…After spending the morning plucking a few conch off a grassy bottom for dinner, Connor (cdavis), Frank (Connor’s son - 18), and I decided to do a bit of deep diving. Connor drove us to an area that was 100-150 feet deep, adjacent to a wall that dropped into the 1000’s. We let out a 100-foot training line, weighted with an anchor and a chunk of lead. The problem was that the current continually kept pushing us into shallow water, with only enough time for a dive or two. After a few tries, we got a good angle on the wall/drift and away we went. While Connor warmed up with a few negatives, I opted for long-lasting 50-foot dives (I hate negatives). Once we were good to go, we started the rotation. One person dives, one is safety diver (meeting them at 30 feet on ascent), and one breathes up. After you’ve completed your dive, you are now safety diver for the next guy. The following turn, you do your breathe-up.
This was working well. I dive – Frank spots me – Connor breathes up. Connor dives – I spot him – Frank breathes up. Frank dives – Connor spots him – I breathe up. We all slowly add a bit of depth with each dive. By the third or forth, I have reached the 100-foot anchor, and enjoy hanging on it for a few seconds, viewing the wall, before ascending. But Frank is now having equalizing problems (that would plague him for the rest of the trip). Frustrated, his dives are only lasting 30 seconds or so. Wanting the keep up the momentum, I stupidly start rushing my breathe-ups. My last few dives have been lasting just under two minutes. Connor’s submerged times are around 1:20-1:30 (he descends more quickly). And with Frank’s complications, I am now on less than a 1/1 surface to submerged ratio (when you factor in the safety dive).
Still, I feel a sense of urgency as we begin to once again drift more and more shallow. And now that my reflex has kicked in, I want to get the most out of our drift before the anchor starts scraping. My Suunto reads that I have only been on the surface for 1:30, but, feeling energized, I dive anyway. As I reach the anchor, I feel like a million bucks and decide to let go of the line and drift to the bottom. I’m surprised to see how similar the bottom is to the shallows. With such good light penetration, it seems as if I’m only in 20 feet of water. I spot a small, colorful fish I have never seen before and try to get a closer look. He darts under a small piece of coral, and I lift it to expose him. Panicked he darts off to another piece of coral…….
……what have I been doing? I am not in the shallows. I am in… 121 feet of water, and I have been under for - 1:50 - not good – too long. I harness my mind to fight off the panic, but just can’t seem to keep myself relaxed. Heading for the surface, it seems to take forever to reach the knot in the rope at 50 feet. I should be using this rope to pull myself up, but rationality has given way to automatic pilot and I am kicking like I’m in a race. Contractions kick in, but are not uncomfortable. This is not normal, and I get the sense that I have pushed myself way too far. At 30 feet, I see Connor and make eye contact with him. I then look to the surface. There it is…almost there. I’m so hungry to reach the safety that I forget to exhale. Still - I’m going to reach it. Got it! I see the brightness of the cloudless sky and feel relief……..
…….I’m one of about 5 people having a light-hearted conversation. I don’t recognize that these people have any form, and the conversation is not taking place in any room or tangible area – there is simply a soft ‘whiteness’. I don’t even know what we are talking about. It’s as if I simply have the ‘feeling’ of being in a conversation. The chat is easy, like the way you would talk around the water cooler at work on Monday morning. Did your team lose or win? – I took the kids to the beach – etc - easy chit-chat. Yet there were no words…just the feeling.
Then there were words….[Ted. C’mon, Ted. C’mon, Ted. Ted…]. Can’t mistake that southern draw – it’s Connor. But where is he? He’s somewhere else. Not part of this. I feel the ‘whiteness’ disappearing – replaced by the greatest sense of relaxation I have ever felt. I have never had the level of comfort. I do not consider my surroundings. I don’t care where I am. There is only the comfort. Still…. [Ted. C’mon, Ted…]. My eyes flicker open. The relaxation disappears, but the comfort remains. I feel so good that I chuckle. After a few more moments on my back, I turn to see Connor’s smiling face. “Very interesting”, he says, and now I finally start to put together what had happened.
Slowly, with Frank and Connor’s help, I climb to the boat platform and sit down. Smiling, I shake Connor’s hand and thank him. Yet it is a bit disconcerting to me that the first person to ever save my life is someone whom I’ve met in person, for the first time, only 18 hours ago. Connor continues to beam a smile that shows relief and curiosity at once. “Very interesting”, he continues. We spend another half hour drifting and recalling the incident from each of our perspectives. Diving, for today, is done.
In the coming hours, my euphoria is replaced with severe nausea. I feel as if I had taken on the flu in a matter of moments. I don’t even have the energy to keep my head up. The feeling came on so swiftly and painfully that I explain to Connor that it feels as if an ogre had plucked me by my ankles, used me as a club, and set me back down. My appetite is gone. My sense of adventure dissolved. And I wonder if I have managed to destroy my trip before it got a chance to get started.
I did not. By the evening, my hunger has returned, and I eagerly chow down a bowl of conch salad and a plate of spaghetti.
That next morning, the water beckons me to return.
This was working well. I dive – Frank spots me – Connor breathes up. Connor dives – I spot him – Frank breathes up. Frank dives – Connor spots him – I breathe up. We all slowly add a bit of depth with each dive. By the third or forth, I have reached the 100-foot anchor, and enjoy hanging on it for a few seconds, viewing the wall, before ascending. But Frank is now having equalizing problems (that would plague him for the rest of the trip). Frustrated, his dives are only lasting 30 seconds or so. Wanting the keep up the momentum, I stupidly start rushing my breathe-ups. My last few dives have been lasting just under two minutes. Connor’s submerged times are around 1:20-1:30 (he descends more quickly). And with Frank’s complications, I am now on less than a 1/1 surface to submerged ratio (when you factor in the safety dive).
Still, I feel a sense of urgency as we begin to once again drift more and more shallow. And now that my reflex has kicked in, I want to get the most out of our drift before the anchor starts scraping. My Suunto reads that I have only been on the surface for 1:30, but, feeling energized, I dive anyway. As I reach the anchor, I feel like a million bucks and decide to let go of the line and drift to the bottom. I’m surprised to see how similar the bottom is to the shallows. With such good light penetration, it seems as if I’m only in 20 feet of water. I spot a small, colorful fish I have never seen before and try to get a closer look. He darts under a small piece of coral, and I lift it to expose him. Panicked he darts off to another piece of coral…….
……what have I been doing? I am not in the shallows. I am in… 121 feet of water, and I have been under for - 1:50 - not good – too long. I harness my mind to fight off the panic, but just can’t seem to keep myself relaxed. Heading for the surface, it seems to take forever to reach the knot in the rope at 50 feet. I should be using this rope to pull myself up, but rationality has given way to automatic pilot and I am kicking like I’m in a race. Contractions kick in, but are not uncomfortable. This is not normal, and I get the sense that I have pushed myself way too far. At 30 feet, I see Connor and make eye contact with him. I then look to the surface. There it is…almost there. I’m so hungry to reach the safety that I forget to exhale. Still - I’m going to reach it. Got it! I see the brightness of the cloudless sky and feel relief……..
…….I’m one of about 5 people having a light-hearted conversation. I don’t recognize that these people have any form, and the conversation is not taking place in any room or tangible area – there is simply a soft ‘whiteness’. I don’t even know what we are talking about. It’s as if I simply have the ‘feeling’ of being in a conversation. The chat is easy, like the way you would talk around the water cooler at work on Monday morning. Did your team lose or win? – I took the kids to the beach – etc - easy chit-chat. Yet there were no words…just the feeling.
Then there were words….[Ted. C’mon, Ted. C’mon, Ted. Ted…]. Can’t mistake that southern draw – it’s Connor. But where is he? He’s somewhere else. Not part of this. I feel the ‘whiteness’ disappearing – replaced by the greatest sense of relaxation I have ever felt. I have never had the level of comfort. I do not consider my surroundings. I don’t care where I am. There is only the comfort. Still…. [Ted. C’mon, Ted…]. My eyes flicker open. The relaxation disappears, but the comfort remains. I feel so good that I chuckle. After a few more moments on my back, I turn to see Connor’s smiling face. “Very interesting”, he says, and now I finally start to put together what had happened.
Slowly, with Frank and Connor’s help, I climb to the boat platform and sit down. Smiling, I shake Connor’s hand and thank him. Yet it is a bit disconcerting to me that the first person to ever save my life is someone whom I’ve met in person, for the first time, only 18 hours ago. Connor continues to beam a smile that shows relief and curiosity at once. “Very interesting”, he continues. We spend another half hour drifting and recalling the incident from each of our perspectives. Diving, for today, is done.
In the coming hours, my euphoria is replaced with severe nausea. I feel as if I had taken on the flu in a matter of moments. I don’t even have the energy to keep my head up. The feeling came on so swiftly and painfully that I explain to Connor that it feels as if an ogre had plucked me by my ankles, used me as a club, and set me back down. My appetite is gone. My sense of adventure dissolved. And I wonder if I have managed to destroy my trip before it got a chance to get started.
I did not. By the evening, my hunger has returned, and I eagerly chow down a bowl of conch salad and a plate of spaghetti.
That next morning, the water beckons me to return.