All my life I was diving alone, since the age I could load a spear gun (around age of 12 or 13).
Wow, someone with similar experience.
I'll share my story. I wrote this for an article years ago but it never got published. This was the draft. I can't find the finished version.
I will say, pardon the language, it's NSFW, but part of the story.
It was July, about 17-18 years ago, I suppose.
"The Last Dive"
I arrived at the dock with all my dive gear in Brielle, NJ. The name of the boat was the Tuna Seizure. Boat was a 39 foot Topaz with twin diesels. John Deere, turbo diesels, recently repowered. The boat got its name from how it was acquired at auction. It's old owner was caught with tuna, and no permit. John, the owner of Northeast Scuba Supply, and his dad, Capt. Bill, bought it for a discount at government auction and converted to a dive boat for charter.
"Hehhyyy! Jimmy!" Captain Bill yells out. "How are ya Captain Bill!?" I questioned back. "Ehhh my dick is still working so doing just fine..." he yells back with a chuckle as two young girls in bikinis walk down the dock, mortified. I shake my head "Good for you Bill, happy to be on board today" as I struggle with my manifolded low-pressure 95's and gear. "Love it Jimmy...still with those fucking man tanks...none of this namby pamby mini bottle bullshit!" He was referring to my Faber twin low-pressure 95cu cylinders. They were in fact heavy, I can't remember, but maybe 120 lbs. all together? "Still eating Ramen these days Bill, can't afford that nice new shiny stuff." It was no matter as they would over-pump them for me. The only difference was the weight.
Bill was a captain, the captain. Probably in his 70's if you could believe it. He always wore a faded red pair of red shorts, tattered NESS t-shirt, sandals. He smoked cigars and had a hula girl on the dash. He was like a dad to me. One I only knew for a short time. I knew he'd never steer me wrong. I said hello to the mate. He was as rough around the edges as Bill. Never dove dry (suit), always wet, even with bottom temps in the 40's (Fahrenheit). I think his name was Mike, we will call him that.
Mike had me stow my gear. The Tuna Seizure wasn't your typical dive boat. She was tight. Anymore than 6 divers was impossible. Three divers on each bench. Mike got ready off to the side. I bungeed my twin tanks rig off on the starboard rear corner, away from the ladder, nearest to the water. That ladder was the widowmaker. She was known among the northeast for having a ladder that if it hit you in the noodle, you were done. 25,000 lbs of boat, coming down off a wave, with all it's energy coming down right on a 4" wide aluminum pole. She was a fast boat though. Most dive boats maxed out at 10-12 kts. She zipped at 20 kts. Tight and fast, that was my jam. Get out, get wet, have fun, get back in time for dinner.
In the process of stowing my gear, the other "fares" came for the trip. Bill looks at me, giggles as they walked down the dock. Mares, Cressi, Aqualung...all the fancy bluewater stuff you could imagine. Bill says under his breath, "This will be fun..." They hop on board, say their hellos, I return the same. All single tanks, wet suits, regs/octos that look like they just came out of the plastic. I am finishing up as I hear one in particular barking orders to the other four. Mike comes over "Ahhh fuck...this is a check out." Meaning: This was a dive instructor with his students on their open-water checkout dive. I knew what that meant. This was all new divers. The north Atlantic isn't where you do a checkout, that always baffled me. A nice quarry in PA? Sure. The Del River? Ok that too. But not the north Atlantic.
The familiar rumble of the twin Deeres came. Bill barked out "Alright let's go guys...." The lines were off, and Bill, well...he had a heavy hand with the throttles. One new student nearly lost their footing as the big twin disc transmissions engaged out of the slip.
It was hot, real hot, as I walked up to the helm. "Jimmy...we gotta stay shallow today with this fucking bunch of weirdos." I responded with "All good Bill." The Manasquan railroad bridge opened, Bill idled through, around the bend, out the inlet. Calm seas....that was a plus. "We only gotta go 10 miles today, you'll be back in time to get your dick wet tonight!" Bill says to me. I jokingly replied back "Damn Bill, I wish I didn't stay up so late. I was planning on a nap on the way out."
At 20 kts, it didn't take long. We were at a wreck known as "Slabs." It was called that for the car size blocks of granite that lie on the bottom in 70'-90' of water. The wreck was a barge carrying the slabs to the Washington Monument that sunk in a storm many, many years ago. Mike did the first free dive, setting the anchor, releasing a tennis ball signaling Bill we were hooked. It was 85-90F on the surface as I began to don my Dive Rite drysuit. Bill zips me up across my shoulder blades and begins nailing me with the washdown hose to keep me cool. It might seem bizarre to be wearing a giant rubber bag, with a snow suit underneath, in those temps but the bottom was downright cold. I start slipping my harness and backplate on, connected to my manifolded double tanks.
NE wreck divers carry a metric-ton of gear. Tanks, plate, harness, wing, two primary regs, two secondary regs, SPG (pressure gauge) three knives, two wreck reels, one bail out sisal reel, safety sausages (buoys), lift bags, fins, canister lights, backup lights, primary dive comp, backup dive comp, and God only knows what I'm forgetting. Oh yeah, hood and gloves. Bill rushes over, gets in my face "Jimmy lets get you in the water or these yoyo's are gonna ruin your dive." I hadn't noticed but a full class is going on around me. "Now remember, stay on the anchor line down" blah blah blah the instructor barks. Bill quickly clips all my "shit" on, he was so good, and yanks me off the cattle benches. Off I go, over the side.
Falling with 200 lbs. of gear into the water, and floating, is something that you never get used to. I descend on my first, uneventful dive. Now, one thing to remember about NE wreck diving...vis. On the bottom it can be 20 ft of vis, or 2 ft. That day was like 6-7'. You go down on the anchor line, run your wreck reel, follow it back, and come up on the anchor line. You NEVER lose the anchor line. The wreck reel, a reel with bright white, orange, or yellow cord is your beacon back home.
First dive goes off without a hitch, I only briefly, off in the distance saw the "class" circle-jerking somewhere near the anchor line. Coming up, I navigate the ladder, back on board where Mike greets me and helps me with my gear. Mike questions whether I saw "Jacques Cousteau" down there and I confirm, I did.
Time passes during my SI (surface interval) with Bill, shooting the breeze. I look to the west. "Hey Bill, we looking at thunderstorms today?" as I look at the darkening sky over Pt. Pleasant, NJ. "Now Jimmy your pussy ain't getting sore now is it?" (implying I'm soft). I laugh and plead jokingly "Alright, alright...never mind."
The class emerges, in a cluster of bubbles. They all struggle with the ladder (which frankly, was a bitch). After getting onboard, "Jacques" gets into an argument with Mike that he bumped one of his students off the anchor line. The truth was, told in private to me, Mike was surfacing as the student was coming down, and just let go. Mike frantically swam to him, and pulled him back. Scolding him with the universal "What the fuck man?" gesture of "Why on earth would you do that?"
My SI wound down, Bill tells me to get back in my gear and whispers "Stretch your bottom time, let these morons come up before you so you don't get stuck in a traffic jam coming back up." I nod, and smile. Back at it, hauled up, couple side steps, over the side.
And this would be my last dive, to date.
The dive started off just fine, I was running through about half of my BT (bottom time). On the bottom, I lie my wreck reel down (big no-no) to lay down low to try and grab a bug (lobster) under a steel hull plate. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my wreck reel bumping across the bottom. "What the..." I think to myself. I hold it stationary, and it's being pulled backwards.
I abandon my bug-catching, and begin swimming back the length of my reel line to figure out what in the world is happening. Reel, frog kick, reel, frog kick...repeat. Finally I see the outline of my bright white line in only what can be described as a proverbial tangle of spaghetti around one of the students. "Jesus Christ" I murmur into my reg. I approach him, grab him firmly and put my hand up to stop. His eyes are wide as saucers. I proceed to un-sheath one of my dive knives and begin cutting him out. It took long, I knew it. Underwater, time slows down but this was...long. Five to ten minutes, possibly more. Finally he's free. Knowing he has no clue what in the world to do now. I point to my line, the direction it goes towards the anchor, and motion "GO". He speeds off, kicking frantically. Now I am busy untangling this mess, piecing my lifeline back to the anchor together.
Finally, I'm sorted. My BT alarm on the dive comp starts screaming. "Great...." I think to myself. Dive ruined. I start kicking back to the anchor, at a bit brisker pace. Then it happens.
The lights go off. Not that there is much light down there to begin with but it becomes a night dive. So much I switch on my strobe. "Well, this isn't good." Now I am kicking faster and faster. Reeling as if I am trying to get the line back on a blue marlin charging the boat. I hear faint "dong......dong.....dong." Thinking to myself "Well...that's different." Something tells me...this is bad. The noise gets louder. The strobe marking the anchor line becomes clearer. I feel better, but it's dark, very dark. I see my strobe flashing off the rubble. Now a surge begins to lift me up....and down....off the bottom. The puzzle is coming together.
Dark, surge, everyone gone, but me....thunderstorm.
Yeah, about those thunderstorms....
Reaching the anchor line, the sound is now a "DONG! DONG! DONG!" which occurs to me is the 20' of chain snapping taught as the dive boat, 80' above me is pitching in the seas. "Remember your training" I think to myself. I make two big kicks up, clearing the chain to the nylon braided anchor line, knowing grabbing the chain itself would result in mangled, if not severed, fingers.
"Manage your wing, watch your ascent, stay on the line" I think to myself. I begin ascending. Then I feel it, the angle of the anchor line changes. It goes from mostly vertical, to quite horizontal. Superman's Flight begins as my 200 lbs of gear, and I, are being dragged through the water at an alarming rate of speed. I see the particles in the mid-water column blow past my OMS dive mask.
I'm ascending faster. My dive comp begins screaming at me for my actions. "It's either sunshine and clouds or dark depths for where I end up" I think to myself. I am at 15-20' and it's time for my safety stop. Only problem? I am being drug violently. I start dumping non essential gear. Bug bag, gone. Tangled wreck reel, ditched. Finger spool, tossed. I can see faint glimmers of light above, flashes. I can hear my heart hammering in my chest, my respiration is fast, I am burning air. "Bends it is" I ponder as I blow through my safety stop.
My head breaks the surface, I am about 20 yards off the bow. The bow, that by the way, is violently pitching. Wind, and foam, are hammering my face and head. Lightning cracks the sky and the wind is howling in my ears, even covered by my thick hood. Easily 4-5' seas, if not more. A maelstrom, hell, this is where I am.
I see Bill on the bow pulpit "Jimmy! JIMMY! Don't you FUCKING LET GO JIMMY! HANG ON! KEEP YOUR REG IN!" The line is zipping through my neoprene gloves as I slip away. Bill scrambles back to the helm, I faintly hear the diesels roar to life. The boat pivots on its keel (as you can with twin inboards). The starboard side swings around and slams into me. Suddenly I'm back under.
"You're going into the wheels (props)..." my mind races. I quickly kick under, to push myself away, as my fin is ripped off. I come back up. The mate Mike, is right there. Loud, but still calm, he says "Jimmy...swim you gotta swim...get to that ladder." I maneuver astern...somehow. Remember the ladder? It has become a piledriver. 25,000 lbs directed on 4" of aluminum pole slices the water a foot from my body. Bill pops out of the stern, pushes Mike aside. "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE LADDER JIM!"
They toss me a line, I grab it. Bill and Mike rip me around back to the starboard stern. They reach down, grabbing my manifold of my tanks. They can't get me out, I'm scrambling to grab smooth fiberglass. Nothing. I spit my reg. Bite my fingers to pull my glove off on my free hand. Bill turns his head back screaming "DON'T JUST FUCKING SIT THERE HELP US."
Slowly, or maybe not, multiple figures appear. They grab me from every single possible spot. I hear the hose to my SPG hissing as someone grabs it to pull me onboard, separating it from the metal crimp to the fitting. It was like the hand of God pulling me as I come over the gunnel. I imagine it like being born, as I come over the side, slamming onto the deck on top of Mike. He wiggles from under me. He looks me right in the face "Jim, lay here, don't move till we get out of this."
I lie there like a turtle, on it's shell. Wind, rain, blowing in my face. I remove my mask, blood streams down the sides of my face, as I confirm with my hands. Am I bent? Is this it? Will the excruciating pain come soon? Foam and blood from every orifice? Blindness? Just let me die...please.
Lying there, I notice everyone looking at me. One student sobs, the instructor comforts her. The others are in shock, holding onto the cattle benches as Bill puts the boat into the sea. "Not exactly sunshine and clouds, but I'm breathing" I think to myself. I notice the cadence of the pitching sea slow. The rain lessens. Wind, begins to slack off. Blue sky begins to show.
Bill and Mike kneel down next to me, O2 bottle in hand. "Jimmy this is just a precaution, take some O2." I give them the thumbs up and the mask goes on my face. Mike slides my dive computer off and begins cycling the buttons as Bill holds the mask on. "Bill, I think he's OK man..." Bill looks, and smiles. "You're OK Jimmy. You blew off your stop but your (bottom) time isn't bad."
They hoist me up, it takes four people. My legs feel like jello. Sitting on the bench, we're back to a bluebird day again. Bill gets close to me, as he and Mike strip my gear, and says "Hey Jimmy. That was real close buddy. I was about to cut that line. We were dragging the wreck on the bottom. Bow was going under." I reply with "Glad you didn't Bill, thank you..." Turns out that when I was onboard, he went to the bow, and cut the line. As soon as he touched the 3/8" line with the knife it exploded. That was the tension/force being exuded.
The short ride back to Brielle was quiet. The students muttered not a word. Back at the dock, the one I cut out of my reel came up, apologized, and thanked me. He admitted if I hadn't done that, it would have been him. I said it was OK and just be safe. He said he was never diving again. It was probably for the better.
Bill and Mike approach. They tell me to please, call them tonight, let them know how I am feeling. If they have to, they will get me to a chamber. But, they were pretty certain I was OK.
Bill's parting words "Jimmy...good work man. Way to stay cool." I replied "Thank you Bill. And thank you for waiting a little longer for me."
I looked back at the Tuna Seizure, Capt Bill and Mike sitting on the benches across from each other. An image I can still remember.
I don't have many pictures from those days. Go Pro's had just become a thing. This wasn't from the dive, but others, I had been on. All solo.
Wreck of the John Marvin, off Atlantic City NJ.
One of my old training dives, January, New Years Day, Dutch Springs Quarry, PA
