Some people really do live in Cozumel or Belize or Truk Lagoon or some other vacation diving paradise. But most of us divers just live in average places, where we make the best of the diving that is around us.
And you can fall in love with those average home waters.
They may not have the best vis or the most life, but they are ours, and we get to know them well. Over the years, we learn their moods, their changing conditions as the seasons change, which signal the promise of summer and warmer waters, or fall, when the great vis returns, or winter, when the crowds are gone and it gets dark early and the quiet of the water is the very definition of peaceful.
Home waters have memories. The dives that went well, or went sideways, or have funny stories. The people we dived with who are now friends. The thing we found that no one knew was there. We have a hundred good memories, and a few bad ones.
Our diving skills may have progressed noticeably in those waters. We practiced new skills there. Weve tested new gear there and we may have lost some, too.
When we take guests (new diving friends, really) on a tour of our home waters, we point out, all in one dive, all the interesting things it took us a hundred of dives to discover. The guests are polite about it and usually thank us, but they dont see the attraction or the excitement we seem to have for these average waters.
We know the waters well. We have seen details that a dozen dives wont reveal. We even enjoy looking at a thing that isnt there anymore, but used to be. We rarely have to look at our gages anymore. We know all the depths and how to get from anywhere to anywhere else, and how much gas it takes.
There is a place called Talache Wall that is like that for me (I dived it today). There are no fish. There is no plant life. It is just a wall. But the wall drops almost straight down from 20 to 800, and looks like the kind of harsh prehistoric landscape you might see in a Disney cartoon. There are pinnacles and cracks and precarious shelves and overhangs. Logs stick out of the wall and are scattered around like a child might toss out a handful of sticks.
Ive done a bunch of dives over 150 here, and a few over 200. This is where I spent two years training for technical diving with my instructor, who during the process became my friend, and then even closer my dive buddy. It is where I faced many fears, and learned many things, and surprised myself with what I could do, and learned what I shouldn't do. It is a long drive from a population, and most of the time, no one else is there.
Today there was wind and rain and 3 foot of stormy lake surf, and my buddy got toppled over by a wave onto the rocks. The vis was only 15 below 100. The water temp was 41 degrees. We saw nothing unusual. After the dive, the sun broke through and we just stood there looking at the beautiful snow-capped mountains that surround this giant lake. We ate ham and cheese sandwiches and drank chocolate coffee from a thermos standing there grinning like school children.
Because it is our home waters.
Tell me about yours.
And you can fall in love with those average home waters.
They may not have the best vis or the most life, but they are ours, and we get to know them well. Over the years, we learn their moods, their changing conditions as the seasons change, which signal the promise of summer and warmer waters, or fall, when the great vis returns, or winter, when the crowds are gone and it gets dark early and the quiet of the water is the very definition of peaceful.
Home waters have memories. The dives that went well, or went sideways, or have funny stories. The people we dived with who are now friends. The thing we found that no one knew was there. We have a hundred good memories, and a few bad ones.
Our diving skills may have progressed noticeably in those waters. We practiced new skills there. Weve tested new gear there and we may have lost some, too.
When we take guests (new diving friends, really) on a tour of our home waters, we point out, all in one dive, all the interesting things it took us a hundred of dives to discover. The guests are polite about it and usually thank us, but they dont see the attraction or the excitement we seem to have for these average waters.
We know the waters well. We have seen details that a dozen dives wont reveal. We even enjoy looking at a thing that isnt there anymore, but used to be. We rarely have to look at our gages anymore. We know all the depths and how to get from anywhere to anywhere else, and how much gas it takes.
There is a place called Talache Wall that is like that for me (I dived it today). There are no fish. There is no plant life. It is just a wall. But the wall drops almost straight down from 20 to 800, and looks like the kind of harsh prehistoric landscape you might see in a Disney cartoon. There are pinnacles and cracks and precarious shelves and overhangs. Logs stick out of the wall and are scattered around like a child might toss out a handful of sticks.
Ive done a bunch of dives over 150 here, and a few over 200. This is where I spent two years training for technical diving with my instructor, who during the process became my friend, and then even closer my dive buddy. It is where I faced many fears, and learned many things, and surprised myself with what I could do, and learned what I shouldn't do. It is a long drive from a population, and most of the time, no one else is there.
Today there was wind and rain and 3 foot of stormy lake surf, and my buddy got toppled over by a wave onto the rocks. The vis was only 15 below 100. The water temp was 41 degrees. We saw nothing unusual. After the dive, the sun broke through and we just stood there looking at the beautiful snow-capped mountains that surround this giant lake. We ate ham and cheese sandwiches and drank chocolate coffee from a thermos standing there grinning like school children.
Because it is our home waters.
Tell me about yours.
