The first sort of escapologist is an ordinary person who has come to the trade organically, by whatever curious sequence of opportunity and happenstance—and that sort will panic. There is very little that is more appallingly unnatural or frightening than being lowered, bound, into a confined space containing an atmosphere you cannot breathe. It doesn’t matter how much preparation you may have done, the moment your elbows hit the perspex, the moment you hear the dull noise they make as the sound is transmitted not through a gas but through a liquid: that’s the moment you understand your own mortality in a way you never have before, and you lose control. A training crew will know that, and they’ll wait for the moment and then get you out and talk you down, and then you can try again—or not. Some people just never go back in the tank. They do other illusions, they shift their focus. A pair of handcuffs, a few feathers and a risqué joke, and then close-up magic and narrative tricks. Thanks very much and good night. Some get right back in and they master their fear and they go on to be as good as their skill allows. These last are most compelling to watch.