As usual, he’s wearing his standard black HP wetsuit with the silver Shark logo on the front, indicating his house. Dev thinks I’m crazy to make the dive in a bikini. In most ways, he’s a tough guy. When it comes to cold temperatures, though, he’s kind of a baby.

We do our predive stretches. This spot is one of the few places along the California coast where you can free dive without getting smashed to pieces against the rocks below. The cliffs are sheer, plunging straight into the depths of the bay.

It’s quiet and peaceful this time of morning. Despite Dev’s responsibilities as a house captain, he is never too busy for our morning ritual. I love him for that.

“What did you bring for Socrates today?” I ask.

Dev gestures nearby. Two dead squid lie glistening in the grass. As a senior, Dev has access to the aquarium’s feeding supplies. This means he can sneak little treats for our friend under the bay. The squid are about a foot long from tail to tentacles—slimy, silver and brown like oxidized aluminum. Loligo opalescens. California market squid. Life span six to nine months.

I can’t turn off the data stream. Our marine biology professor, Dr. Farez, has trained us too well. You learn to remember the details because everything, literally everything, will be on her quizzes.

Socrates has another name for Loligo opalescens. He calls them breakfast.

“Nice.” I pick up the squid, still cold from the freezer, and hand one to Dev. “You ready?”

“Hey, before we dive…” His expression turns serious. “I have something I want to give you….”

I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not, but I always fall for his distractions. As soon as he has my attention, he turns and jumps off the cliff.

I curse. “Oh, you little—”

Whoever jumps in first has a better chance of finding Socrates first.

I take a deep breath and leap after him.

Cliff-diving is the ultimate rush. I free-fall ten stories, wind and adrenaline screaming in my ears, then punch through the icy water.

I relish the shock to my system: the sudden cold, the sting of the brine on my cuts and scrapes. (If you don’t have cuts and scrapes as a student at HP, you haven’t been doing your combat exercises right.)

I plunge straight through a school of copper rockfish—dozens of frilly orange-and-white bruisers who look like punk-rock koi. But their tough looks are just for show, since they scatter with a massive burst of YIKES! Ten meters below me, I spot the shimmering whirlwind of Dev’s bubble trail. I follow it down.

My static apnea record is five minutes. Obviously, I can’t hold my breath that long when I’m exerting myself, but still, this is my environment. On the surface, Dev has the advantage of strength and speed. Underwater, I’ve got the endurance and agility. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

My brother floats above the sandy seabed, his legs crossed like he’s been meditating there for hours. He’s keeping the squid behind his back, because Socrates has arrived and is nuzzling Dev’s chest as if to say, C’mon, I know what you’ve got for me.