I text Mike to meet me at the truck, and we head to the grocery store next door for coffee and donuts. We enjoy the company of others who gather at the local morning watering hole before they head off to work. We are not in any hurry to leave as it is so dark outside.
It is drizzling rain as we make our way to the boat, my head lamp lighting the deck in bits and pieces. The coils of dive hose look like large yellow serpents ready to spring out of the shadows onto unsuspecting prey.
I back the boat and idle out of the harbor more by memory and feel than by sight. It is pitch black and we have no lights. The eerie glow of my red and green running light reflect off a couple of marker poles helping to navigate through some islands and into the main channel.
We idle through all the no wake zones and are still in darkness. I know better than to try to get the boat on plane for the danger of hitting floating logs. "Wow this darkness is hanging on a long time today due to the rain and heavy cloud cover," I comment to Mike. We are both glued to the front windows trying to see any hazard in our path.
It seems to take forever, but at last we have enough breaking daylight for me to throttle up to planning speed. I do not open the big 200 hp Yamahas up as I still need time to dodge floating debris. Dive time is only an hour away and it is still very dark.
Mike and I make our way to our selected dive area and call Scott on the radio to inform him where we have stopped. The wind forecast is for 25 knot winds and we are in an exposed shore so we will take our chance and dive until forced off.
"Good luck, be safe," Scott says in the usual signing off language of the marine radio." Be safe" is one of the most used terms in Southeast Alaska. We constantly remind each other that safety is more important than our jobs.
I am in my dive suit, all the gear stacked on my body so heavily that I can hardly stand up. Weight belt, pony bottle, fins, gloves, hood, dry suit, long johns, computer dive bags. I look like a mound of dive paraphernalia.
"Its legal time any time your ready. I've got you in 30 feet of water right now," Mike shouts over the roar of the hookah compressor.
I adjust my mask take a deep breath through my regulator, make sure my arm valve is shut, inflate the dry suit a bit and plunge into the frigid waters of Alaska in mid October.
The cold water bites my head and lips. Instant cold envelops my hands. I peer into the dark water. It Is black. I cannot see anything but blackness. I swim on the surface towards shore. I'm not too excited about heading for the bottom in inky black water.
I see bottom and give mike the okay sign with my heavily gloved fingers, he thumbs up me and I arch like a whale and head for the bottom. All sounds except the steady hiss of the regulator intake and out blow cease. I am in a watery world.
I squeeze my nose and blow to equalize the pressure as I head to the bottom. I reach twenty feet and hit my chest air intake valve to pump air into my dry suit to equalize the pressure on my body. A cold blast hits my chest.
"Wow, that air sure feels cold when it enters my suit," I think. I am nearing thirty feet and see a cucumber which I quickly pick into my open bag.
I drop a little deeper and again hit my chest valve. A burst of cold hits my chest again only this time it runs down my chest, down my arm and to my knee.
"This is not air being cold," I tell myself, "This is water.
I know I am not going to be down long with cold North Pacific Ocean water filling my dry suit. I turn from the bottom and make my way slowly to the surface.
Mike leans over the back of the boat and I shout over the machines that my dive is finished. He is very good at putting my safety first and quickly agrees that the dive is finished.
We stow the dive gear and I wring the water out of my heavy wool undergarments. The irony of the whole deal is that this is the first dive I have made on the suit since it was sent to a dive shop in the lower 48 for new intake and out let valves. Obviously, someone had not tested the suit as promised. My first dive lasted less than ten minutes and my total cucumber was one!
Oh well, I guess that is life. If I have learned only one thing living in wild Alaska, it is that safety must come first. Everything else has to come second. On the ocean you do not get second chances. Safety, safety, safety.
I can always push my dive tables when I am dry and comfortable. I will always make sure I am not a causality of hypothermia.
I idle the boat next to Scott and C.J. and yell over that our dive day has ended and we are headed to town. Scott immediately offers his new back up suit for me to wear. I turn him down, knowing that if I am in his back up and he needs it he would never ask for it back.
On the way to town I call a friend, Mat, and tell him my woes. He tells me to get on a plane and meet him for a week of moose hunting.
It doesn't take me long at home to stuff all my hunting gear in some dry bags, make a call to the little airport and head for a plane. I am done diving for a week and off on a moose hunt.
soap bubbles out of my leaking air valve
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