Five metres. Three minutes. You are finished, you are cold, the boat is right there, and you hang on the line anyway and watch a computer count it down. Nobody who has not been certified has ever heard of the safety stop. Everybody who has, has done it four hundred times.
So this one puts it on a steamer-trunk baggage label, notched ends and all, exactly the way a label would name a place you have been. Which, if you think about what those three minutes are, it is.
The label is knocked out with a fat die-cut border, the outermost ink of a limited three-plate palette, so it reads crisp and complete on every shade.
The crew is the one that ends up in the kit bag: pulled on wet-haired over a rash vest on the ride back in, worn all evening, still on at breakfast.
The one part of the dive you cannot rush.
