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There are moments in life that humble you, and then there are moments that dunk you straight into the waters of humility. In my case, those waters weren’t metaphorical: they were the murky depths of Istanbul’s Golden Horn, and the humbling came in the form of my phone sinking gracefully to the bottom like a tiny, doomed submarine.
I was in Istanbul for the SATW conference, surrounded by incredible storytellers, travel professionals, and the kind of energy that only happens when hundreds of people who live out of suitcases gather in one place. Between workshops, tours, and late-night conversations over Turkish tea, there was also a bit of friendly competition. The conference app awarded points for posts, comments, and photos, and I had my sights set on winning.
I was sitting comfortably in second place behind a gentleman who had clearly mastered the art of short, emoji-laden quips. Every time I opened the app, there he was: dropping smiley faces, thumbs-up emojis, and comments like “Looks fun!” faster than I could upload an actual photo.
That morning, I had joked with my group, “This afternoon, I’m taking him down—with real posts and meaningful comments!” We all laughed as I confidently plotted my app domination, little knowing the universe had other plans.
A Sail to Remember
That afternoon, I joined a small group for a scenic sail around the Golden Horn. The rain had just started to fall—a soft drizzle that gave the skyline a moody, cinematic glow. Istanbul shimmered through the mist, domes and minarets rising like a watercolor painting come to life. The salty air mixed with the scent of roasted chestnuts from the nearby docks, and I felt like I was living inside a travel brochure.
Our six-passenger boat rocked gently as we pulled away from the pier. I tugged on my waterproof jacket, adjusted my life vest, and reached for my phone to capture the moment. The city looked spectacular: ancient walls, bustling ferries, and that electric contrast of old and new that makes Istanbul feel eternal.
We had barely drifted 15 feet from shore when I heard a soft knock against the deck beside me. Curious, I turned my head just in time to see my phone perform a perfect Olympic-level dive over the edge. One second it was there, the next, gone.
For a moment, I froze. My brain refused to process what my eyes had seen. Then it hit me: my phone, my photos, my notes, my lifeline to the world—all gone in three seconds flat.
Laughter in the Face of Disaster
And then I started laughing. Not a polite laugh, but a loud, gasping, doubled-over laugh that had everyone on the boat staring at me like I’d lost my mind. “Why are you laughing?” one of the crew finally asked, clearly expecting tears instead of giggles.
“Because crying won’t make the phone float back up!” I said between gasps. “Besides, maybe this is God’s way of telling me to stop competing in app contests.”
In that moment, I could almost hear divine chuckling from above. I was sure I’d tucked the phone safely into the pouch around my neck, but apparently, it had other plans: like an impromptu swim lesson.
The absurdity of it all hit me at once: I was sitting in the rain, on a boat in Istanbul, with my digital life sinking somewhere below. I was now not only out of the app contest but also locked out of everything that required two-factor authentication. My phone was getting texts from my bank, my email, and probably a reminder from my husband to bring home Turkish Delight, all at the bottom of the Golden Horn.
Enter the Diver
Our guide, ever resourceful, calmly said, “We can call a diver.”
I blinked. “You have divers on standby? Is this a thing here?”
He nodded. “Many people drop things. Phones, wallets, jewelry. It happens.”
Apparently, it happens often enough that a diver could be there within the hour. “Six thousand Turkish Lira,” he added, “about one hundred eighty U.S. dollars.”
At that point, I figured: why not? I’d come all the way to Istanbul; what was one more adventure? Besides, how many people could say they’d hired a professional diver because of a travel-app competition?
The Hopeful Hour
The diver arrived looking like a real-life action hero. Cheerful, confident, and clearly used to dramatic recoveries, he suited up quickly as curious onlookers gathered along the pier. I told him my phone was black, small, and probably glowing faintly with disappointment.
He smiled and said something that sounded reassuring – though my Turkish vocabulary mostly consists of “hello,” “thank you,” and “baklava.” Then he slipped beneath the surface with a splash and disappeared into the murky water.
We all waited. Minutes stretched like hours. The drizzle turned into rain again, and I tried to stay optimistic. I imagined him emerging triumphantly, phone in hand, with the Titanic soundtrack swelling in the background.
Spoiler alert: that’s not how this story ends.
After nearly an hour, the diver resurfaced empty-handed. “Too dark,” he explained. “Too many obstacles. No visibility.”
I nodded, thanked him for trying, and paid up. After all, he did go diving into the Golden Horn for me, and that kind of effort deserves respect.
No Phone, No Problem?
Back on land, I realized just how much I relied on that little device. Two-factor authentication became my nemesis. Every login attempt to email, social media, or even my hotel reservation system ended with a code sent to my phone – my phone that was now probably making friends with an old anchor at the bottom of the harbor.
But travel teaches flexibility, right? So I decided to make the most of my unexpected digital detox. I borrowed a pen and notebook from another journalist and went old-school, jotting down story ideas by hand. I took in the sights without a camera lens between me and the world.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: I had traveled halfway across the globe to capture stories, and now the universe had given me one that would write itself.
Samsung to the Rescue
Eventually, practicality won out over poetic reflection. I needed a phone. That evening, I found myself in a Samsung store inside an upscale Istanbul mall. The contrast between the chaotic streets outside – filled with honking taxis, stray cats, and vendors calling out “çay, çay!” – and the sleek, minimalist calm of the store was almost comical.
A young salesman greeted me with a smile that said he’d seen this situation before. When I explained what happened, he laughed kindly and said, “You are not the first.”
Together, we picked out a new phone. Thanks to Turkey’s favorable pricing and tax-free options for travelers, I actually scored it for less than I would have paid in the U.S. The kicker? Verizon had emailed me the week before saying I was eligible for an upgrade.
Timing, as they say, is everything.
The staff helped me set it up just enough to take photos and videos, though full access would have to wait until I got home. Still, I walked out of that mall feeling victorious, new phone in hand and a story already forming in my mind.
Shout-Out to My Hero
No tale of travel misadventure would be complete without a hero, and mine was Craig from Travel Wisconsin, When everything went sideways, Craig stepped in without hesitation. He let me borrow his phone to message my husband back home (“Don’t panic, I’m fine – just phone-less in Turkey”), helped translate during the diver negotiations, and even fronted the payment until I could reimburse him later.
But more than that, he kept me laughing. “Well,” he said that night over dinner, “at least you made a local diver’s day more interesting.”
He checked in on me throughout the evening, ensuring I was okay and reminding me that every travel disaster eventually becomes great material. And he was right – this one became my favorite story from Istanbul.
Lessons Learned
Looking back, I can only shake my head and smile. Losing my phone wasn’t ideal, but it was a master class in humility, adaptability, and humor.
It reminded me that sometimes the best travel memories come from the moments that don’t go as planned. That even when things sink – literally – you can still float.
It also taught me the importance of backup plans (and waterproof pouches), the value of good friends on the road, and the resilience that comes from laughing at your own mishaps.
Would I hire another diver? Absolutely. Not because I expect a miracle, but because life’s richest stories often start with, “Well, this wasn’t what I expected…”
Final Thoughts
So here’s my advice: if you ever find yourself sailing around the Golden Horn and hear that telltale plunk on the deck – grab your phone. But if it slips away, take a deep breath and remember that sometimes the best souvenirs are the stories you can’t buy in a gift shop.
And for the record? I still came in third place in the SATW app contest. Which, considering everything that happened, feels like the most glorious bronze medal of my career.
Because when it comes to travel – and to life – sometimes you win the contest, and sometimes you hire a Turkish diver for $180 with no guarantee. But either way, you walk away with a story worth telling.
