[68—Diver Down]

'H'okay," the handsome, and hands-on, gentleman instructor said to his Sunday class in, if not broken, then severely cracked English.  "H'look ober joor geers otra ves...one more time."

We'd been allowed to pick, from what was available.  Since this was a captive water dive, and short, we were only wearing one tank.

Because the dive was so shallow, there was no danger of the bends, and it would leave us able to make a free water dive later.

There were five of us, three American women and a middle age Jewish man from the Bronx.  I was glad he was there, as Ricardo, the owner's son, and our instructor for the evening was a bit...extroverted in his affections.

I'd dropped a weight on his foot earlier.

We all had on our aqualungs, with the kind of breathing tube that looked like a radiator hose, and buoyancy vests.  I wore a spring-style wet suit and weight belt with six pounds of lead.  Besides that, I had my fins in my hand and my mask and snorkel on my forehead.  I felt like a pro.

We all looked each other over, inspecting every detail—the class work taught us what to look for, and why—and then Ricardo inspected us all. 

He came to our Bronx champion and pointed out a broken strap on his fin.

"What am I, fuckin' Charlie Tuna?  I got fins now?  They're flippahs."

"No, Fleeper is dolphin, joo have fins.  Now go get new one or feex it."

"Blow it out yo' ass," the Bronxite offered and went back inside.

"We will get in water now.  Use giant-stride entrance."

I put my fins on and walked up to the edge of the water, balancing just so.  I tucked my arms up, gathering my dangly bits close, and took one giant step.

The water came up to meet me way too fast, and I was suddenly in a column of air bubbles.  I was relieved to find that I could still breathe.

Never hold your breath while diving; it was one of the rules.

I folded my feet under me and sank to the bottom, drawing in through my mouth.  It was like moving through honey, compared to being in lower gravity.

I reacted in every way with my surroundings like I weighed less, but that was an illusion.  I still felt Earth normal gravity pulling at me. 

Another diver came in to my left and another to the right a few seconds later.  I could hear their every move; I could even hear them breathing.

This was all wrong.  It was nothing like what I'd felt in orbit.

I got up and balanced on the tips of my fins, working some air into my vest.  I had to get the balance just right, so that when I breathed in, I started to float, and when I exhaled, I sank.  It was fiddly, but finally, I managed.

I swam around, trying not to knock into the other divers.  The pool seemed awfully crowed with six of us in it.  We practiced swapping mouthpieces, and buddy breathing, plus assorted tricks, like donning and doffing your gear underwater.  They didn't want anyone to get stuck, out in the real ocean.

I suppose it should have been liberating; it clearly was for the other students, but I couldn't help feeling disappointed. 

After an hour of short dives in the pool, we showered and started getting up gear for the afternoon's free-water dive. 

I considered begging off until the next Sunday—it was not like I didn't have the time—but prudence, and possibly too much caffeine, drove me to continue.

I just didn't want to chew two bitter ends in the same day.

***

This was better.

I was twenty-eight feet deep, according to my depth gauge, and I didn't feel a bit of the pressure.  We were about a hundred yards offshore, exploring a shallow depression.  This was a shore dive; we'd graduate to a boat dive later and in the evening, a night dive, if I decided if it was worth it.

It was so unlike zero-gee.

Still, I could get used to it.  Ahead of me was a carpet of leafy weed, swaying in the current.  There were little worms, or something, swaying just the same, and picking little tidbits from the water.

And it was all so close.  Something about the water magnifies everything, so you can't trust your instincts.  You can see it clearly when you're wearing a mask. 

But it was also so blue.  Even as shallow as I was, the red had been sucked out of the world. 

I looked around.  It was mostly a green fog in the hole, but the ocean to the east of us was blue unlike I'd never seen before.  It looked like glass. 

Vague shapes moved in the distance, but you could see the closer fish, flitting in and out, diving for cover.  I saw one I swear had eyes in the back of its head.

I heard a dull metal clunk and looked around to see two of my classmates trying to catch a ride on a sea turtle. 

The instructor dragged his buddy, the most voluptuous girl in the class, over to them.  He proceeded to chide them in sign language, and then reached for his slate and pencil.

I realized I wasn't with my buddy.

Always dive with a buddy; that was another rule. 

My buddy was Judah, the Bronx tourist, and he was nowhere to be found.

I started to go after him, but thought what if I get lost in that muck? 

I decided to get the instructor's attention. 

I took my dive knife—carefully oriented so as not to stab myself in the kidney— and rapped the hilt on my tank.

Ricardo came over.

He made a few hands signs, but they only frustrated me.  He wrote on his slate:

¿A donde eres tu pendejo?

Where is my buddy?

I waggled my hands and shrugged. 

We surfaced, all of us, and inflated our BCDs so we could rest.  We had to be nearing the end of the dive; it was only supposed to be twelve minutes long.

"Where was he the last place you saw him," Ricardo asked in Spanish.

"Over there."  Out toward the open Ocean.

It had been my business to keep an eye on my buddy, and I'd failed.  He was gone.

We formed a line and started heading east, coming back to the surface every two minutes.  We'd been in very shallow waters, so we could continue this for a while without risking the bends.

We proceeded seaward, spreading out slowly, looking for disturbances in the silt below and bubbles when we were on the surface.

We were about a half mile out when I felt something bump me.  I was only in about seven feet of water, but it was too cloudy to see anything. 

Whatever was down there was stirring up the bottom.

There it was again; I'd stepped right on its back.  I saw bubbles and Ricardo surfaced.

"I keep feeling something bump me."

"Was it rough?  Like sandpaper?"

"Why?"

"Sharks have rough skin.  Dolphins are smooth.  I can protect you if you like."

"I think it was rough."

Great, now we were gonna get eaten by sharks.

There was somebody just outside of earshot, waving madly.  We swam out to them.  It was the two women from our class.  They were treading water over a column of air bubbles.

"He's down there," the blonde one said and then dove.

I followed, ready for shallow murk.  Instead the ground had dropped away and the water was beautifully clear for tens of yards.

We went down slowly, carefully avoiding the coral and eels on the cliffside of the drop-off.  We were sixty feet deep, about three atmospheres.

Jonah was here alright, swimming with the fishes and trying to feed them his mouthpiece.  They would have been a ridiculous fit—the fishes were manta rays.

He was giddy as a school kid, swimming in a spiraling column among the lazy rays; they were six to eight feet wide, and from below, where I was, he looked like an angel, backlit by the Sun, swimming in a sea of devil fishes.

We finally got him to surface.

"Jesus," Ricardo complained on the way back.  "I've never seen anyone get narcosis so shallow.  And we weren't out there long."

"My tanks are almost empty," I told him.  "I had to fill my pockets with rocks to keep me from floating off."

"That's because you are a newbie.  You huff air like it was free."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"I think so.  He hasn't been deep enough to worry about the bends.  I'm surprised he got narc'ed."

"Maybe that's not what it is.  He looks pretty happy to be alive.  Maybe he just had an epiphany."

"Yeah, maybe," he replied.  "I think I had one of those last week.  Don't eat the ovaries; they can kill you."

I didn't have the heart to continue when we got to shore, so I left before the boat came. 

I wasn't sure if it was for good or not.

***

I went back to the Lunchbox and typed a letter, to everyone, on my Grip.

Sunday, January 16, 1977

Dear Family,

I am writing to everyone as I am exhausted beyond my ability to describe and busier than the proverbial bee.

Week two of Camp Winsome was, if anything, hotter, nastier, and more tiresome than the first.  We started fire safety, which included a helicopter flight to the west side of the island to fight a forest fire.

We passed just a few miles south of Arecibo, but I didn't get to see the famous telescope.

They sure know how to wear you out here.  I'm so tired right now, I'm thinking of skipping my dive class, but if I get out there by noon, and don't drown because I'm so tired, I can get this out of the way. 

I've been taking SCUBA, it's mostly about pressure and Boyle's Law, and such, but today I get into the water, so wish me luck.

I'm starting to make friends in my squad, but almost nowhere else; we're just too busy with everything.  Besides firebuilding and fire fighting, they've been teaching us to live off the land, which right now involves gathering roots and fruit while not poisoning ourselves.

Next week we go out in the Boonies, hiking and camping, and they're going to teach us to fish.  By the end, they'll expect us to go out and live off the land for real.

I've gained four pounds since I've been here.  Most of the others have lost weight.

It looks like I'll be here until the end of March, if the bugs don't eat me first.

Love you all,

             Dani, who feels curiously small right now.