to that performed by a private pilot on his aircraft. Underwater, he will have no such luxury. If he has questions about his gear, if he has the vaguest inkling that anything is askew, he must act now.
A good diver reveals himself in the way he gears up. He is at one with his equipment. He knows where every piece goes; every strap is the perfect length, every tool expertly placed, and everything fits. He moves instinctively, his hands and stuff in a swoop-tug-and-click ballet until he is transformed into sea creature. He rarely needs help. If another diver moves to assist him, he will usually decline, saying, “No, thank you” or, more likely, “Don’t touch my shit.” He favors ten-dollar knives over the hundred-dollar versions because when he loses the cheaper ones, he does not feel obligated, under the pressure of narcosis, to risk his life searching the bottom to rescue them. He cares nothing for the prettiness of his gear, and often tattoos it with patches, stickers, and graffiti that testify to past dive exploits. Neon colors do not exist for him; greenhorns who choose those hues don’t have to wait long before hearing the boat’s opinion on such loudness. When he is fully geared up, a good wreck diver looks like a German car engine; more ordinary divers resemble the interior of a child’s toy chest.
Standing, the geared-up diver’s 350-pound footsteps and hunched posture make him a neoprene Sasquatch. In fins, he takes several seconds to thwack-thud across a slippery deck, and will tumble should a sudden wave strike the boat. Breathing air from his twin tanks, or “doubles,” he will have about twenty-five minutes on a 200-foot wreck before he must begin a sixty-minute decompression ascent.
Once in the water, the diver’s tanks no longer feel heavy on his body and instead seem to float away from him. He grabs a “granny” line, a yellow rope rigged from the stern to the anchor line under the boat. He taps valves on his dry suit and wings to bleed a bit of air from each, making himself slightly negatively buoyant, so that his body fades just below the surface before stopping, spiritlike, at a depth of just a few feet. He pulls himself along the granny line until he reaches the anchor line. He vents a little more air. Now he slowly begins to sink.
He is on his way to the shipwreck. Most likely, he is going there alone. For all a deep-wreck diver brings along underwater, the most striking part he leaves behind is a “buddy.” In recreational scuba, the buddy system is gospel. Divers stay in pairs, poised to help each other. In clear, shallow water, buddies are sound policy. They can share air in the event of equipment failure. They can lead a distressed partner to the surface or unsnag him from a fishing line. They provide comfort and reassurance just by being there. On the bottom of the Atlantic, however, a well-meaning diver can kill himself and his partner. A diver who pretzels himself into a shipwreck’s crooked compartment to help another diver might himself become trapped, or he might foul the visibility so badly that neither man can find his way out. A diver attempting to share his air, or “buddy-breathe,” with a panicked diver—a basic duty in recreational scuba—also risks his life. A suffocating diver at 200 feet sees a healthy colleague as a magic carpet, and will kill if he must to jump aboard that man’s air supply. Panicked divers have slashed with knives at would-be rescuers, torn regulators from their mouths, and dragged them to the surface without decompressing in a mad dash to reach the surface.
Even the act of observing another diver in distress can be dangerous while deep in the ocean. A diver’s emotions at 200 feet are already in hyperdrive from narcosis. Should he come face-to-face with a diver who believes he is dying, that diver’s eyes will leap across the water and become his own eyes, and he will see, through that man’s panic, the spectrum of terrible
A good diver reveals himself in the way he gears up. He is at one with his equipment. He knows where every piece goes; every strap is the perfect length, every tool expertly placed, and everything fits. He moves instinctively, his hands and stuff in a swoop-tug-and-click ballet until he is transformed into sea creature. He rarely needs help. If another diver moves to assist him, he will usually decline, saying, “No, thank you” or, more likely, “Don’t touch my shit.” He favors ten-dollar knives over the hundred-dollar versions because when he loses the cheaper ones, he does not feel obligated, under the pressure of narcosis, to risk his life searching the bottom to rescue them. He cares nothing for the prettiness of his gear, and often tattoos it with patches, stickers, and graffiti that testify to past dive exploits. Neon colors do not exist for him; greenhorns who choose those hues don’t have to wait long before hearing the boat’s opinion on such loudness. When he is fully geared up, a good wreck diver looks like a German car engine; more ordinary divers resemble the interior of a child’s toy chest.
Standing, the geared-up diver’s 350-pound footsteps and hunched posture make him a neoprene Sasquatch. In fins, he takes several seconds to thwack-thud across a slippery deck, and will tumble should a sudden wave strike the boat. Breathing air from his twin tanks, or “doubles,” he will have about twenty-five minutes on a 200-foot wreck before he must begin a sixty-minute decompression ascent.
Once in the water, the diver’s tanks no longer feel heavy on his body and instead seem to float away from him. He grabs a “granny” line, a yellow rope rigged from the stern to the anchor line under the boat. He taps valves on his dry suit and wings to bleed a bit of air from each, making himself slightly negatively buoyant, so that his body fades just below the surface before stopping, spiritlike, at a depth of just a few feet. He pulls himself along the granny line until he reaches the anchor line. He vents a little more air. Now he slowly begins to sink.
He is on his way to the shipwreck. Most likely, he is going there alone. For all a deep-wreck diver brings along underwater, the most striking part he leaves behind is a “buddy.” In recreational scuba, the buddy system is gospel. Divers stay in pairs, poised to help each other. In clear, shallow water, buddies are sound policy. They can share air in the event of equipment failure. They can lead a distressed partner to the surface or unsnag him from a fishing line. They provide comfort and reassurance just by being there. On the bottom of the Atlantic, however, a well-meaning diver can kill himself and his partner. A diver who pretzels himself into a shipwreck’s crooked compartment to help another diver might himself become trapped, or he might foul the visibility so badly that neither man can find his way out. A diver attempting to share his air, or “buddy-breathe,” with a panicked diver—a basic duty in recreational scuba—also risks his life. A suffocating diver at 200 feet sees a healthy colleague as a magic carpet, and will kill if he must to jump aboard that man’s air supply. Panicked divers have slashed with knives at would-be rescuers, torn regulators from their mouths, and dragged them to the surface without decompressing in a mad dash to reach the surface.
Even the act of observing another diver in distress can be dangerous while deep in the ocean. A diver’s emotions at 200 feet are already in hyperdrive from narcosis. Should he come face-to-face with a diver who believes he is dying, that diver’s eyes will leap across the water and become his own eyes, and he will see, through that man’s panic, the spectrum of terrible
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