surging_srg
New
The following is an excerpt from a journal entry I wrote while aboard the Mike Ball liveaboard 7-day option from Cairns to the Great Barrier Reef.
I wrap my fingers around by BCD and regs. The two devices hold each other in place, a lifelong bond. I stand on the dive deck, angled over my contraption of devices. Pressure gauge? Check. Octopus reg? Check? Buddy? She's over on the other side. I glance over, maneuvering my head around other dressing divers' heads. She slowly puts on her wetsuit. Looks like I'm good for time. Enough time to reposition and fasten my pressure and depth gauges neatly under the Velcro strap of my BCD.
I soon find myself in the water, securing myself to the mooring line. My buddy jumps in the water and makes her way over to me.
"Ready?", I ask, gesturing downwards. She nods vehemently, as if to confirm my suspicion that descents are best hastened in the presence of big waves. Alright, then: down we go. I activate the deflate hose and begin my descent. I notice my buddy is struggling to make it down: she kicks her feet, angling herself towards me to no avail. Problem? She quickly reorients herself in an upright position and reviews her deflate hose position. I look up, signalling her to confirm her descent? Ok? She looks down and confirms: ok. And she seems to be descending now. Good.
We make our way to the ocean floor, revealing dense microcosms of coral: each hub neatly packed in circular form, seemingly compartmentalized. The visibility isn't great: maybe 5 metres clearly. A coat of dirt residue seems to shroud the otherwise clear ocean in debris. I level off, half a metre to the coral. Dancing fish remind me it's time to begin my photoshoot.
I begin positioning myself with the current. Angling my body below the subject seems to work best. And the latest macro shots have been stunning at the very least.
A sea cucumber grabs my attention. This one has a unique design: blotches of black and grey resemble a tattoo. It contains swirls of black circles running across its spine. It sits, immobile, in the centre of a patch of sand. Easily enough room to position myself and get a horizontal shot. I slowly descend onto the sand and crouch down. A couple shots should do. Good. Confirming my shots through the underwater enclosure on my camera, I take my time. Some of these shots should turn out great.
A starfish! Its purple tentacles wrap around the inner structure of the coral. I exhale slowly to control my descent, angling the camera inside the crevasse, and trigger the shot. The light looked good. I'll review it later when I get back.
We pass more congregations of schooling fish, as we follow the current. An assortment of finger-sized puffer fish and yellow stripe fish seemingly greet me as I drift by. Some current.
We bend around a corner, and I look up to my buddy. She points in the distance, to my right shoulder, 20 metres away. I level up with her to observe: a 2.5 metre potato cod fish looms in the light of a photographer's lighting rig. I hastily make my way towards it and examine this massive fish. Towering above me, it extends past both my forearms. Probably my height or bigger. Up close, the blotches of white do remind me of potatoes. Aptly named, indeed. I hover beside the mammoth creature, sighting it eye me curiously as it slowly expunges air from its immense gills. It seems ok with me, and our photographer next to it. Cool!
1500 psi. I signal to my dive buddy to make our way back. We should have no problem. I recall seeing the mooring line as we passed the deeper section, sloping upward to the soft coral.
I move on further, decreasing my depth to get a bird's-eye view. Where had we gone? We couldn't have gotten carried too far from the current. Only what seemed like five minutes ago was really fifteen, as I look at my watch. 60 minutes.
I briefly pause for a moment, reassessing the situation. We had been instructed to inform the ship crew of dives longer than one hour. Would they come looking for us? No, I tell myself. We are both seasoned divers, just good with our air. Would we have to use our emergency, emergency Nautilus GPS units and send a distress signal? Probably not.
I look above me, my dive buddy struggling against the current. Already, pressure is getting low; the gauge now reads 1000 psi. She gestures to come up a bit. But wouldn't the current be stronger near the top? Sure, I'll use less air higher up, but the current... how does that work? I don't know...
I continue fighting the current. I need to go all-out, I realize, or I might not make it back. But with 1000 psi, and a safety stop, I might not have enough air. And I don't know how far I have strayed with the current...
I angle my body parallel to the ocean floor and lower it as one does an engine on a boat. I need to fight this current if I want to resurface properly. I need to give it my all.
I begin an intense flutter, disregarding the resistance from the current. I imagine myself a super saiyan powering up: channeling my inner anger. Why do I have to get to curious and carried away? And not just figuratively...
I'm making progress, and I can identify the same coral I saw before I got lost. But how close are we to the mooring line? I lost track. Taking larger breaths now, from the hard workout, I look at my pressure gauge. 500?! I should be resurfacing now! I knew fighting the current would take more air, but this much? I look up to my dive buddy. She continues to kick onward, as if she knows precisely where we are. How much further?
What do we do? I ask myself. We are barely making progress against the current. There's no telling just how far we had strayed from the initial dive site. If we resurfaced in the middle of no where, they might not even see us. I look up to my dive buddy, still fighting the current. She seems just as flustered as I am.
Then, just as I'm about to make an emergency ascent, I see it: there it is! The mooring line reveals itself through the shroud of debris. So we made it! I relax for a second, exhaling bubbles in the form of relief.
But my problems are far from over, I realize.
Reality suddenly sets in, and I hesitantly look at my pressure gauge: the hand sits, pointing to the red zone, mockingly. 300 psi... that's not good! I've never been this low before. I hasten my approach, following the mooring line. How much further? I'm still fighting the current, I realize. My dive buddy kicks aggressively toward the safety stop line. The finish line? How low is she on air? Can she even do one? I see her perform a double-take on either side to make sure I'm still alive. Probably a good idea at this point.
I continue fighting the current. I know I can do this. They probably add some extra leeway on these pressure gauges like gas meters on vehicle dashboards: enough gas to get you to the next gas station before running out. Right?
I shouldn't be taking that risk in the first place.
And I have other problems. I notice my vision caving in on me: dark spots encroaching on my peripheral vision. Is this early signs of DCS? I don't care, I reason; I won't have time for a safety stop.
I can see the ladder now. Surrounding it, what seems like tens of new divers, looking each way, conversing ever so calmly. Damn it! With this many divers waiting to board, I wouldn't be able to board even if I did resurface without taking a decompression stop, I unsoundly reason, making excuses. I may as well get swept away by the current at the surface, shouting unsuccessfully for the conversing divers' attention.
At this moment, I perform the metal check most divers should do but don't in cases of emergency: stop, think, act.
That's it! I realize, as I spot the emergency regulator dangling from the safety stop rope. I can make it there, then catch my breath, and make a safe ascent. Safe? Hardly.
I finally make it to the rope, grabbing it for all my life. This time, the mantra "stop, think, act" in mind, I take one last breath. It could very well be that if the reg doesn't work. I put the emergency reg in my mouth and begin breathing. Immediately, I feel water filing my lungs. I am gargling. But still breathing. Did this thing even work? A second breath. The pungent taste of salt water rips through my mouth. There's no way this is safe. I look up for my partner: no where to be found. I need to make an emergency ascent. My feet are burning, sore -- maybe even overworked. I take one more breath of salty air, and return my own regulator to my mouth. What little air I do have left I'll use to surface, this time come hell or high water (less water, please!). The taste of dry air returns through my mouth, like sanity returning only for a fleeting moment. I look up and remember what to do if my air runs out: make a low "aaah" sound while looking up. I make my way to the ladder. It's finally free of other boarding divers! I resurface, inflate my BCD, and hang on to those railings for all my life. A woman says something at the top of the ladder, muffled by the water plugging my ears as water rushes down my mask. I made it.
I'm of the opinion that bad things come in threes: a weird superstition I shamelessly adopted from my first diving instructor. So it's no surprise that I find myself making excuses that had another bad thing happened during the dive, I would have aborted. But I'm equally aware that I risked my life doing what I did. And yet, laying down yet again, this time in my deserted quarters of my room, I find the experience exhilarating in hindsight. Call me an adrenaline junkie, but it's experiences like these that remind us of the fragility of life. The more I have close calls, the more I am thankful for the dives I get out of without complications. Maybe I'm just a thrillseeker after all.
I wrap my fingers around by BCD and regs. The two devices hold each other in place, a lifelong bond. I stand on the dive deck, angled over my contraption of devices. Pressure gauge? Check. Octopus reg? Check? Buddy? She's over on the other side. I glance over, maneuvering my head around other dressing divers' heads. She slowly puts on her wetsuit. Looks like I'm good for time. Enough time to reposition and fasten my pressure and depth gauges neatly under the Velcro strap of my BCD.
I soon find myself in the water, securing myself to the mooring line. My buddy jumps in the water and makes her way over to me.
"Ready?", I ask, gesturing downwards. She nods vehemently, as if to confirm my suspicion that descents are best hastened in the presence of big waves. Alright, then: down we go. I activate the deflate hose and begin my descent. I notice my buddy is struggling to make it down: she kicks her feet, angling herself towards me to no avail. Problem? She quickly reorients herself in an upright position and reviews her deflate hose position. I look up, signalling her to confirm her descent? Ok? She looks down and confirms: ok. And she seems to be descending now. Good.
We make our way to the ocean floor, revealing dense microcosms of coral: each hub neatly packed in circular form, seemingly compartmentalized. The visibility isn't great: maybe 5 metres clearly. A coat of dirt residue seems to shroud the otherwise clear ocean in debris. I level off, half a metre to the coral. Dancing fish remind me it's time to begin my photoshoot.
I begin positioning myself with the current. Angling my body below the subject seems to work best. And the latest macro shots have been stunning at the very least.
A sea cucumber grabs my attention. This one has a unique design: blotches of black and grey resemble a tattoo. It contains swirls of black circles running across its spine. It sits, immobile, in the centre of a patch of sand. Easily enough room to position myself and get a horizontal shot. I slowly descend onto the sand and crouch down. A couple shots should do. Good. Confirming my shots through the underwater enclosure on my camera, I take my time. Some of these shots should turn out great.
A starfish! Its purple tentacles wrap around the inner structure of the coral. I exhale slowly to control my descent, angling the camera inside the crevasse, and trigger the shot. The light looked good. I'll review it later when I get back.
We pass more congregations of schooling fish, as we follow the current. An assortment of finger-sized puffer fish and yellow stripe fish seemingly greet me as I drift by. Some current.
We bend around a corner, and I look up to my buddy. She points in the distance, to my right shoulder, 20 metres away. I level up with her to observe: a 2.5 metre potato cod fish looms in the light of a photographer's lighting rig. I hastily make my way towards it and examine this massive fish. Towering above me, it extends past both my forearms. Probably my height or bigger. Up close, the blotches of white do remind me of potatoes. Aptly named, indeed. I hover beside the mammoth creature, sighting it eye me curiously as it slowly expunges air from its immense gills. It seems ok with me, and our photographer next to it. Cool!
1500 psi. I signal to my dive buddy to make our way back. We should have no problem. I recall seeing the mooring line as we passed the deeper section, sloping upward to the soft coral.
I move on further, decreasing my depth to get a bird's-eye view. Where had we gone? We couldn't have gotten carried too far from the current. Only what seemed like five minutes ago was really fifteen, as I look at my watch. 60 minutes.
I briefly pause for a moment, reassessing the situation. We had been instructed to inform the ship crew of dives longer than one hour. Would they come looking for us? No, I tell myself. We are both seasoned divers, just good with our air. Would we have to use our emergency, emergency Nautilus GPS units and send a distress signal? Probably not.
I look above me, my dive buddy struggling against the current. Already, pressure is getting low; the gauge now reads 1000 psi. She gestures to come up a bit. But wouldn't the current be stronger near the top? Sure, I'll use less air higher up, but the current... how does that work? I don't know...
I continue fighting the current. I need to go all-out, I realize, or I might not make it back. But with 1000 psi, and a safety stop, I might not have enough air. And I don't know how far I have strayed with the current...
I angle my body parallel to the ocean floor and lower it as one does an engine on a boat. I need to fight this current if I want to resurface properly. I need to give it my all.
I begin an intense flutter, disregarding the resistance from the current. I imagine myself a super saiyan powering up: channeling my inner anger. Why do I have to get to curious and carried away? And not just figuratively...
I'm making progress, and I can identify the same coral I saw before I got lost. But how close are we to the mooring line? I lost track. Taking larger breaths now, from the hard workout, I look at my pressure gauge. 500?! I should be resurfacing now! I knew fighting the current would take more air, but this much? I look up to my dive buddy. She continues to kick onward, as if she knows precisely where we are. How much further?
What do we do? I ask myself. We are barely making progress against the current. There's no telling just how far we had strayed from the initial dive site. If we resurfaced in the middle of no where, they might not even see us. I look up to my dive buddy, still fighting the current. She seems just as flustered as I am.
Then, just as I'm about to make an emergency ascent, I see it: there it is! The mooring line reveals itself through the shroud of debris. So we made it! I relax for a second, exhaling bubbles in the form of relief.
But my problems are far from over, I realize.
Reality suddenly sets in, and I hesitantly look at my pressure gauge: the hand sits, pointing to the red zone, mockingly. 300 psi... that's not good! I've never been this low before. I hasten my approach, following the mooring line. How much further? I'm still fighting the current, I realize. My dive buddy kicks aggressively toward the safety stop line. The finish line? How low is she on air? Can she even do one? I see her perform a double-take on either side to make sure I'm still alive. Probably a good idea at this point.
I continue fighting the current. I know I can do this. They probably add some extra leeway on these pressure gauges like gas meters on vehicle dashboards: enough gas to get you to the next gas station before running out. Right?
I shouldn't be taking that risk in the first place.
And I have other problems. I notice my vision caving in on me: dark spots encroaching on my peripheral vision. Is this early signs of DCS? I don't care, I reason; I won't have time for a safety stop.
I can see the ladder now. Surrounding it, what seems like tens of new divers, looking each way, conversing ever so calmly. Damn it! With this many divers waiting to board, I wouldn't be able to board even if I did resurface without taking a decompression stop, I unsoundly reason, making excuses. I may as well get swept away by the current at the surface, shouting unsuccessfully for the conversing divers' attention.
At this moment, I perform the metal check most divers should do but don't in cases of emergency: stop, think, act.
That's it! I realize, as I spot the emergency regulator dangling from the safety stop rope. I can make it there, then catch my breath, and make a safe ascent. Safe? Hardly.
I finally make it to the rope, grabbing it for all my life. This time, the mantra "stop, think, act" in mind, I take one last breath. It could very well be that if the reg doesn't work. I put the emergency reg in my mouth and begin breathing. Immediately, I feel water filing my lungs. I am gargling. But still breathing. Did this thing even work? A second breath. The pungent taste of salt water rips through my mouth. There's no way this is safe. I look up for my partner: no where to be found. I need to make an emergency ascent. My feet are burning, sore -- maybe even overworked. I take one more breath of salty air, and return my own regulator to my mouth. What little air I do have left I'll use to surface, this time come hell or high water (less water, please!). The taste of dry air returns through my mouth, like sanity returning only for a fleeting moment. I look up and remember what to do if my air runs out: make a low "aaah" sound while looking up. I make my way to the ladder. It's finally free of other boarding divers! I resurface, inflate my BCD, and hang on to those railings for all my life. A woman says something at the top of the ladder, muffled by the water plugging my ears as water rushes down my mask. I made it.
I'm of the opinion that bad things come in threes: a weird superstition I shamelessly adopted from my first diving instructor. So it's no surprise that I find myself making excuses that had another bad thing happened during the dive, I would have aborted. But I'm equally aware that I risked my life doing what I did. And yet, laying down yet again, this time in my deserted quarters of my room, I find the experience exhilarating in hindsight. Call me an adrenaline junkie, but it's experiences like these that remind us of the fragility of life. The more I have close calls, the more I am thankful for the dives I get out of without complications. Maybe I'm just a thrillseeker after all.
