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Examples of a dive death that could not have been prevented?
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Thanks
If you took a Nitrox class you would know (you do know I bet) that O2 tox can happen well below 1.4 - 1.4 is a fairly high exposure. I would strongly suggest you use a FFM for high PPO2 decompression, and that you keep your levels well below 1.4 most of the time. I personally dont think dives above 1.2 are all that safe.
"So before you consider "pushing" the ppO2, especially on a Trimix dive, ask yourself -- is the additional risk worth the slightly shorter deco?"
People keep posting links where the author him-herself is actually clearly highlighting the mistakes made by the diver. The poor woman even knew she had a below average O2 tolerance!
Given that, they should never have gone above 1.2 outside of a diving bell or commercial dive suit. As the author again says, to his credit, your life is not worth a slightly shorter deco. Not sure why people hate air so much anyway...
"So before you consider "pushing" the ppO2, especially on a Trimix dive, ask yourself -- is the additional risk worth the slightly shorter deco?"
People keep posting links where the author him-herself is actually clearly highlighting the mistakes made by the diver. The poor woman even knew she had a below average O2 tolerance!
Given that, they should never have gone above 1.2 outside of a diving bell or commercial dive suit. As the author again says, to his credit, your life is not worth a slightly shorter deco. Not sure why people hate air so much anyway...
vladimir
The Voice of Reason
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Here's the full story as it appeared in several books:
SHARK ATTACK!
by
Bret Gilliam
included in Marty Snyderman book "GREAT SHARK ADVENTURES!"
release date 1999
and "MARK OF THE SHARK"
release date 2003
additionally published in Outside, Scuba Times, Rodale's Scuba Diving and many other magazines worldwide
Be forewarned. There's no traces of my trademark dry humor to found in this story and there's no happy ending. It's probably as close as I've come to my trip to Valhalla. In October of 1972 it happened like this:
Rod Temple and Robbie McIlvaine were waiting for me when I drove up to the beach at Cane Bay on St. Croix's north shore. This area of the Virgin Islands had some of the best wall diving in the eastern Caribbean and the drop off was an easy swim from shore eliminating a long boat ride from Christiansted. We unloaded our gear and began to dress under the shade of the palms while a dozen or so tourists watched with interest. Diving was still not an every day sport for most people and the double tanks and underwater camera equipment held a certain fascination.
We were setting off to recover some samples from a collecting experiment we have placed on the wall for a local marine science lab. Six days before we had positioned our large support float right over the drop off with the research vessel and carefully loaded our sediment traps, nets and lines so they'd be ready for positioning in various locations in the shallow patch reef and the deep wall. Today we planned to inspect one project at 210 feet and shoot some photography of the area. Rod transferred the dive profile and decompression information to his slate as Robbie and I rounded up the remainder of the equipment and walked into the warm ocean to begin our leisurely surface swim to the float station about 300 yards offshore.
We'd done Cane Bay hundreds of times in the last two years both for work and for fun and this October morning was no different than scores of others as we snorkeled over the clear sand a few feet beneath our fins. As usual, Rod struck a livelier pace and forged on ahead while we wallowed in his wake towing the photo gear and another plexi-glass sand trap the lab wanted set in the chute that spilled over the wall.
Reaching the float, Robbie retrieved the snap swivels that would anchor the trap into our rope grid strung on the wall face. Rod reviewed the deco schedule, "Look, if we can get this thing set up and check out the project at 210 in fifteen minutes, we can save a lot of decompression. Can you do the photos in that time frame if I run the lines on the plexi trays?"
2
"Sure," I replied, "but don't go wandering off in case Robbie needs help getting snapped in with the trap. That thing's a ***** to swim with."
"No problem," Rod smiled back. "I don't mind doing the heavy work for you lazy Yanks."
His British enthusiasm belied the fact that Robbie and I were about twice his size and strength although he was older and more experienced. We both gave him an "up yours" salute knowing full well that any heavy lifting always came our way while Rod handled the paperwork. As the time keeper and dive leader, he would keep track of our dive profile, work in progress, remaining air status, and then run the deco schedule.
He eased away from the float and begin to swim the short distance over the deep blue that marked the drop off. The visibility was great, over 125 feet horizontally and even better looking up and down. A mild swell wrapped around the point and the sea was calm. Two of the Navy vessels that we worked with on submarine listening tests were just a few miles offshore and we could hear their acoustical sound generators pinging away as we descended.
Rod settled in on top of the wall at 100 feet and we joined up to check gauges before slipping over in a gentle glide to the first work station at 180 feet. Robbie re-arranged the open ends of the traps to aim in the west quadrant this week and I fired off photos to record the scene. Most of the scientists who contracted us didn't do much diving themselves and they insisted on reams of photography so they could get an accurate idea of conditions in the deep water zones they were studying.
Signaling that we were finished, Rod led us over the coral buttresses and came to rest next to the deep project. It had slid a bit deeper during the week so Robbie and I eased it back into position and hoped it would stay put this time. This occupied our attention for most of ten minutes when Rod excitedly tapped me on the shoulder to point out the approach of two oceanic white tip sharks. This was nothing new to us as we dove with sharks routinely but it was rare to see these open ocean species in so close to shore. They passed within about ten feet of us and I shot a few photos as they swam off to the east.
We finished up the required observations and Rod filled out the field logs on his slate. Right on schedule he indicated, we were going to get out with only about 20 minutes deco it looked like. Robbie started up first and pointed out the sharks again as they swam by him headed over the coral and down into the sand chute. I remember thinking how strange it was to see oceanic white
3
tips right here on the wall at Cane Bay. It was kind of like walking off your back porch and seeing an African lion when you expected an alley cat.
We'd had our fair share of nasty encounters with white tips when we worked offshore. They frequently bit our equipment, the steel cables deployed from the research vessel, and even the shafts and propellers on occasion. We were convinced that they would bite us as well once they got going and never turned our backs on them without another diver riding shotgun. But these two didn't seem to pay us any attention and I turned to begin the ascent behind Robbie.
Our plan called for Rod to be the last guy up. I rendezvoused with Robbie at about 175 just over a ledge and we both rested on the coral to wait for him to join us. He was late and Robbie fidgeted pointing to his pressure gauge not wanting to run low on air. I shrugged and gave him a "what am I supposed to do" look and we continued to wait. Suddenly Robbie dropped his extra gear and catapulted himself toward the wall pointing at a mass of bubble exhaust coming from the deeper water.
We both figured that Rod had some sort of air failure either at the manifold of his doubles or a regulator. Since my air consumption was lower, I decided to send Robbie up and I would go see if Rod needed help. As I descended in the bubble cloud, Robbie gave me an anxious OK sign and started up.
But when I reached Rod things were about as bad as they could get. One of the sharks had bitten him on the left thigh without provocation and blood was gushing in green clouds from the wound. I was horrified and couldn't believe my eyes. He was desperately trying to beat the 12 foot animal off his leg and keep from sinking deeper. I had no idea where the second shark was and lunged to grab his right shoulder harness strap to pull him up.
Almost simultaneously the second shark hit Rod in the same leg and bit him savagely. I could see Rod desperately gouging at the shark's eyes and gills as he grimly fought to beat off his attackers. With my free hand I blindly punched at the writhing torsos of the animals as they tore great hunks of flesh from my friend in flashes of open jaws and vicious teeth. Locked in mortal combat, we both beat at the sharks in frantic panic. And then they suddenly let go. I dragged Rod up the sand chute, half walking and half swimming. Once clear of the silt I could see Robbie about 100 feet above us looking on in horror. He started down to us as I lifted Rod off the bottom and kicked with all my might toward the surface.
4
But in less than fifteen seconds the first shark returned and hit him again and began towing us both over the drop off. The attack had probably only lasted a minute at this point but Rod had lost a huge amount of blood and tissue and had gone limp in my grasp. I was still behind him clutching his right harness strap as the second larger shark hit him again on the opposite side down around the left calf. Like the other, this shark bit and hung on as we tumbled down the wall face.
We were dropping rapidly now completely out of control. My efforts to kick up were fruitless as the sharks continued to bite and tear at their victim, all the while dragging us deeper. I felt Rod move again to fend off another attack and my hopes soared upon realizing that he was still alive. I clung briefly to the edge of the drop off wall to arrest our rapid descent. The coral outcropping gave us some slight protection and for a moment the attacks stopped.
Both sharks retreated into the blue and I watched them circle our position from about ten feet away. To my horror I saw one shark swallow the remains of Rod's lower left leg right before my eyes. The other gulped a mouthful of flesh it had torn off. I tried to push Rod into the coral in an effort to shield him from another attack but there was nothing to afford any real shelter. As I turned away from the waiting predators, Rod and I came face to face for the first time during the attack. He shook his head weakly and tried to push me away. I grabbed for his waist harness for a new grip and felt my hand sink into his mutilated torso. There was no harness left to reach for. He had been disemboweled.
Shrieking into my mouthpiece in fury I pulled him from the coral and took off pumping for the surface with him clutched to my chest. Immediately the sharks were on us again. I felt the larger one actually force me to one side as it savagely sought to return to the wounds that gushed billows of dark blood into the ocean around us. Rod screamed for the last time as the second shark seized him by the mid-section and shook him. The blue water turned horribly turbid with bits of human tissue and blood. Once we were turned completely over and I felt Rod torn away from me.
I watched his lifeless body drift into the abyss with the sharks still hitting him. The attack had started around 200 feet. My depth gauge was pegged at 325 feet now but I knew we were far deeper than that. The grimness of my own situation forced itself on me through a fog of narcosis and exertion.
5
That's when I ran out of air. I think that subconsciously I almost decided to stay there and die. It seemed so totally hopeless and my strength was completely sapped. But I put my head back and put all my muscle into a wide steady power kick for the surface. I forced all thoughts to maintaining that kick cycle and willed myself upward.
After what seemed like an eternity I sneaked a look at my depth gauge: it was still pegged at 325 feet. I sucked hard on the regulator and got a bit of a breath. Not much, but it fueled my oxygen starved brain a bit longer and I prayed my legs would get me up shallow enough to get another breath before the effects of hypoxia shut my systems down forever.
There's really no way to describe what it's like to slowly starve the brain of oxygen in combination with adrenaline induced survival instincts. But I remember thinking if I could just concentrate on kicking I could make it. After a while the sense of urgency faded and I remember looking for the surface through a red haze that gradually closed down into a tunnel before I passed out. The panic was gone and I went to sleep thinking "damn, I almost made it."
I woke up on the surface retching and expelling huge belches of expanding air. Apparently the small volume of air in the safety vest I wore had been enough to float me the final distance and save my life. But I still had to deal with an unknown amount of omitted decompression and the certainty that I was severely bent.
Swimming to shore as fast I could, I felt my legs going numb. By the time I reached the beach I could barely stand. A couple on their honeymoon waded out and dragged me up on the sand. I gasped out instructions to get the oxygen unit from our van and collapsed. In an incredible burst of good fortune, it turned out the wife was an ER nurse from Florida and understood the pathology of decompression sickness. They got a steady flow of oxygen into me and ran to call the diving emergency numbers that I directed her to on the dive clipboard.
I drifted away again into unconsciousness and was revived at the airport where a med-evac flight was waiting to fly me to Puerto Rico. But the Navy chamber was down and it was decided to take me to the only other functional facility up on the island's northwest corner nearly 200 miles farther away. But the flight crew was afraid I wouldn't make it when we ran low on oxygen shortly after passing San Juan. So they had the police stop traffic on the main divided highway and landed on the road where a waiting Coast Guard helicopter snatched me away to the hospital roof.
6
Two days later I was released but with residual numbness in my arms and legs, substantial hearing loss, and legal blindness in my right eye that persists to this day.
Robbie's last view of Rod and me was as we were dragged over the wall in a cloud of blood by the sharks. He never saw my free ascent and so reported us both killed when he got to shore. It was not until I called my dad from the hospital that he knew I had survived. A week later we had Rob's memorial service at the beach. I resumed diving the next day. His body was never recovered.
Aftermath: this attack in 1972 was widely reported and shark experts speculate that the oceanic white tips may have been attracted and then stimulated by the low frequency sound in the water from the nearby submarine testing. The previous deepest depth that a diver survived a free ascent from was 180 feet. Gilliam was probably closer to 400 feet. He was cited for heroism by the Virgin Islands government for risking his own life to try to save his partner. In 1993, British television (BBC) produced a special on the incident as part of a series called "Dead Men's Tales".
SHARK ATTACK!
by
Bret Gilliam
included in Marty Snyderman book "GREAT SHARK ADVENTURES!"
release date 1999
and "MARK OF THE SHARK"
release date 2003
additionally published in Outside, Scuba Times, Rodale's Scuba Diving and many other magazines worldwide
Be forewarned. There's no traces of my trademark dry humor to found in this story and there's no happy ending. It's probably as close as I've come to my trip to Valhalla. In October of 1972 it happened like this:
Rod Temple and Robbie McIlvaine were waiting for me when I drove up to the beach at Cane Bay on St. Croix's north shore. This area of the Virgin Islands had some of the best wall diving in the eastern Caribbean and the drop off was an easy swim from shore eliminating a long boat ride from Christiansted. We unloaded our gear and began to dress under the shade of the palms while a dozen or so tourists watched with interest. Diving was still not an every day sport for most people and the double tanks and underwater camera equipment held a certain fascination.
We were setting off to recover some samples from a collecting experiment we have placed on the wall for a local marine science lab. Six days before we had positioned our large support float right over the drop off with the research vessel and carefully loaded our sediment traps, nets and lines so they'd be ready for positioning in various locations in the shallow patch reef and the deep wall. Today we planned to inspect one project at 210 feet and shoot some photography of the area. Rod transferred the dive profile and decompression information to his slate as Robbie and I rounded up the remainder of the equipment and walked into the warm ocean to begin our leisurely surface swim to the float station about 300 yards offshore.
We'd done Cane Bay hundreds of times in the last two years both for work and for fun and this October morning was no different than scores of others as we snorkeled over the clear sand a few feet beneath our fins. As usual, Rod struck a livelier pace and forged on ahead while we wallowed in his wake towing the photo gear and another plexi-glass sand trap the lab wanted set in the chute that spilled over the wall.
Reaching the float, Robbie retrieved the snap swivels that would anchor the trap into our rope grid strung on the wall face. Rod reviewed the deco schedule, "Look, if we can get this thing set up and check out the project at 210 in fifteen minutes, we can save a lot of decompression. Can you do the photos in that time frame if I run the lines on the plexi trays?"
2
"Sure," I replied, "but don't go wandering off in case Robbie needs help getting snapped in with the trap. That thing's a ***** to swim with."
"No problem," Rod smiled back. "I don't mind doing the heavy work for you lazy Yanks."
His British enthusiasm belied the fact that Robbie and I were about twice his size and strength although he was older and more experienced. We both gave him an "up yours" salute knowing full well that any heavy lifting always came our way while Rod handled the paperwork. As the time keeper and dive leader, he would keep track of our dive profile, work in progress, remaining air status, and then run the deco schedule.
He eased away from the float and begin to swim the short distance over the deep blue that marked the drop off. The visibility was great, over 125 feet horizontally and even better looking up and down. A mild swell wrapped around the point and the sea was calm. Two of the Navy vessels that we worked with on submarine listening tests were just a few miles offshore and we could hear their acoustical sound generators pinging away as we descended.
Rod settled in on top of the wall at 100 feet and we joined up to check gauges before slipping over in a gentle glide to the first work station at 180 feet. Robbie re-arranged the open ends of the traps to aim in the west quadrant this week and I fired off photos to record the scene. Most of the scientists who contracted us didn't do much diving themselves and they insisted on reams of photography so they could get an accurate idea of conditions in the deep water zones they were studying.
Signaling that we were finished, Rod led us over the coral buttresses and came to rest next to the deep project. It had slid a bit deeper during the week so Robbie and I eased it back into position and hoped it would stay put this time. This occupied our attention for most of ten minutes when Rod excitedly tapped me on the shoulder to point out the approach of two oceanic white tip sharks. This was nothing new to us as we dove with sharks routinely but it was rare to see these open ocean species in so close to shore. They passed within about ten feet of us and I shot a few photos as they swam off to the east.
We finished up the required observations and Rod filled out the field logs on his slate. Right on schedule he indicated, we were going to get out with only about 20 minutes deco it looked like. Robbie started up first and pointed out the sharks again as they swam by him headed over the coral and down into the sand chute. I remember thinking how strange it was to see oceanic white
3
tips right here on the wall at Cane Bay. It was kind of like walking off your back porch and seeing an African lion when you expected an alley cat.
We'd had our fair share of nasty encounters with white tips when we worked offshore. They frequently bit our equipment, the steel cables deployed from the research vessel, and even the shafts and propellers on occasion. We were convinced that they would bite us as well once they got going and never turned our backs on them without another diver riding shotgun. But these two didn't seem to pay us any attention and I turned to begin the ascent behind Robbie.
Our plan called for Rod to be the last guy up. I rendezvoused with Robbie at about 175 just over a ledge and we both rested on the coral to wait for him to join us. He was late and Robbie fidgeted pointing to his pressure gauge not wanting to run low on air. I shrugged and gave him a "what am I supposed to do" look and we continued to wait. Suddenly Robbie dropped his extra gear and catapulted himself toward the wall pointing at a mass of bubble exhaust coming from the deeper water.
We both figured that Rod had some sort of air failure either at the manifold of his doubles or a regulator. Since my air consumption was lower, I decided to send Robbie up and I would go see if Rod needed help. As I descended in the bubble cloud, Robbie gave me an anxious OK sign and started up.
But when I reached Rod things were about as bad as they could get. One of the sharks had bitten him on the left thigh without provocation and blood was gushing in green clouds from the wound. I was horrified and couldn't believe my eyes. He was desperately trying to beat the 12 foot animal off his leg and keep from sinking deeper. I had no idea where the second shark was and lunged to grab his right shoulder harness strap to pull him up.
Almost simultaneously the second shark hit Rod in the same leg and bit him savagely. I could see Rod desperately gouging at the shark's eyes and gills as he grimly fought to beat off his attackers. With my free hand I blindly punched at the writhing torsos of the animals as they tore great hunks of flesh from my friend in flashes of open jaws and vicious teeth. Locked in mortal combat, we both beat at the sharks in frantic panic. And then they suddenly let go. I dragged Rod up the sand chute, half walking and half swimming. Once clear of the silt I could see Robbie about 100 feet above us looking on in horror. He started down to us as I lifted Rod off the bottom and kicked with all my might toward the surface.
4
But in less than fifteen seconds the first shark returned and hit him again and began towing us both over the drop off. The attack had probably only lasted a minute at this point but Rod had lost a huge amount of blood and tissue and had gone limp in my grasp. I was still behind him clutching his right harness strap as the second larger shark hit him again on the opposite side down around the left calf. Like the other, this shark bit and hung on as we tumbled down the wall face.
We were dropping rapidly now completely out of control. My efforts to kick up were fruitless as the sharks continued to bite and tear at their victim, all the while dragging us deeper. I felt Rod move again to fend off another attack and my hopes soared upon realizing that he was still alive. I clung briefly to the edge of the drop off wall to arrest our rapid descent. The coral outcropping gave us some slight protection and for a moment the attacks stopped.
Both sharks retreated into the blue and I watched them circle our position from about ten feet away. To my horror I saw one shark swallow the remains of Rod's lower left leg right before my eyes. The other gulped a mouthful of flesh it had torn off. I tried to push Rod into the coral in an effort to shield him from another attack but there was nothing to afford any real shelter. As I turned away from the waiting predators, Rod and I came face to face for the first time during the attack. He shook his head weakly and tried to push me away. I grabbed for his waist harness for a new grip and felt my hand sink into his mutilated torso. There was no harness left to reach for. He had been disemboweled.
Shrieking into my mouthpiece in fury I pulled him from the coral and took off pumping for the surface with him clutched to my chest. Immediately the sharks were on us again. I felt the larger one actually force me to one side as it savagely sought to return to the wounds that gushed billows of dark blood into the ocean around us. Rod screamed for the last time as the second shark seized him by the mid-section and shook him. The blue water turned horribly turbid with bits of human tissue and blood. Once we were turned completely over and I felt Rod torn away from me.
I watched his lifeless body drift into the abyss with the sharks still hitting him. The attack had started around 200 feet. My depth gauge was pegged at 325 feet now but I knew we were far deeper than that. The grimness of my own situation forced itself on me through a fog of narcosis and exertion.
5
That's when I ran out of air. I think that subconsciously I almost decided to stay there and die. It seemed so totally hopeless and my strength was completely sapped. But I put my head back and put all my muscle into a wide steady power kick for the surface. I forced all thoughts to maintaining that kick cycle and willed myself upward.
After what seemed like an eternity I sneaked a look at my depth gauge: it was still pegged at 325 feet. I sucked hard on the regulator and got a bit of a breath. Not much, but it fueled my oxygen starved brain a bit longer and I prayed my legs would get me up shallow enough to get another breath before the effects of hypoxia shut my systems down forever.
There's really no way to describe what it's like to slowly starve the brain of oxygen in combination with adrenaline induced survival instincts. But I remember thinking if I could just concentrate on kicking I could make it. After a while the sense of urgency faded and I remember looking for the surface through a red haze that gradually closed down into a tunnel before I passed out. The panic was gone and I went to sleep thinking "damn, I almost made it."
I woke up on the surface retching and expelling huge belches of expanding air. Apparently the small volume of air in the safety vest I wore had been enough to float me the final distance and save my life. But I still had to deal with an unknown amount of omitted decompression and the certainty that I was severely bent.
Swimming to shore as fast I could, I felt my legs going numb. By the time I reached the beach I could barely stand. A couple on their honeymoon waded out and dragged me up on the sand. I gasped out instructions to get the oxygen unit from our van and collapsed. In an incredible burst of good fortune, it turned out the wife was an ER nurse from Florida and understood the pathology of decompression sickness. They got a steady flow of oxygen into me and ran to call the diving emergency numbers that I directed her to on the dive clipboard.
I drifted away again into unconsciousness and was revived at the airport where a med-evac flight was waiting to fly me to Puerto Rico. But the Navy chamber was down and it was decided to take me to the only other functional facility up on the island's northwest corner nearly 200 miles farther away. But the flight crew was afraid I wouldn't make it when we ran low on oxygen shortly after passing San Juan. So they had the police stop traffic on the main divided highway and landed on the road where a waiting Coast Guard helicopter snatched me away to the hospital roof.
6
Two days later I was released but with residual numbness in my arms and legs, substantial hearing loss, and legal blindness in my right eye that persists to this day.
Robbie's last view of Rod and me was as we were dragged over the wall in a cloud of blood by the sharks. He never saw my free ascent and so reported us both killed when he got to shore. It was not until I called my dad from the hospital that he knew I had survived. A week later we had Rob's memorial service at the beach. I resumed diving the next day. His body was never recovered.
Aftermath: this attack in 1972 was widely reported and shark experts speculate that the oceanic white tips may have been attracted and then stimulated by the low frequency sound in the water from the nearby submarine testing. The previous deepest depth that a diver survived a free ascent from was 180 feet. Gilliam was probably closer to 400 feet. He was cited for heroism by the Virgin Islands government for risking his own life to try to save his partner. In 1993, British television (BBC) produced a special on the incident as part of a series called "Dead Men's Tales".
vladimir
The Voice of Reason
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Divers don't have cars to protect them, they have wetsuits. Or drysuits. Your bear analogy works for divers in submarines. (Do bears ever actually break into cars to kill the occupants?)
You are always diving with sharks when you dive in the ocean.
You are always diving with sharks when you dive in the ocean.
Ok fine - if an ice climber gets killed by a bear, is that an ice climbing accident?
A diver got hit by lightning and killed not too long ago, I bet you guys remember that thread. Freak accidents have nothing to do with diving.
BTW the above story is among the most dubious ive seen.
"A week later we had Rob's memorial service at the beach. I resumed diving the next day."
So he survives a ESA from 400 feet (4 minutes at 100 fpm), out of air, gets shockingly mild bends from a 200+ foot dive, and starts diving the next week? That is after the shark attack. Not saying it didnt happen, but some rather insane things were going on in that story. Will this ever happen again? I dont think so, and hope not.
A diver got hit by lightning and killed not too long ago, I bet you guys remember that thread. Freak accidents have nothing to do with diving.
BTW the above story is among the most dubious ive seen.
"A week later we had Rob's memorial service at the beach. I resumed diving the next day."
So he survives a ESA from 400 feet (4 minutes at 100 fpm), out of air, gets shockingly mild bends from a 200+ foot dive, and starts diving the next week? That is after the shark attack. Not saying it didnt happen, but some rather insane things were going on in that story. Will this ever happen again? I dont think so, and hope not.
Ice Mike
Registered
Having read this post and the one it originated from.
I suggest you define dive death.
The Parker Turner death could be seen as a death due to a natural disaster (don't know if that is the right word.)
The colapsing of the entrance started the problems for the two divers. Shocking read though.
So maybe dive death or dive related death should be limited to something like:
Diving deaths where the cause was not:
- Natural disaster
- Health problem
- War
- Unprovoked animal attack
- Murder
---------------------------------------------------
Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.---Albert Einstein
I suggest you define dive death.
The Parker Turner death could be seen as a death due to a natural disaster (don't know if that is the right word.)
The colapsing of the entrance started the problems for the two divers. Shocking read though.
So maybe dive death or dive related death should be limited to something like:
Diving deaths where the cause was not:
- Natural disaster
- Health problem
- War
- Unprovoked animal attack
- Murder
---------------------------------------------------
Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.---Albert Einstein
vladimir
The Voice of Reason
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Perhaps because I didn't read the prior thread, I missed your point. Do you mean, excluding wildlife, unpredictable tides, currents, and storms, prior health conditions, drifting gill nets, reckless boaters, etc., are all scuba diving deaths preventable? Yes. But it doesn't seem like a conclusion worth spending a lot of time to arrive at. If you are well trained and in good physical condition, I think you have a 99.99% chance of surviving your dives at the local YMCA swimming pool. Watch out for the suction around the filter intake though!
vladimir
The Voice of Reason
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It is both rude and a little ignorant to impugn the credibility of Mr. Gilliam regarding that incident. It was at least partially witnessed by a third party and the facts that one of the divers never returned and that Mr. Gilliam is still partially blind certainly support the major thrust of the story.
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