Paladin
Contributor
Okay, y'all, here's another one for ya:
In the summer of '77, Fuzz, myself and a few guys we'd met hanging around the dive shop in my hometown got together at the lake to do a little diving one weekend. We found a nice cove with depths from 20 to 70 feet and parked our boats (4) across the mouth of the cove with dive flags raised. Fuzz and I were the only ones using DH regs. For our first dive, Fuzz and I dropped to 70 feet, looked around for about 20 minutes and returned to my 15' Bertolli runabout. When we broke the surface, we found a game warden's boat waiting for us. The game warden (a new hire and full of vinegar) began to chastise us for blocking off the cove to other boaters. We tried to explain that, because of the cove's size, even one flag would have kept other boats out but he wouldn't listen. He waited until all the others had returned to their boats and proceeded to write out citations to everyone. The tickets cost each of us $50.00; a total of $550.
The following weekend, we all met again at the marina and were debating on where we could dive without getting ticketed again when the GW from the week before came up to us. We all expected to get a lecture on where we were permitted to dive, if anywhere, on the lake.
Instead, the GW asked us, rather sheepishly, if we would do him a favor. His boat had sunk that morning and was resting in 130 feet of water. It took awhile, but he finally admitted to forgetting to replace the two drain plugs that morning before launching the boat and the 21', open bow aluminum StarCraft had literally sunk from beneath him while he was writing a fisherman a ticket.
After we had all stopped laughing, DT, the owner of the aforementioned dive shop, told the red-faced GW that we would go down and bring his boat back up for $75 each plus air fills. He said it was too much and walked away. He was back a few minutes later and we struck the deal.
It took two days to put together what was needed and, diving in relays, to get the boat prepped with a rope harness and 15 gallon steel barrels so we could raise her to the surface. It was during our first dive, my first ever to that depth, that I got narcked. Big time. I remember following Fuzz down to find the boat and tie a marker to it. It was cold down there and we weren't wearing wetsuits. My teeth were chattering on the rubber mouthpiece and my breathing was becoming erratic. We lucked out and found the boat right away. I was starting to feel light headed and giddy as I watched Fuzz attach the marker and let it go. That was the last I remember. The next thing I knew we were at 90 feet and ascending. Fuzz was holding my mouthpiece in my mouth and hauling me up by my harness strap.
My head cleared and I signaled to him that I could continue on my own. When we finally got back on DT's boat Fuzz informed me, in front of everybody, that I had gone bonkers and had tried to buddy breathe with a passing fish. You can imagine how the other guys reacted to this.
Well, after that, I was relegated to tending the deco bottles and running back to the marina in my runabout to fill tanks from the twelve-cylinder cascade bank on DT's Dodge stakebed.
The GW's boat was eventually raised, we all got paid and the now former game warden was headed for the unemployment office.
In the summer of '77, Fuzz, myself and a few guys we'd met hanging around the dive shop in my hometown got together at the lake to do a little diving one weekend. We found a nice cove with depths from 20 to 70 feet and parked our boats (4) across the mouth of the cove with dive flags raised. Fuzz and I were the only ones using DH regs. For our first dive, Fuzz and I dropped to 70 feet, looked around for about 20 minutes and returned to my 15' Bertolli runabout. When we broke the surface, we found a game warden's boat waiting for us. The game warden (a new hire and full of vinegar) began to chastise us for blocking off the cove to other boaters. We tried to explain that, because of the cove's size, even one flag would have kept other boats out but he wouldn't listen. He waited until all the others had returned to their boats and proceeded to write out citations to everyone. The tickets cost each of us $50.00; a total of $550.
The following weekend, we all met again at the marina and were debating on where we could dive without getting ticketed again when the GW from the week before came up to us. We all expected to get a lecture on where we were permitted to dive, if anywhere, on the lake.
Instead, the GW asked us, rather sheepishly, if we would do him a favor. His boat had sunk that morning and was resting in 130 feet of water. It took awhile, but he finally admitted to forgetting to replace the two drain plugs that morning before launching the boat and the 21', open bow aluminum StarCraft had literally sunk from beneath him while he was writing a fisherman a ticket.
After we had all stopped laughing, DT, the owner of the aforementioned dive shop, told the red-faced GW that we would go down and bring his boat back up for $75 each plus air fills. He said it was too much and walked away. He was back a few minutes later and we struck the deal.
It took two days to put together what was needed and, diving in relays, to get the boat prepped with a rope harness and 15 gallon steel barrels so we could raise her to the surface. It was during our first dive, my first ever to that depth, that I got narcked. Big time. I remember following Fuzz down to find the boat and tie a marker to it. It was cold down there and we weren't wearing wetsuits. My teeth were chattering on the rubber mouthpiece and my breathing was becoming erratic. We lucked out and found the boat right away. I was starting to feel light headed and giddy as I watched Fuzz attach the marker and let it go. That was the last I remember. The next thing I knew we were at 90 feet and ascending. Fuzz was holding my mouthpiece in my mouth and hauling me up by my harness strap.
My head cleared and I signaled to him that I could continue on my own. When we finally got back on DT's boat Fuzz informed me, in front of everybody, that I had gone bonkers and had tried to buddy breathe with a passing fish. You can imagine how the other guys reacted to this.
Well, after that, I was relegated to tending the deco bottles and running back to the marina in my runabout to fill tanks from the twelve-cylinder cascade bank on DT's Dodge stakebed.
The GW's boat was eventually raised, we all got paid and the now former game warden was headed for the unemployment office.
