So You Want To Be A Deep Sea Diver is an illustrated guide that shows young readers that deep-sea diving is both an adventure and a serious, disciplined career. What is the most rewarding aspect of writing guides for young readers?

Children are the most honest readers. Adults will keep going out of politeness, or because they paid for the book, or because someone gave it to them. Children won’t. If a page bores them, you’ve lost them, and no amount of well-meaning framing will win them back. That’s not a problem; it’s a gift. It forces a writer to be useful on every page, to trust the reader’s intelligence, to leave out the throat-clearing that fills so much adult nonfiction.

The most rewarding part, though, is knowing that somewhere a child is sitting cross-legged on a bedroom floor, holding one of these books, reading about a job they didn’t know existed three days ago — and a small door is opening inside them. Maybe it stays open. Maybe they grow up and become the deep-sea diver, the archaeologist, the dinosaur hunter. Maybe they don’t, and the book just plants the idea that the world contains more possibilities than any one childhood can hold. Either outcome is enough.

Were there scientific concepts that were especially difficult to translate for younger readers without oversimplifying them?

The hardest one was the physics of breathing at depth — the strange truth that the same air you breathe safely at the surface begins to behave like a drug if you go deep enough. Nitrogen narcosis is one of the most peculiar phenomena in human physiology, and I wanted children to understand that, not just nod past it.

The second hardest was explaining why technical divers at extreme depth breathe gas mixtures with only three percent oxygen — a mixture that would put a person to sleep at the surface. The metaphor I landed on was a lock and a key: the gas has to match the depth exactly. Pressure changes the lock, and the gas has to change with it.

What I’ve learned, again and again across this series, is that children handle counterintuitive truths better than most adults assume. They don’t need the science softened, but they need it told well (which can be a challenge).

Notably, my first draft of this book was much drier than what eventually went to press, because in my attempts to delve into the science, I let safety and risk take over the narrative. The protocols are real, and they matter — but a book that leads with caution buries the very thing that makes a child want to learn the caution in the first place. If the child does not feel the wonder first and understand the draw, the precautions are just rules, and rules without reasons are the fastest way to lose a young reader. So I started over. The redraft was about putting the beauty back where it belonged: at the front of the story, where it lives in real life.

Was there one behind-the-scenes role in deep-sea operations that surprised you most?

The standby diver. On any serious dive operation, there is one person who suits up in full gear at the start of the dive and stays that way the entire time — fins, tank, regulator, ready to enter the water inside seconds. They (generally) never get to make the dive. Their job, as I came to think of it, is to be a goalkeeper: alert, watching, prepared, and hoping with everything in them never to be called.

I love that role because it captures something children don’t always learn from the stories they’re told about heroism. The standby diver doesn’t get the photograph. They don’t get the discovery. They don’t even get wet on most days. And yet without them, the dive doesn’t happen, because no responsible team enters dangerous water without someone ready to come after them.

That is one of the best lessons the ocean teaches: being ready is its own job. Some of the most important people in any operation are the ones whose value is measured by what didn’t go wrong.

What do you hope this book teaches children about adventure — that it is not only excitement, but preparation, teamwork, and learning how to face the unknown?

Yes — and one thing more. I hope it teaches children that fear is not the enemy. Panic is.

That distinction is one of the oldest lessons in diving, and it’s one I most hoped kids would carry out of this book and into the rest of their lives. Fear keeps you sharp; it tells you something matters. Panic makes your body move before your brain can stop it. The difference between the two is learning and training — the willingness to spend years preparing for a moment that might last seconds. A diver who trusts their training can be afraid and still safe. A diver who doesn’t can be unafraid and in real trouble.

Adventure, in the deep-sea diver’s life, is not the opposite of preparation. Preparation is what makes the adventure possible. I’d love for every child reading this book to grow up understanding that — for diving, and for everything else.

Author Links: GoodReads | Website | Amazon