Wearing a wetsuit, Greg breaks the surface laughing and asks if I’m “ready to go in?” I’m not sure what he means, so I look to Diveheart volunteers Andy and Todd.

As they take off Greg’s full facemask, they glance back at me with secret smiles.

When I bend to shake Greg's hand, I wonder if he’ll pull me into the pool. Greg is a Marine, after all. And with that smile, he just might. But I think he wants to know if I’m ready to dive.

I’m not. I have an excuse. And I’m certain Greg knows it.

In 2006, Gregorio Rodriguez backed out of his driveway in San Diego — weeks before deploying to Iraq — and woke nearly a month later in a hospital. The car accident paralyzed him with traumatic brain injuries.

Unable to walk or talk, trapped inside himself, Greg also learned his second daughter was born. He says he’s reborn, too. I know what he means, but don’t immediately share why.

Back home in Illinois, Greg watched the world from a bed inside Hines VA Hospital. He mentions depression and says, “people stopped coming because they had lives to live, too.”

At a rehab facility years later, Greg’s friend Andy handed him the sports section. Breaking the silence, Greg read a sentence. Slowly and out loud. Andy says few believed it was possible, and that’s why few gave Greg a newspaper at all.

As with all things, possibility is made real with opportunity.

That’s something Jim Elliott, founder of Diveheart — a Downers Grove nonprofit that teaches adaptive scuba to anyone, anywhere, with disability — works tirelessly to gift.

When Jim’s daughter was little, she was teased because she's blind. She began to believe expectations set for her. So, Jim encouraged her to ski, and it changed her life.

Years later, Jim left his corporate gig and comfortable salary, and dedicated his love of scuba to the lives of others. He charges nothing to those who can’t afford to learn adaptive scuba.

And he’s needed everywhere. That’s why his schedule is so crazy. So, when I learn one of Diveheart’s training exercises is scheduled at a local pool, I go. Greg will be there.

When I arrive, a boy with autism celebrates his dive with shouts of undeniable joy. A woman in a wetsuit, with one arm, walks by and smiles. Parents of a child with Down syndrome watch anxiously as their child is fitted, for the first time, with a facemask.

Greg, of course, is underwater. And I admit, I feel exposed. I know nothing about scuba other than my fear of it. After my own car accident and subsequent brain surgery, my neurologist didn’t encourage a curiosity about scuba. I didn’t question him either; I just assumed it wasn’t possible.

As if Jim hears what I’m thinking, he finds me on the sidelines and tells a story.

“I once met a guy who took a .50-caliber bullet to the head. When I asked if he wanted to scuba, his mom kept saying no. So I fist bumped him and said, ‘dude, do you want to scuba?’ His eyes lit up. He needed to know it was possible, because it is.”

Later, Greg sits down next to me, leaving his cane behind. I can tell he has a lot to say.

I’m patient and let him finish sentences. I remember how that feels, not being able to get words out fast enough; I vow not to treat him differently.

“Scuba is a way to travel the world,” he says. “I remember when I was in kindergarten playing like I was an astronaut. Scuba’s like that, only it’s real. I’m weightless; I’m free. I’m not disabled. I’m just me.”

Greg tells me other things, too. Like how he’s training for a 5K run. He laughs when he says he just ran 20 feet, in his backyard. I smile because while I’m still thinking about running that 5K, he’s already doing it.

He then looks me in the eye and says, “everything happens for a reason.” I tear up, and don’t hide it.

“Maybe I’m meant to never know the reasons why, but I’m grateful. Scuba saved my life and that’s why I’m here.”

Greg is different. He’s extraordinary. And I’m in awe.

At home that night, I read more about Diveheart. Testimonials. Articles. Awards. And I see pictures of smiling divers, just like Greg. But I’ve seen all I need to know.

I’m sure Jim once asked Greg the same question, “ready to go in?” I don’t doubt Greg said yes.

To Greg, I say yes, too. Anything is possible with opportunity.