembled as I wrapped my towel tighter around my waist and gripped the railing of the yacht, my eyes fixed on the Search and Rescue boat tied to the mooring ball closest to the giant rock that marked the edge of the reef.

The others huddled in pairs, watching the surface of the water for signs, their heads bent together, murmuring, crying.

I did not know them well enough to share in their grief, if that’s what it was.

We didn’t know. We didn’t know yet. But we would soon. There was only so much time a person could stay down there before the tank ran out. The window was closing, if it hadn’t already.

My hair dripped seawater, cool against my sun-warmed skin. A bird glided on the breeze, then plunged to the water, coming up with a silver fish wriggling in its beak.

This wasn’t my first encounter with earth-shattering tragedy, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. Though the out-of-body sensation may have been familiar, it was not comforting watching myself from above, both here and not here, feeling and unfeeling, the scene vivid and distant. Surreal.

A disturbance on the surface drew my eye to the water near the back of the rescue boat.

A head bobbing in the waves, black against the reflection of the sun on the sea, and then another.

Three more at once. The five who’d gone down.

They were struggling with something odd-shaped and heavy, a silver tank still strapped to its back.

I leaned over the railing and hurled into the glinting water.