In the three days leading up to our meeting, I found the prelude to an “experience date” was its own new experience for me. Mainly, the anticipation of doing something crazy with Sam distracted from my anticipation. This was a surprisingly positive development for me. In online dating, I often find that my high hopes for the date are ruined by reality. He doesn’t look like his pictures, our conversation is awkward, or one of us doesn’t feel a spark. This time, it was nice that my brain wasn’t so focused on Sam; it was busy obsessing about the unknown of the sensory deprivation chamber.

It was also strange to prepare for a date without my ritualistic primping. Half the fun of a first date often comes in preparing for it, and my usual routine is imbued with hope as I fluff my hair, add a little eyeliner, and select an outfit that expresses my essential “me-ness.” But the pre-float shower would wash away any efforts on hair and makeup, and my bikini from Target would replace my cute clothes. It felt oddly disarming to meet a first date barefaced, but that’s exactly what I did.

As I opened the door to Starbucks, a block from Halcyon Floats in the Philadelphia suburbs, I saw Sam immediately. He was tall with a nice smile, his scruffy face juxtaposed with a crisp white button-down, his wire-framed glasses endearingly nerdy. We seemed appropriately nervous but excited as we hugged hello and chatted for a few minutes before the appointment.

Then, within 15 minutes of meeting, we were alone in a dimly lit shower room. It was awkward. The trappings of a sensory deprivation chamber are not conducive to making two strangers feel comfortable together. The minuscule changing room was in full view of the shower, which was barely big enough for one. The tub, on the other side of the shower curtain, glowed a phosphorescent blue.

Confronted by the suddenly strange environment, I was game to bond over the weirdness, turning the awkwardness into our shared joke. I slipped into the bathroom and, as I changed into my black-and-white striped bikini, I felt like a dating adventurer. I mentally prepared for what would come next — rejoining Sam, both of us nearly naked. Soon we would share that tender moment when two people who like each other (or might, one day) reveal their bodies to one another. Maybe there would be lingering glances, or we’d grin at our shared in-joke.

When I returned to our small room, Sam was already in the shower, earplugs snug in place, exactly as instructed. I called out hello over the running water. He didn’t hear me. I called out again, louder, trying to keep the laugh in my voice.

“I can barely hear you with the earplugs,” Sam replied, and then nothing else.

The shower curtain drew back as Sam made his way to the door of the tub. He stepped in, wet boxer briefs clinging to his thighs, and sat down in the bath. If Sam was feeling uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. I showered quickly, feeling uncomfortable.

Wasn’t the point of a date like this to embrace the experience… together?

Sitting in the tub, side-by-side and facing Sam, I discovered it was more like a small tiled room — about five feet wide and nine feet long — filled with nearly a foot of salt water. The liquid was 94 degrees, roughly skin temperature, and warmer than I’d expected. I said so, running my fingers through it playfully. Sam did not reply, but we made eye contact.

“Bye bye,” he said abruptly as he laid back into the bath.

I felt a pang of loneliness as I reclined into the water. There was something missing from our interaction so far. Wasn’t the point of a date like this to embrace the experience together? Why weren’t we acknowledging and bonding over the intimacy, the novelty, the absurdity even, of taking off all our clothes in front of a stranger before getting in a bath together?

But then I relaxed a bit. After all, this was the experience I’d wanted for our first date: sensory deprivation. I was excited for the meditative hush, the blissful slowing of my mind, the feeling of simultaneously floating and being held, accompanied only by my own breath — and inevitably, my thoughts.

My first thought: My neck is killing me. It ached. The tank technician had explained this was common. We tend to carry stress in our necks; many people experience neck pain during their floats. There was a small “halo,” like a foam donut, that I could rest my head on to alleviate the pain — but I didn’t want to sit up, search around for the halo in the dark, and disturb Sam, who seemed so intent on depriving his senses. Every small movement, even moving my hands from my sides to my belly, caused the tub to ripple and our bodies to bob.

I wondered what was on his mind, if he liked floating, if he was thinking about me.

I quickly discovered that my brain hated floating, too. It panicked: What is this? I don’t like it. Give me something to do. Get me out of here. I can’t do this. Although I’m used to a similar mini freak-out every time I begin a meditation, the tank’s otherworldly conditions heightened its intensity. I suddenly understood why some people experience fear and hallucinations in sensory deprivation chambers. Focusing on my breath, I told myself: This is just a dark room. You can leave if you want to. But it will get better. If it doesn’t, you’ll leave.

I tuned into the quiet instrumental music, counted my breaths, and focused on the water against my skin, the salt drying and tightening slightly on my chest, my belly floating above the surface. My anxiety and neck pain did lessen as time passed, along with my mind’s need for distraction.

Every now and then, Sam and I — side-by-side and head-to-toe like a physical yin and yang — would brush leg against arm, hand against thigh as the water brought us together and pulled us apart. It was nice. It was a comfort knowing he was beside me. I wondered what was on his mind, if he liked floating, if he was thinking about me.

Ironically, the peace of sensory deprivation arrived, for me, through sensory awareness. I loved feeling the beaded edge of the water against my dry stomach and cheek. I was calmed by the soft hair on Sam’s legs against my arm. The sound of my breath in my own ears rose and receded like ocean waves. When I would occasionally open my eyes, I found they had adjusted to the dark. It was lovely in as many ways as it was unexpectedly uncomfortable.

When the float was over, Sam and I reconvened in the dimly lit “relaxation room.” I looked forward to sharing our experiences in the tank, but again, our interaction lacked something elemental. It stayed on the surface; it didn’t get easier or warmer. We left after 20 minutes or so, citing my long drive home as the reason why neither of us wanted to follow our float with dinner.

When Sam and I hugged on the icy sidewalk in the cold, his cheek warm against mine, it felt like the only moment when we truly connected.

In that moment, I realized what was missing from our date. That warmth — the heat of connection — is what it all comes down to. No matter how great either of us is, or how crazy or unusual the experience is, without that spark of connection, a date will end up in ashes. We need those warm sparks — curiosity, rapport, trust, vulnerability, laughter — to feed the fire.

Imagine floating side-by-side after that build-up of trust, vulnerability, flirty glances, and excitement.

My date with Sam felt like a matchbook full of snuffed-out chances. Driving home in the dark, I wondered: What if that initial energy when we hugged hello — so nervous but excited — had prompted us to acknowledge that this date was different from any other date? We were literally and figuratively laying it all bare, trusting each other enough at first meeting to strip off the typical armor we wear — clothes and makeup, restaurants and alcohol, the same self-deprecating jokes and stories we tell on every date — and do nothing else for an hour but float quietly in each other’s presence.

What if, as I entered our small room wearing only my bikini, Sam had pulled back the shower curtain and grinned at me? Invited me to join him, even. Or, maybe we’d have smiled shyly at each other when we sat down in the tub, and talked about what we expected would happen, or revealed what we were nervous about. We could have laughed over our own daring, bonded, and become a team as we left dry land together.

Imagine floating side-by-side after that build-up of trust, vulnerability, flirty glances, and excitement. Every time we touched in the tub, brushing up against each other’s skin, would be as charged and electric as real sparks.

But that’s not what happened. Sam and I had experienced earth, air, and water; we were missing fire.

I texted him the next morning, thanking him for meeting me, for the experience of floating together. “I didn’t feel that elusive ‘spark’ but I did truly enjoy our time together,” I told Sam. “I wish you all the best and hope you meet someone great.”

He never responded. I’m glad; it reaffirmed my choice to pursue that elemental hope: sparks. A true connection. Finally meeting that fellow adventurer who’s game to trust me, to lay it all bare with me and laugh about it.