CHAPTER 6

Nothing Down

I woke up to brilliant daylight, hearing objects banging against each other, metal against wood, clinks and pings of metal on metal, then the engines powered down and people were talking about readying to dive, having breakfast, and a “smooth” Gulf Stream crossing. The boat was maneuvering slowly. Rocks and crags around the cabin door shone with the multicolored hues of shallow reefs.

“What time is it?” the older woman’s voice rang out.

“Eight!” answered old Jim.

I had only slept for a couple hours and the banging bothered me so much I got up to find the source. Everybody’s gear was hanging on rods from the walls and ceilings. Body suits, fishing gear, bags, all manner of stuff swung back and forth ceaselessly. No sooner would I locate one noise and stop it than another would start—a regulator knocking against a door, bottles rolling inside coolers, a scuba tank not secured properly in its sling, a sling not in the right place. And always the droning of un-muffled engines in the background.

“Did I hear right? You steered most of the night?” the woman Joni asked me with a sweetie face. “Nice work!”

Looking at her bright expression I decided not to dislike her. She looked in her late 40’s and had a square, rosy-colored face with short blond hair. Perhaps she was thirty pounds from her ideal weight but appeared very strong. When she picked up a big cooler and carried it across the deck with ease as the boat pounded through the waves, I knew she was strong.

Everyone assembled their scuba gear in preparation for the first dive, and she heaved a steel air tank across her shoulder with one arm and brandished a spear in the other like a baton.

I was amazed at the sophistication of their gear, rugged and colorful, digital instruments, buoyancy control jackets, prescription masks, various designs of fins. Shaved-head Carl, 6’2”, 250 pounds, had the fanciest gear including a tiger-striped wetsuit and big flat tank that resembled a backpack with thick shoulder and waist straps.

“What is that?” I asked him.

“It’s called a re-breather. Filters and cleans my air. You can stay down for hours with this. Doesn’t make bubbles either, good for sneaking up on fish. Plus, I can talk to you with this underwater speaker.”

The only one who wasn’t into the spiffy gear was skinny old Jim, who wore a ragged gray flight suit secured by string around the ankles and wrists, and his WWI style aviator cap with the earflaps up.

Everyone but Gun leaped in. “You’re not going down here, Caleb. Memorize these pages.” He handed me a diving instruction manual and flipped to the pages showing Underwater Hand Signals. “Learn the language, practice breathing only through your mouth. Don’t ever hold your breath. You don’t want to know why. Just do that. See you in 45 minutes.”

“Where are we, Bimini?” I asked.

“We’re in the Bahamas but we’ll clear customs after the dive. Doesn’t make sense to go all the way there then come back here.” He explained in a way that made me think he was leaving out something important. Then he showed off by jumping in with the scuba tank in his hand, and once in the water whipped the now-buoyant tank on his back with a single motion, buckled it, and descended. He was equally at home in the water as he was on it.

That scared me. This was dangerous business. Did I know Gun well enough to trust my life with him? He didn’t know me so well that I should be doing so. Maybe I wasn’t capable of diving. These people were experts. I tried lying back down in the bunk since the only sounds now were the generator and bilge pumps. I always slept on my side but that was impossible with the tossing of the boat throwing my weight from one side to the other. Then I tried lying on my back but as soon as I began to fall asleep my mouth opened wide and my breathing seized, waking me up to my own snorts and gasps. I was frustrated and confused about how to survive. More days and nights of this, all the unknowns ahead, the truth hit me hard as I was mesmerized by the boat’s rocking relative to the rocks.

I read the diver’s manual instead. Each 33 feet down equaled one more atmosphere worth of pressure on the body. Moving around at 66 feet was twice as much pressure against the body as moving at 33 feet, and used up air at a faster rate. Depths over 120 feet also caused a nitrogen imbalance in the blood that had a strong narcotic effect, similar to laughing gas, also known as Rapture of the Deep.

After beginning to pass out once again I was upset by the soft clanging of one object or another keeping time with the waves striking the boat. I didn’t care which objects, I hated them all. I continued shifting from side to side, onto my back, even trying to sleep on my stomach which I disliked the most. This felt like some prison in Paradise, a looming Devil’s Island experience.