Travel Journal, 24

Underwater navigation is fairly straightforward. At least, it’s usually straightforward. Our goal for this night-dive was to descend along the anchor line and dive along a wall in one direction. When our tank pressure read the agreed upon psi, we would simply turn around and go back to the anchor line leading to the boat. The boat light suspended right above the water would also assist us in finding our way back.

But we ran into an unexpected current. We decided to end the dive early. The strong current fought us the entire way. So, as we turned around to head back, the same current we had been swimming against tossed us around like underwater windsocks. The flashlights in our hands flicked back and forth announcing our distress to nobody. We straightened up and got our bearings only to discover that we were moving at an incredible rate. Who knew how fast we were going, and how far? I caught my dad’s eye and made the “something’s wrong” hand motion. He agreed. And through further dive signs, we decided to surface. The good news was that the boat light from the Truth was right over head.

Perfect. It was looking like our navigation wasn’t wrong after all.

Each dive should be ended with a “safety stop.” When the diver surfaces, he or she stops the ascent at 15 feet and waits for a few minutes. It’s an extra measure of caution. And as we hovered at 15 feet, something seemed off. The boat light overhead shinned much brighter that I remember. And when my head cleared the black surface into the above-water night, I realized that the boat light was nowhere to be found.

I had seen a blazing full moon the whole time. My heart dropped into my fins. As my dad surfaced, both realized what had happened. The current had dragged out passed the Truth and we missed the anchor line. We looked around wildly for the boat and saw it far in the distance, more than a football field away. And with each passing moment, the current pulled us farther and farther out, into the open ocean.

Our only hope was a drift line that the boat crew threw out after they had apparently realized that there was an unexpected current. At the end of the line was a buoy, but it was still some distance from us.

We did the only thing we could do, swim.

And swim some more.

We finally reached the buoy, and had begun pulling our way back to the Truth. But it was taking forever. We would wear out long before we’d make it back. With my light, I signaled the boat crew that we were in distress. And they were ready. In fact, the crew had a zodiac boat in the water. We were not the only divers having trouble. Several minutes later, our relief arrived.

Back at the Truth, we offloaded our BCs and heaved them onto the deck. Flopping ourselves back onto the boat, we simply groaned. What was supposed to be a fun, adventurous, exciting, and new experience, turned out to be all of those things—with the exception of fun.

But adventure ofttimes comes at a cost. And it’s often only fun when you look back on it. A friend of mine calls that “type 2 fun.” And that night-dive certainly qualifies.

My dad and I sat, still in our wetsuits, dripping onto the deck.

I turned to my dad and said in an only semi-sarcastic tone, “well, it’s no fun unless somebody almost dies.” 

anthony forrest