There’s a point in every journey where the water changes.
I was swimming in a lagoon at Coffs Harbour when I was younger. The edge was warm—almost piss warm, if I'm honest. Comfortable enough that you could forget you were in water at all. Just another medium to move through.
But as I ventured further out, something changed.
There was a layer where the water went from warm to ice cold in the space of a hand's width. No gradient. No warning. Just that sudden wall between comfort and something else. The water darkened too, as if the cold had a colour. I panicked, went under, struggled to keep my head up.
Someone on the shore saw me, jumped in, and pulled me out. I don't recall thanking them properly—too embarrassed, too rattled by what had just happened. I just walked away, carrying that feeling with me.
That line — between comfort and collapse — has shown up again and again. In work. In rides. In writing. In life.
I think about that moment now, decades later, when projects shift from manageable to overwhelming in the space of a meeting. When expectations outpace resources. When what seemed like a straightforward task suddenly reveals hidden complications. No prototype, no safety margin, no time.
There's that same moment of disorientation, that same instinct to panic. Complexity, fragility, risk. You're not drowning, not yet.
The work becomes colder the deeper you go.
Flow breaks. Panic creeps in. That’s when the tools matter — not just code or solder, but clarity, breathing room, self-trust. That’s when you need someone on the shoreline. Or to be that someone.
I often swim out further than expected — in work, in creativity, in what I take on. I scan the lagoon. I try to see the risk. I push the edge, toy with it, sometimes drift a little too far. Then I swim back. Mostly.
I never properly thanked the person who pulled me from that lagoon. Sometimes I wonder if that's part of the engineering mindset—we become the ones who jump in for others, who rescue projects, systems, teams—without waiting for acknowledgment.
I walked away from that lagoon changed, even if I didn't talk about it. The experience stayed, informing choices I didn't realise I was making. Maybe that's happening again now—this time with more awareness, more clarity. Maybe this time I'm both participant and witness, feeling the change and observing it simultaneously.
The thermocline teaches us that boundaries we can't see can still be absolute. That comfort can vanish in a handspan. Knowing the physics doesn't change the shock to your system.
But it also teaches us something else: that we survive the crossing. That we adapt to new temperatures. That even in the darkest water, there are those who notice when we're struggling, who leap in without hesitation.
Every engineer, every artist, every human worth their weight has felt the thermocline. You think you’re in control, until you’re not. But you don’t build strength in the warm shallows.
And maybe next time, I'll remember to say thank you.