December 3, 2001
My dive buddy Dan (left) and I horse around for a photo - this one from the much warmer Red Sea - where he came out to scuba dive with me yet again.
Just don't puke.
Please don't puke, I told myself.
A wave tossed me two feet off the boat's side and clammy sweat broke out all over my body. My face felt flushed and I could not cool off.
Little wonder since 10mm of neoprene covered nearly my entire body. I wore a 5mm full suit and a 5mm shortie to add more insulation for the frigid waters, about 58F. My tank pulled the vest into my shoulders and I looked like an ICU patient with hoses sticking out all over my torso.
I sat perched on the transom of a 24-foot motor dive boat. The deck rose and fell 4-5 feet on every wave, tossing unpredictably on the rough waters of the Galapagos, where the cold Humboldt is just one of several currents that converge here.
Richard, the dive master, got my attention, giving me a thumbs up. I flashed a thumbs up back to him, shoving my regulator into my mouth and taking a couple test breaths. Fine. On three, I looked up, leaned back and a kaleidescope of grey skys flashed to a view of my fins as the 45 pounds of gear I wore pulled me over the side of the boat.
I hit the water and felt instant relief from the nausea that threatened to make me the "chum-master" a moment earlier. (Little did I know that everyone else on the boat succumbed and took Dramamine earlier - except me.) The boat carefully but promptly moved off, making sure none of us were near the props. Richard gave the thumbs down gesture, dive, so I released the air from my vest and descended slowly.
The first descent into the water never fails to exhilarate and I forced my concentration to my buoyancy. As I sank into the cold water, I took in several things at once: my ears popping, the cold water in my suit, the visibility of the water, the location of my dive partners, and the slow leak in my mask! I added some air to slow my descent.
Air compresses under the water pressure so more air is required as a diver goes deeper in order to maintain ideally neutral buoyancy, where one neither sinks nor rises. This is a delicate procedure and requires constant adjusting as one changes depth, adding on descent; and more importantly, releasing air on ascent, or the air expands rapidly in a chain reaction, pulling the diver towards the surface - possibly inducing the bends - where nitrogen turns to a gas in one's bloodstream. Not good.
Our group of four divers sank through 30 feet, headed to 60 feet. I saw Richard pointing calmly. Turning my head in that direction, I strained to see in the dark water (the overcast day cut visibility) and made out a dark shape which materialied into a hammerhead shark. Below us, three spotted eagle rays moved in a line, looking like three black spades with long tails.
Holy shit.
Dan, my dive partner, still floated a good 15 feet above us, apparently having bouyancy problems. As he regained control and reached our depth, I tried to catch his eye, pointing out a marine turtle swimming toward us. He (they always look like these wizened old men of the sea) came right at me, moving with surprising grace despite a microwave sized body and just four tiny fins. Circling Dan and I, the turtle accelerated and disappeared into the gloom.
Swimming along at 60 feet, the water took on a strange look, like the shimmering off the asphalt of a desert highway. The thermocline, where water of different temperatures and/or salinity formed a semipermeable barrier. We descended through the layer, emerging into clear and VERY cold water below. A shadow crossed my peripheral vision. Above us...there. A solid shadow moved across the sky 20 feet above us, wings beat slowly, a manta ray with 8 feet wingspan swam, straining plankton.
We kicked against the current, weaker and calmer down here, compared to the three to four foot chop on the surface. Around us, we spied more turtles, stingrays, powerful Galapagos and black tip sharks, and the majestic manta rays.
But we came here to this famous site for hammerheads, and we would not come away disappointed. With just 750 lbs of air left...the dive profile called for us to head up at 500 lbs...I saw Richard pointing animatedly ahead. We hovered between the two semicircles of coral that made up Gordon Rocks, a volcanic cone built up from the sea floor over the past 20,000 years.
There! Equally prehistoric, several dark shapes approached, about our depth, then more, the more. At least ten. The shapes became more defined, turning grey from black, fins and tails solidifying. The distinctive head draws the eyes and attention, as though viewing a deformity which captivates by its abnormal shape. Hammerheads. Where one expects a sleek bullet shape for cutting through the water instead one finds a thick wing, mounted just above the mouth, like the fins on a submarine. One either end, a black eye stares out at us.
We float, suspended in blue water, with no coral nearby for reference. I feel myself thrashing at the water, wanting to pull myself up onto something solid, but at 50 feet, there is nothing but water. I take a quick glance at my depth guage, holding steady. Without any visual clue, I have sank deeper into the ocean while my attention was focused on sea life...like these hammers.
The shapes undulate and move closer, heading right for us. I pull my legs up instinctively as they pass six feet below my fins. I slow my breathing and calmly watch the dozen or so hammerhead sharks slink by below me, each one 7-8 feet in length. Wow. It really does not get any better than this.
Ten minutes later, we stand around the deck, holding on to any stanchion to keep from falling as the boat heads back to Puerto Ayora, 90 minutes away.
As with any amazing dive, we are all smiles and shout about the incredible things seen on the dive.
Our seasickness is forgotten.
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