Page 17 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

“Diving stuff?” I query.

“The records.”

“I apologize for sounding like an idiotic parrot, but what records?”

He tips his head to the side. “I can’t believe you don’t know.” When I continue to look puzzled, he says, “Joel holds a ton of diving records, including the national record for static apnea freediving. That basically means holding your breath underwater without moving.”

My jaw drops half an inch. “Oh my God, I had no idea.”

“He held his breath for nine minutes seven seconds.”

My jaw descends another inch. “Nine minutes? Jesus, that’s not possible, surely?”

“Sure it is. The world record is over twenty-four minutes, although that was done by breathing a hundred percent pure oxygen beforehand.”

My face must be a picture, because he chuckles. “The world record for a non-oxygen-assisted breath hold is something like eleven and a half minutes.”

“How on earth can someone hold their breath for that long?”

“No idea, I can’t get anywhere near his level. It takes experience and practice. Everyone at MOANA calls him Aquaman.”

I watch him wave goodbye to the Auckland crew and walk back to our table. God, he looks handsome in his suit.

“Hello,” I say as he pulls out his chair. “Aquaman.”

He glances at Manu and rolls his eyes as he sits.

“Nine minutes seven seconds?” I add. “I don’t believe that. I bet you were breathing through a pipe like when Pooh Bear jumps in the pond.”

“You just have to be careful bees don’t fly down it,” he says, picking up his glass of champagne.

Manu snorts, and I laugh. “Seriously, though, Joel, that’s incredibly impressive. How do you do it?”

“The short answer is practice.”

“And the long answer?”

His eyes scan me as if assessing whether I mean it. When I stay serious, I see a flicker of pleasure in his eyes—he likes that I’m asking.

He leans back in his chair. “Specialized cells called chemoreceptors in your brain and neck respond to the level of carbon dioxide and oxygen in your blood. They send signals to your brain, and eventually your diaphragm contracts involuntarily, forcing you to breathe. But you can train yourself to control that. It’s called the mammalian dive reflex. When you put your face in the water, the body sends blood to your vital organs, your heart rate slows by a quarter, and your spleen sends new red blood cells that increase the oxygen in your blood.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” I admit, impressed.

“It’s all important,” he says, “but mostly it’s about mindfulness and staying relaxed.”

“Joel meditates,” Manu tells me. “Every lunchtime. In a corner of the break room.”

“Do you?” I ask. “Or do you just sit there and doze off?” Elora has told me about his knack for being able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat.

He touches his forefingers to his thumbs, palms up, and says, “Om…” and I smile, because I’m supposed to. But I’m intrigued by the thought of him meditating every day. Of him staying calm and in control in the water. I’ve done a little scuba diving and have my certificate, but I’m far from being an expert.

“Tell her about the other records you hold,” Manu says.

“No,” Joel replies.

“Why?” I ask, amused.

“Because it’s not polite to boast.”

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