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<font color='#000080'>Following a near drowning a few years ago in a kayaking incident I know what it is like to go there and come back. This is not for the fainthearted. I have applied my knowledge of what this feels like to a diving scenario (not a real one obvioulsy). I used to write to fund my.....education. Now i seem to lose the knack of it every so often.
The sun shines down through the clear water, greens and iridescent blue shafts of light dance away down into the depths. Chaos is rife, fins, masks, weightbelts are scattered from where they fell after hurriedly being piled into the rib - late as ever, racing the tide for slack. Not wanting to miss our prize, the wreck in all its pristine glory. The sounder looks promising, with a large anomaly on the small screen matching the coordinates exchanged with a local fisherman in the pub the night before for a bottle of single malt.
The first pair kit up, cursing their drysuits warmth on the summer day, the weight of their cylinders making them sweat as they wait to enter the water and descend the shot into the green. Slowly they disappear, someone else takes the wheel, and I haul my gear onto the glistening tube, the sunlight drying the patches of saltwater to white ghosts of waterdrops. I tighten the straps, fit my mask and check with my buddy that all is as it should be.
The cool of the water is like a long awaited drink on a hot day. The gentle pressure of the water on my suit makes me glad of the undersuits fleece liner. We exchange OK's and descend into the unknown.
The wreck looms into view, the shot sat neatly on the sand by the bow. My computer registers 40m, quite a depth, but no lack of light. Everything as it should be, bubbling nicely. A gentle swell, hardly noticeable on the surface pushes us back and forward slowly as we approach. We swim to the wheelhouse, intact but with the windows blown out, their frames buckled and twisted presumably in her death throes and final moments of her final journey. Her nets still at the stern, stretch out behind her like a bridal train, oddments of fishing gear, ropes, buckets held by lanyards litter the deck.
We swim around to the port side, where the damage is worse. A huge gaping tear in the steelwork allowing us to see into the dark insides of the boat, enticing us in the promise of a treasure, an artefact to remind us of what is down here. We switch on our torches and enter through the wide split. Inside rotting wood, blankets, chairs and books lie scattered, preserved by water and frozen in time. After scouting around, we enter the engine room, a thick layer of oil at the top tells us that something has leaked, and up is not a good option. After about 5 minutes we exchange OK's and decide to head out.
We follow the light and exit the wreck. We both have decompression to do, but not enough to warrant us leaving this new playground yet. We swim to the stern, and down, to look at the propeller and steering gear.
Suddenly I become aware of that strange stillness, the feeling of being alone, but when you know, deep down that your buddy is still there. I turn, and see nothing. I do a 360 sweep and feel a tug on my tanks. I look up, expecting to see my buddy smiling at me for panicking at his absence but see only the net, tangled around my first stage. I wait, presuming that my buddy will return to free me from my predicament. Nothing. I try to twist up, to free myself, and only succeed in trapping the other valve on my twinset too. I open the pocket on my BCD and get my knife out. I can reach up to cut the lines holding me fast. As I reach up, the swell seems to intensify and the net moves, wrapping itself around my flailing legs. I dive unmaifolded twins, and I had yet to swap my regs over. I became aware of the heaviness in the effort to breathe. I start to reach down to change regs over, cursing myself for forgetting, and for using more air by getting worked up. I find that my wrist compass has become trapped in the net above my head as I was reaching up, no amount of pulling seems to make it budge, only tightening the noose that is holding it fast. One free arm, unable to reach the knife held in my other hand, and by my position, squashed against the transom, unable to reach any jacket buckles. Frighteningly, the other reg is just below me, I can see it, but have no way to reach it.
I struggle to draw the last few breaths out of the tank. I feel my lungs about to burst and grip the rubber mouthpiece so hard in my teeth it hurts. I thrash in frustration at my own stupidity for being here, for being somewhere I should never have been, somewhere I have no right to be. But the nets stay fast.
Time seems to slow, the light darken. The silt is settling around me, and the water clearing allowing me to see details I had failed to notice before. The net was green, the rope at the edge blue in the round area of truth that is my torch beam. The bottom was punctuated with small stones, unlabeled tin cans from the wreck and wire ropes tracking to infinity. Calm overtakes the panic, relaxing the unnoticed tightness in my muscles. I can hear my own breathing, slow, regular but getting harder. The light seems to fade more, and suddenly aware of the silence, endless silence. Vision closes in, I am aware of the tiny particles being swept in front of my mask. Warmth chases away the pangs of cold, even my fingertips seem to be bathed in warm water. Darkness envelops, no fear, no pain, just peace.
<font color='#000080'>Following a near drowning a few years ago in a kayaking incident I know what it is like to go there and come back. This is not for the fainthearted. I have applied my knowledge of what this feels like to a diving scenario (not a real one obvioulsy). I used to write to fund my.....education. Now i seem to lose the knack of it every so often.
The sun shines down through the clear water, greens and iridescent blue shafts of light dance away down into the depths. Chaos is rife, fins, masks, weightbelts are scattered from where they fell after hurriedly being piled into the rib - late as ever, racing the tide for slack. Not wanting to miss our prize, the wreck in all its pristine glory. The sounder looks promising, with a large anomaly on the small screen matching the coordinates exchanged with a local fisherman in the pub the night before for a bottle of single malt.
The first pair kit up, cursing their drysuits warmth on the summer day, the weight of their cylinders making them sweat as they wait to enter the water and descend the shot into the green. Slowly they disappear, someone else takes the wheel, and I haul my gear onto the glistening tube, the sunlight drying the patches of saltwater to white ghosts of waterdrops. I tighten the straps, fit my mask and check with my buddy that all is as it should be.
The cool of the water is like a long awaited drink on a hot day. The gentle pressure of the water on my suit makes me glad of the undersuits fleece liner. We exchange OK's and descend into the unknown.
The wreck looms into view, the shot sat neatly on the sand by the bow. My computer registers 40m, quite a depth, but no lack of light. Everything as it should be, bubbling nicely. A gentle swell, hardly noticeable on the surface pushes us back and forward slowly as we approach. We swim to the wheelhouse, intact but with the windows blown out, their frames buckled and twisted presumably in her death throes and final moments of her final journey. Her nets still at the stern, stretch out behind her like a bridal train, oddments of fishing gear, ropes, buckets held by lanyards litter the deck.
We swim around to the port side, where the damage is worse. A huge gaping tear in the steelwork allowing us to see into the dark insides of the boat, enticing us in the promise of a treasure, an artefact to remind us of what is down here. We switch on our torches and enter through the wide split. Inside rotting wood, blankets, chairs and books lie scattered, preserved by water and frozen in time. After scouting around, we enter the engine room, a thick layer of oil at the top tells us that something has leaked, and up is not a good option. After about 5 minutes we exchange OK's and decide to head out.
We follow the light and exit the wreck. We both have decompression to do, but not enough to warrant us leaving this new playground yet. We swim to the stern, and down, to look at the propeller and steering gear.
Suddenly I become aware of that strange stillness, the feeling of being alone, but when you know, deep down that your buddy is still there. I turn, and see nothing. I do a 360 sweep and feel a tug on my tanks. I look up, expecting to see my buddy smiling at me for panicking at his absence but see only the net, tangled around my first stage. I wait, presuming that my buddy will return to free me from my predicament. Nothing. I try to twist up, to free myself, and only succeed in trapping the other valve on my twinset too. I open the pocket on my BCD and get my knife out. I can reach up to cut the lines holding me fast. As I reach up, the swell seems to intensify and the net moves, wrapping itself around my flailing legs. I dive unmaifolded twins, and I had yet to swap my regs over. I became aware of the heaviness in the effort to breathe. I start to reach down to change regs over, cursing myself for forgetting, and for using more air by getting worked up. I find that my wrist compass has become trapped in the net above my head as I was reaching up, no amount of pulling seems to make it budge, only tightening the noose that is holding it fast. One free arm, unable to reach the knife held in my other hand, and by my position, squashed against the transom, unable to reach any jacket buckles. Frighteningly, the other reg is just below me, I can see it, but have no way to reach it.
I struggle to draw the last few breaths out of the tank. I feel my lungs about to burst and grip the rubber mouthpiece so hard in my teeth it hurts. I thrash in frustration at my own stupidity for being here, for being somewhere I should never have been, somewhere I have no right to be. But the nets stay fast.
Time seems to slow, the light darken. The silt is settling around me, and the water clearing allowing me to see details I had failed to notice before. The net was green, the rope at the edge blue in the round area of truth that is my torch beam. The bottom was punctuated with small stones, unlabeled tin cans from the wreck and wire ropes tracking to infinity. Calm overtakes the panic, relaxing the unnoticed tightness in my muscles. I can hear my own breathing, slow, regular but getting harder. The light seems to fade more, and suddenly aware of the silence, endless silence. Vision closes in, I am aware of the tiny particles being swept in front of my mask. Warmth chases away the pangs of cold, even my fingertips seem to be bathed in warm water. Darkness envelops, no fear, no pain, just peace.
