Captain's Log #13: A Dark Night

ome of you will recall a strange email some weeks back about a "diving incident." That email came from friends of ours who meant to reply only to me: they used an earlier Captain's Log for the reply, and a glitch in the radio email we cruisers use from the high seas sent that email to everyone on my Captain's Log. I have been reticent to explain what happened that memorable evening because my mother has had to live with 29 years of similar heart palpitating adventures, and I figured her heart could use one less. But now that my family has seen me in the flesh they have given me license to expound. With the following caveat: NEVER AGAIN.

OK. I promise.

Night diving is far-removed from the tameness of going down under the sun. You are still entering that incredible nether world, with its color, beauty, sounds; but it is simply more eerie. You can only see what is before your small beam of light. Everything else is felt. Your exhalations seem louder, movements less controlled and more erratic. It is more difficult to ascertain depth, direction and time. Glances at gauges become redundant and unnecessary, like the glances you make at your watch when waiting for a first dinner date in a nice restaurant. But they are a distraction from what your subconscious can't stop screaming: Sharks feed at night. Sharks are very fast. You are moving like a wounded fish. Shark bait.

I love night dives.

It started innocently enough. Fakarava was supposed to be the best diving, and in particular shark diving, in French Polynesia. Another massive atoll, this one had the largest pass into the lagoon of all the Tuamotos. Point of clarification: passes are the only navigable breaks from the outer ocean into the "lagoon" inside the surrounding reef. Do not be misled by the word lagoon. Imagine a small sea, broken only by land that at its maximum reaches above water 10 feet. These atolls can hardly be seen outside of 5 miles. This pass was a mile wide, the lagoon 30 miles across. We anchored just inside the pass on a day that few could have found complaint. Crystal clear and flat calm. Perfect day for a night dive.

Kelley and I began preparations in the late afternoon. Scoped out where we wanted to enter on the evening's flood tide. Checked and double checked tide times and our gear. Just after nightfall, about 6:30 p.m. would be perfect. Ride the incoming tide for about 45 minutes. See lots of cool stuff, return to the boat about 8:00 p.m. for a beer and story telling. What a story we would have to tell- it just wouldn't take place for another 16 hours.

Tamera would drive the dinghy. She would follow our night lights through the pass and pick us up upon surfacing. We would also have a float reel to help her keep track of us. This is a medium sized balloon that attaches to the diver and floats along the surface, indicating the diver's position quite accurately. We had whistles, mirror, and signaling sausage (8 foot blow up red beacon). We were ready. Anticipation outweighed nervousness. Unfortunately both these emotions also outweighed clear, conscious thought and we made our first of several costly mistakes.

We forgot the float reel. This was not discovered until we were under water. My first look down revealed no less than a dozen Black Tip and Grey Reef sharks all along the bottom. This attention getter clouded thoughts of float reel and the fact that there was just the hint of wind coming up. A last check on Tamera before heading down revealed she had floated a good hundred yards from us, out towards the open ocean. While the current was taking us into the lagoon, the wind was taking her out. She couldn't start the motor. Without a light she couldn't see the fuel line attachment had come undone. I left my gear with Kelley and swam back to a frustrated and nervous girlfriend. A voice deep down was screaming ABORT. But all those sharks! Tamera tells me she couldn't see us from just 20 feet away - and we were still on the surface. I tell her to just keep the motor running and not to worry. She can easily follow our lights - I've done this before. Damn that ego! It was still very calm. We started our decent.

My rechargeable light made it 10 minutes, which left us with a green glow stick and Kelley's light. Still no thought of abort. Sharks everywhere and the current rushing us along at well over 5 knots. We spread our arms and flew down, down, down. Our one beam of light revealed a host of visual delights. Even with her regulator in her mouth, I could tell Kelley was smiling. Our dive plan of 45 minutes was extended to an hour and all thoughts of what may be happening up above were swallowed in our excitement.

That excitement was shattered as soon as we broke the surface. Howling wind and 6 foot waves buffeted us. The first thing I heard was Kelley. "Gavin, where the hell are we?" Good question. We both fought thoughts of being in the middle of the ocean. Could the current have changed? Were we lost at sea? Did we somehow go OUT of the pass? One thing was immediately clear: We were on our own. There was no way someone could have followed one light 70 feet down in seas like this. Tamera would be lucky to get back to the boat. She didn't have a Lifejacket on. Jesus, what was I THINKING? Breathe. Slow things down, you've got plenty of time. Use the resources you have. Stars. North, south, east, west. OK, we're in the lagoon- way in, maybe 7 or 8 miles. Then we see a red and green light. At first it doesn't make sense, but disorientation slowly passes and we identify what each light must be. The green was the west side of the pass, the red a large reef between the pass and the town, 8 miles east of the pass. Sitting here doing nothing we may make the other side of the lagoon in two or three days. Without water that was a scary proposition. What about hypothermia? A consideration, but we thought we were ok, at least in the short term. We had to rescue ourselves, that was clear. Our greatest fear was not at this point for ourselves but for Tamera. She would be panicked. Double guessing every move. Possibly flipped over, wearing nothing, heading out to sea. If she made it back to the boat she would be hysterical. Hoping we were alive, trying not to admit the likely reality.

We tried swimming for awhile but realized no progress. It was fruitless to swim against the current. We would have to wait for the tide to change, about 11 p.m. The moon was bright, the water warm and our spirits were reservedly high. Kelley nor I vocally questioned our prognosis. Humans have limited ability to come to terms with death, and this seemed no exception. At 11 p.m. we started swimming towards the now very dim green light. We knew land lay to the west of the light, the pass to the east. Under no circumstances would we get close to the pass. While the current conditions certainly felt like the open ocean, we had no desire to see if there was a difference. About 12 p.m. a new red light appeared. Then it was green. A boat! We were saved! And that means Tamera made it back and called for help! Relief, jokes and laughter followed, but it was not to be. The boat stayed well over 5 miles away, towards the pass and never got close enough to hear our pathetic whistle blasts or the lighted rescue sausage. The sausage did provide for some humor though. At one point, in the midst of Kelley and I cussing the boat for so clearly ignoring our well-intentioned signals I swam about 20 feet away and in a distant sounding voice called, "Kelley....Kelley...Kelley..." She answers something along the lines of, "Gavin, get the F--- over here." "Kelley...Kelley...Kelly........I can't see your sausage from here." "Ha Ha, very funny. Get over here and help me hold this thing up," she replies. We feel like exactly what we are: Small, lost and ill-equipped for this environment.

Sometime around 1:30 a.m. we see a white light. The boat was going home. They had given up. We did the only thing still available to us: swim. Go for 15 minutes, check the lights, start again. Pain begins at the ankles, wet suit chafe starts eating our hips and neck. A large lemon shark gives us a visit and the moon goes down. Darkness and an angry sea prevail. About 3 a.m. we hallucinate that land is near. But it isn't hallucinating. 40 minutes later my fin touches bottom. Land. Two tired, thirsty, hungry, gear sodden waterlogged creatures emerge from the ocean and pass out on a nice bed of broken, sharp coral. But it was land.

A gray sky emanates from the blackness and we move on. We find we are less than two miles from the pass and our savior green light. We plop down on the point and smile. We were alive. Rescue imminent. Our thoughts on Tamera, wishing she could know where we were and that we were alive. But how long? The wind was still full, the pass a mess of large, confused waves. Realizing that our rescue might not be forthcoming, Kelley and I went into survival mode. I had seen "Castaway", with Tom Hanks and couldn't help but giggling at the similarities. Have you ever tried to climb a coconut tree? This was by far the most dangerous part of our wayward evening. And break one open? Oof. But the water inside them was heaven, the fruit better than a 5 star meal. We became so entranced with our coconut mauling a rescue boat appeared off the shoreline as though transported via the starship Enterprise: it was just there. Our ordeal was over. Nothing to show for it but a little sunburn, lots of damaged skin and an unforgettable memory of a very dark night. We were returned to Saoirse just after 9 a.m. Tamera had been told two hours before that chances of finding us were slim. Her relief on seeing us expressed in total breakdown.

I have told this story many times in the last few weeks and always get the same question: "Will you dive again?"

Yes. "At night?"