Deep vacation: scuba diving in the watery wonderland of the Sea of Cortez, off of Baja California, Mexico.

The slim moon slides over the horizon, and as we pull away from the bright lights of Cabo San Lucas, long narrow fish ride the boat's wake with streaks of silver arching across the spray I am on the top deck with a few other women I met just hours ago, but already I'm feeling an easy camaraderie.

So begins my journey down the Sea of Cortez along the eastern coast of Mexico's Baja California peninsula. For one week, 18 (mainly queer) divers plus crew tiding aboard the Canadian dive boat Nautilus Explorer are completely disconnected from the outside world: no cell phones, no Internet, no television, no newspapers, no news. Just diving, eating, drinking, sleeping, talking about diving--and a lot of easy laughter.

From the moment we wake up hot and sleepy in our small shared staterooms to the moment the last drink is poured by one of the friendly crew members, we are consumed with a sport like none other.

Jump in the water and descend. There you are, floating, breathing, looking, surrounded by fish glinting in filtered sunlight. Creatures that seem to have borrowed their colors from a Crayola box lazily drift by. Coral arms sway in the current, spiny lobsters creep along the bottom, and green moray eels poke from rock crevices, mouths open, throats undulating, and yellow eyes gaping in the relentless search for prey. I personally love the cartoonishly large purple-lip rock oysters that cling to a wall and snap shut when I wave my hand in front of them. I'd laugh if I didn't have a regulator in my mouth.

The huge inlet that is the Sea of Cortez, where the cold, nutrient-rich Pacific mixes with warmer waters, is one of the most brilliant underwater ecosystems on earth and a unique diving experience, with over 700 species of fish as well as whales, manta rays, and leatherback turtles. Unfortunately, like many ocean systems this one is at peril by commercial overfishing. The Mexican government has made attempts to set up conservation areas, but this wild and empty area is difficult to police. Still, it's a rich underwater ecosystem that lives up to its otherworldly, dreamlike reputation.

I think of diving as more meditation than sport, an observation of life set against the sound of your own breathing: air into the lungs, bubbles out. Slow and Zen-like, it transports you to the present tense. And it is forgiving enough that age is hardly a limiting factor. Nor are serious musculoskeletal weaknesses, such as a bad back or knee, in fact, several people on the trip have some kind of health problem; although there are those of us younger, most of us are hovering in the 40 range, and there is even one in his 70s.

I began diving a few years ago, when I signed up for a course as part of a breakup recovery plan. I convinced my close friend Mikey also to get certified so we could be dive buddies. Mikey has a mere nine dives under his belt; I have just three more. All the others on the trip have dozens, even thousands of dives. Which mostly means that we have a lot of people helping us out. Diving is generally done in pairs, so people tend to stick to dive buddies with similar experience so that they can dive to their best ability. It's not exactly a competitive sport. But there are great show and-tell sessions after each dive when we share what we just saw-through description and also through the magic of instant digital camera pictures.

A friend had told me about the Northern California Rainbow Divers, a diving group in San Francisco's Bay Area. Diving in the tropical sea with a bunch of queer people. What's not to like? Mike Ford, a member of Rainbow Divers, organized it as part of his group, Dive Dog Adventures. But most people on the trip were part of Rainbow Divers and about 70% of us are queer, with a roughly 60-40 female to male ratio. The fact that it isn't 100% gay doesn't seem to make much of a difference. For the most part everyone seems to get "along, with plenty of free-flowing humor and a bit of flirting dashed in.

Mikey and I had plunked down $2,500 each, which included everything but alcohol. Anyone who tells you diving is cheap is either insanely rich or just insane. Good equipment is 'also costly. But it's hard to be cheap when your life depends on it.

But even good gear will not protect you from your own stupidity. I learn that my third day out when I swim too deep, don't decompress properly, and get locked out of diving for 24 hours to prevent me from getting decompression illness, a.k.a, the bends. It turns out that I'm fine, but for 24 hours, I'm scared out of my mind, worried I'll have to head to some onshore decompression chamber and derail the trip; I earn myself the nickname "deco-girl." I learn new respect for the dangers of diving.

I end up snorkeling instead at a sea lion rookery with Mikey and we spot the baby sea lions, which weigh about 100 pounds each. If you do tricks for them like flipping and diving, they will come right up to you and play until they get bored, or until you see a large male adult warning you away. The divers who are used to colder waters are more accustomed to sea lions, but since Mikey and I have mostly done warm water diving we are thrilled.

We twist, turn, and flip for the sea lions, until we're a little nauseous and dizzy--but happy--from the effort. As I'm swimming away and thinking, wow, I just played with a baby sea lion, I feel something warm and heavy on my back.

For a second I'm confused. Mikey is ahead of me. And then I realize it's not him, it's a sea lion! I roll over and he (or she) nuzzles against me like a dog. Then he swims away and comes back. Part of me is a little frightened. After all, I've never played with the sea lion before, let alone touched one. But I go with it, stroking his fur with my gloved hands. He starts nipping at the straps on my fins. We play for a while and as I swim away, I wonder, Can a water wonderland get any better than this?