Katie Wood
Freediver, Writer, Explorer
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Katie Wood
Freediver, Writer, Explorer
Somewhere between the deep dive and the perfect frame, we lost the plot. Freediving has in recent years been co-opted by a culture of performance. Instructors chase records. Influencers chase likes. Brands chase attention. What began as an intimate exchange between human and ocean has increasingly become a spectacle: one that prioritizes personal goals and digital validation over the very environment it depends on.
It’s time to ask the uncomfortable question. What is the cost of treating the ocean as a gym?
Historically, freediving was born from necessity. Pearl divers, sponge hunters, and sea nomads read the sea like a book—its moods, temperatures, rhythms. They knew the sea could not be conquered, only respected. Today, many modern divers step into the ocean like they step into a training facility: looking to extract something from it.
The shift is subtle but profound. When your dive is measured only in meters, when your breath-hold is timed to the second, when your performance must be captured on camera, the ocean becomes a backdrop to your ambition—not a co-creator in the experience.
There is a particular aesthetic that dominates the freediving world online. The slender silhouette descending into blue. The dramatic arch of the monofin. The exhale. The triumph. On social media, depth and duration are currency. And with that, a culture has emerged—one that celebrates endurance over awareness, and appearance over impact.
Performance itself isn’t the problem. The issue is what gets left behind: coral beds bruised by careless fins, marine life disturbed by crowds of divers, delicate caves echoing with human noise. In pursuit of footage, we flood spaces that once thrived in silence. We pose, post, and profit—while the ecosystems we claim to love quietly erode beneath us.
Unlike a gym, the ocean is not built for us. There are no padded floors, no filtered air, no climate control. It is wild. It is alive. And it is under stress.
Coral reefs around the world are bleaching. Seagrass meadows—critical for carbon sequestration—are being trampled. Endangered marine species are pushed further to the margins by growing human presence. In such a context, diving without awareness is not neutral. It’s extractive.
We often tell ourselves, “I’m just training,” as if physical presence has no footprint. But every dive leaves a trace: from the boat anchor that tears through the seafloor, to the sunscreen that leaches into reefs, to the sheer noise that alters the behavior of marine life. This is not hyperbole—it’s ecological fact.
Another side of the issue is overtraining. It’s not just harmful to athletes—it’s harmful to the ecosystems they train in. Some training sites see dozens of freedivers descending daily along multiple lines. These locations, once quiet sanctuaries, now echo with the constant presence of human bodies and their accompanying gear.
Imagine if a national park allowed 40 athletes to sprint, leap, and stretch on the same patch of protected land every day, all year round. The impact would be obvious. Yet when it comes to underwater environments, we still operate with the illusion of limitlessness.
Marine ecosystems, especially in tropical and subtropical zones, are incredibly sensitive. Reefs grow at the pace of millimeters per year. Sea creatures breed in specific seasons. Underwater noise affects everything from feeding patterns to mating behavior. Freedivers, despite their silence, are not invisible to these systems.
The freediving community often prides itself on being “in tune” with nature. But tuning in means more than admiring the view. It means understanding where you’re diving, what species live there, what seasons they’re vulnerable in, and how your presence changes the equation.
Unfortunately, many freediving schools still treat ecological awareness as optional. The focus is on physiology, safety, technique—and not on the surrounding biome. The result? Generations of divers who know their residual volume but can’t identify a threatened species. Who learn about equalization but not about coral spawning. Who train for competitions held in sites they don’t even know the history of.
This kind of ecological illiteracy is not just a missed opportunity. It’s a liability.
Depth competitions have become a hallmark of modern freediving. They showcase elite talent and push human potential—but they also bring with them a significant environmental load. Boats. Safety divers. Support staff. Equipment. Anchors. Repeated line drops. Increased surface traffic.
When done thoughtfully, competitions can integrate sustainability measures: mooring lines, minimal intrusion, waste management, local ecological assessments. But in many cases, especially when events pop up in emerging freediving destinations, the pressure to perform outweighs the pressure to protect.
As more divers travel to remote locations to train or compete, the carbon footprint expands too. Flights, fuel, imported gear—all contribute to an invisible web of environmental costs that rarely make it into the highlight reel.
The critique is not meant to shame. It’s meant to invite reflection—and responsibility. If freedivers truly see themselves as stewards of the sea, then it’s time to live up to that identity with tangible action.
1. Shift the Mindset: Let go of the gym metaphor. The ocean is not a training facility—it’s a living world. Frame your dives as encounters, not workouts. Practice with reverence, not repetition. Remember that every descent is a privilege.
2. Choose Ethical Schools and Instructors: Not all training centers are the same. Seek out schools that teach ecological literacy as part of their curriculum. Ask instructors about their environmental policies. Support those who limit class sizes, avoid sensitive habitats, and prioritize low-impact practices.
3. Learn the Ecosystem: Before diving in a new location, study its marine life. Learn about its protected species, breeding seasons, and historical stressors. Understand the role your presence plays in that system—and adapt accordingly.
4. Stop Chasing Content: Do you really need to film every dive? Is the clip worth the disturbance? Be honest about your motivations. If documenting your freediving journey, do it in a way that uplifts, not exploits. Highlight conservation. Respect privacy. Show restraint.
5. Advocate for Sustainable Competitions: If you compete or organize events, push for sustainability standards. No anchor zones. Eco-certified support boats. Local environmental briefings. Carbon offset programs. Prize less the records, more the responsibility.
6. Reduce Your Gear Footprint: Do you need three wetsuits and five sets of fins? Buy less. Choose durable, responsibly made equipment. Support brands that reinvest in ocean protection. Refuse the cheap, rebranded imports that dominate the market with zero accountability.
Freediving is not about dominating depth. It is about surrendering to it. When done with intention, it becomes a ceremony—not a sport. A way to rewild ourselves in a world that constantly demands control, metrics, and visibility.
To dive well is to know when not to dive. To see a rare fish and not chase it. To encounter a coral bed and float above, not hover over. To feel the need to train, and still give the ocean rest.
It’s also about community. Sharing knowledge. Uplifting stories of protection over performance. Teaching the next generation not just how to dive—but why it matters where, how, and with what consequences.
The ocean has never needed us. We need it. And if we continue to treat it like our private gym, we may find ourselves locked out—of its beauty, its mystery, and its future.
Respect is not passive. It’s active, informed, and accountable. As freedivers, we pride ourselves on breathing less. Maybe it’s time we also took less, posted less, and left more space—for the ocean to breathe too.