Showing posts with label Scuba Diving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scuba Diving. Show all posts
15 April 2025
05 October 2013
Diver Down: The Forbidden Isle, Pt. 6
Once again, I've lapsed. Shied away from completing my Hawai'i adventure story. And, again, I apologize—especially to mistah charley, ph.d. who seems to have taken a real interest in this tale. This post should wrap it up. Here are the previous five parts, in, of course, blog order, if you need to refresh or catch up.
Now, where were we?
We left off with our increasingly desperate boat load of scuba divers scanning the waters of the Pacific Ocean around Lehua, off the coast of Ni'hau, some 17 miles from Kaua'i, Hawaii, looking for a missing diver, Doug. Our captain had enlisted the crew of a nearby charter catamaran filled with snorkeling, picnicking tourists, the only boat within miles, to help in our search. Wisdaughter and Wisdoc and I were sitting with Doug's newlywed wife. Dive masters, including my son Wisdomie, had been down several times scouring the dive site and down-current underwater spots.
A couple of hours had passed since Doug had disappeared—at around 10:00 a.m.—on what was to have been the first of three dives that day. That was when we spotted the Coast Guard helicopter, bright red, above. I pointed it out to Doug's wife, and she seemed relieved. Hope had arrived. Circling low, it could cover far more territory than our two boats.
Shortly thereafter, a rescue boat made its way across the channel from Kaua'i, a two-hour journey. This was sometime between noon and 1:00 p.m. And for the next hour or so, the helicopter and three boats executed a co-ordinated search of the waters around and down-current from Lehua. But, as the moments wore on, our hope in locating Doug waned. I knew that, and Doug's wife knew that.
Around 2:00, we got word that the tourist catamaran had to abandon the search and return its passengers to Kaua'i. The crew offered to transport us back. Our boat could not give up its search, but there was nothing much the rest of us could do. Wisdomie and I talked about staying aboard the dive boat, he because of his rescue diving prowess and I, I just thought I could be of comfort to Doug's wife. She, however, convinced me to go ahead. She thought about coming as well, but decided she needed to stay with the dive boat crew—even though hope was fading.
We put our towels and cameras in garbage bags, cinched them tight, held them above our heads, and one-by-one swam across to the catamaran. I was the last one into the water. I gave Doug's wife a hug. She cried for a moment on my shoulder. I was at a complete loss for words. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't be false or trite or even hurtful. I simply held her for a moment. I could not begin to understand what she was feeling.
At last I had to go. I jumped in. The water felt soothing and cool after four plus hours in the sun. The swim across was not as easy as it sounds. As the day had worn on, the convection effect of the heat had made the swells much higher. Climbing aboard took some effort and, more importantly, timing. You don't want a large metal ladder to come crashing down on your head or to yank you up out of the water when you're trying to grab ahold of it. But, once aboard the luxury craft, we sped across the waves back toward Kaua'i, leaping from peak to peak.
The crew offered us free sandwiches, beer, and drinks. The kids were famished and were grateful. Two sips of a soda did nothing but make me queasy. It was the first time all day I'd felt that way. My attention had been on other things. I hadn't had the luxury of being seasick. Besides, a number of people on the boat were green around the gills, lying around with their heads in buckets. Power of suggestion, I guess.
I have to say, the crowd on the dive boat was definitely a different group than the picnickers on the cat. Most of the picnickers were significantly overweight, whereas the diving group collectively did not seem to have a whole lot of body fat. I was by far the oldest and least fit—and I'm a runner. People go on vacations for different reasons. My family likes to be adventurous, to explore and do things that challenge us. Others want to be pampered.
Wisdoc and I sat in a sort of stunned silence the whole way back. A person in our little group of divers had died. His new bride had lost him just like that! He'd drifted away on a current while they were under water, and she'd never seen him again. She'd never see him again. I couldn't get the image of her shell-shocked face out of my head.
And what's more, it might have been the very same current that had pushed me down below my group, then swept me back up to the surface before I knew what had happened. Had I dodged the same fate?
It was a grim realization. A grim two-hour ride back to Kaua'i contemplating something that seemed unthinkable. And unthinkably sad.
I don't think it hit the kids quite as hard right then, though I was certain it would at some later time. They were regaling the crew and a couple of the younger folks on the cat with the story of our day.
I was grateful to the crew for offering to bring us back. It was the sort of courtesy all the local boating companies would normally extend to each other. It was professional.
One thing that bothered me about the boat ride, and more specifically about some of the people on the boat, however, was the pervasive attitude that they had been cheated out of their picnic and snorkel excursion. They complained to the crew and looked at those of us who were exhausted, dehydrated, and demoralized like it was our fault that their pleasure cruise had been disrupted. They seemed to resent the fact that their boat had had to join in the search for a missing, presumed dead, diver. They were insisting, even in our presence, on getting their money back.
It was an unfathomable attitude to me. Someone had died. Out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. No one around for miles. And they resented their crew doing what, frankly, the laws of the sea required them to do. Assist.
And besides, you've seen the pictures in the first couple of posts in this series, this is one of the most beautiful and remote places on Planet Earth.
The crew did their best to calm tempers of their clients. They told us, the diver refugees, they would be returning us to a different port than the one from where we'd embarked. Someone from our dive company would meet us at the pier.
It felt like this ride would never end. And it felt like this event would overshadow our entire vacation time with my son and his girlfriend in Hawai'i. It was supposed to be a joyous time. We only get to see Wisdomie a couple times a year. But how do you go on after such a day? How do you enjoy your time together with this hanging over your head? Well, for one thing, you try to appreciate every moment you have with family and friends. And that was the sort of resolve I knew would I would have to summon the rest of our time there—if I could climb out of the dark place in which I found myself on this boat ride.
We arrived back at Kaua'i around 4:30. We'd gotten on the boat that morning at 5:30. It was a long day. At the pier, we were met by a couple of young women who counted heads, showed us where to rinse off and where we could use the restrooms, and huddled us into a corner as the picnickers hiked single-file back to their shop, I presume, to bitch and moan some more. We were glad simply to be back ashore.
Once we were alone, though, one of the women gave us the news: They had found Doug! Unbelievable! How? Where? Was he alive? What happened?
We were incredulous. Hugs. Tears. High fives. All of it. The relief was palpable, like a huge dark cloud had lifted from our collective heads all at once. Like parole. And we all knew it.
Apparently, Doug, like me, had indeed gotten caught up by some sort of rogue current sweeping down the vasty Pacific from the Aleutians. But instead of going down current, as you would expect, he found himself on the back side of Lehua, facing the northside beaches of Ni'ihau. He didn't see anyone, but he didn't panic. Instead, in the leeward, current shadow of Lehua, swam across the narrow channel to the Forbidden Isle, which is where the dive boat eventually spotted him. Apparently, on a whim, and against any sort of common sense, they'd decided after we left to explore the back side of the island. And that's when they spotted him. He'd laid out his dive gear on the beach and was waving his sausage in the air waiting to be spotted.
What's more, the woman told us, when the dive boat came to shore to pick him up, with the helicopter hovering overhead to make sure he didn't need to be taken to an emergency room, they were greeted by a contingency of locals who were apparently brandishing spears. Ni'ihau, recall, is off limits. You have to get prior permission to go there, and apparently the locals thought some tourists were invading their private beaches. All was explained to everyone's satisfaction, and Doug and his bride were re-united.
Here's the newspaper story of the incident if you care to read it..
We never saw Doug. And we never saw his wife after we swam across to the catamaran. I'd hoped we would run into them on the island at some point so I could tell them how happy I was for them. I would love to've bought them a bottle of celebratory champagne and, yeah, toasted their marriage. But it didn't happen.
That evening, our family treated ourselves to a nice dinner out. No one felt like cooking or grilling. We were all emotionally wrung out. After all, we'd spent roughly 6 hours in abject shock and grief, only to have the whole thing vanish into joy and relief in an instant.
And it was Wisdoc's and my anniversary—27th! Thanks for asking.
As tired as we were, we all stayed up late into the night after dinner, talking, watching a rerun of Game of Thrones, and, quite simply, not leaving each other's sight.
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More snaps from Kaua'i (click to embiggen):
Now, where were we?
We left off with our increasingly desperate boat load of scuba divers scanning the waters of the Pacific Ocean around Lehua, off the coast of Ni'hau, some 17 miles from Kaua'i, Hawaii, looking for a missing diver, Doug. Our captain had enlisted the crew of a nearby charter catamaran filled with snorkeling, picnicking tourists, the only boat within miles, to help in our search. Wisdaughter and Wisdoc and I were sitting with Doug's newlywed wife. Dive masters, including my son Wisdomie, had been down several times scouring the dive site and down-current underwater spots.
A couple of hours had passed since Doug had disappeared—at around 10:00 a.m.—on what was to have been the first of three dives that day. That was when we spotted the Coast Guard helicopter, bright red, above. I pointed it out to Doug's wife, and she seemed relieved. Hope had arrived. Circling low, it could cover far more territory than our two boats.
Shortly thereafter, a rescue boat made its way across the channel from Kaua'i, a two-hour journey. This was sometime between noon and 1:00 p.m. And for the next hour or so, the helicopter and three boats executed a co-ordinated search of the waters around and down-current from Lehua. But, as the moments wore on, our hope in locating Doug waned. I knew that, and Doug's wife knew that.
Around 2:00, we got word that the tourist catamaran had to abandon the search and return its passengers to Kaua'i. The crew offered to transport us back. Our boat could not give up its search, but there was nothing much the rest of us could do. Wisdomie and I talked about staying aboard the dive boat, he because of his rescue diving prowess and I, I just thought I could be of comfort to Doug's wife. She, however, convinced me to go ahead. She thought about coming as well, but decided she needed to stay with the dive boat crew—even though hope was fading.
We put our towels and cameras in garbage bags, cinched them tight, held them above our heads, and one-by-one swam across to the catamaran. I was the last one into the water. I gave Doug's wife a hug. She cried for a moment on my shoulder. I was at a complete loss for words. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't be false or trite or even hurtful. I simply held her for a moment. I could not begin to understand what she was feeling.
At last I had to go. I jumped in. The water felt soothing and cool after four plus hours in the sun. The swim across was not as easy as it sounds. As the day had worn on, the convection effect of the heat had made the swells much higher. Climbing aboard took some effort and, more importantly, timing. You don't want a large metal ladder to come crashing down on your head or to yank you up out of the water when you're trying to grab ahold of it. But, once aboard the luxury craft, we sped across the waves back toward Kaua'i, leaping from peak to peak.
The crew offered us free sandwiches, beer, and drinks. The kids were famished and were grateful. Two sips of a soda did nothing but make me queasy. It was the first time all day I'd felt that way. My attention had been on other things. I hadn't had the luxury of being seasick. Besides, a number of people on the boat were green around the gills, lying around with their heads in buckets. Power of suggestion, I guess.
I have to say, the crowd on the dive boat was definitely a different group than the picnickers on the cat. Most of the picnickers were significantly overweight, whereas the diving group collectively did not seem to have a whole lot of body fat. I was by far the oldest and least fit—and I'm a runner. People go on vacations for different reasons. My family likes to be adventurous, to explore and do things that challenge us. Others want to be pampered.
Wisdoc and I sat in a sort of stunned silence the whole way back. A person in our little group of divers had died. His new bride had lost him just like that! He'd drifted away on a current while they were under water, and she'd never seen him again. She'd never see him again. I couldn't get the image of her shell-shocked face out of my head.
And what's more, it might have been the very same current that had pushed me down below my group, then swept me back up to the surface before I knew what had happened. Had I dodged the same fate?
It was a grim realization. A grim two-hour ride back to Kaua'i contemplating something that seemed unthinkable. And unthinkably sad.
I don't think it hit the kids quite as hard right then, though I was certain it would at some later time. They were regaling the crew and a couple of the younger folks on the cat with the story of our day.
I was grateful to the crew for offering to bring us back. It was the sort of courtesy all the local boating companies would normally extend to each other. It was professional.
One thing that bothered me about the boat ride, and more specifically about some of the people on the boat, however, was the pervasive attitude that they had been cheated out of their picnic and snorkel excursion. They complained to the crew and looked at those of us who were exhausted, dehydrated, and demoralized like it was our fault that their pleasure cruise had been disrupted. They seemed to resent the fact that their boat had had to join in the search for a missing, presumed dead, diver. They were insisting, even in our presence, on getting their money back.
It was an unfathomable attitude to me. Someone had died. Out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. No one around for miles. And they resented their crew doing what, frankly, the laws of the sea required them to do. Assist.
And besides, you've seen the pictures in the first couple of posts in this series, this is one of the most beautiful and remote places on Planet Earth.
The crew did their best to calm tempers of their clients. They told us, the diver refugees, they would be returning us to a different port than the one from where we'd embarked. Someone from our dive company would meet us at the pier.
It felt like this ride would never end. And it felt like this event would overshadow our entire vacation time with my son and his girlfriend in Hawai'i. It was supposed to be a joyous time. We only get to see Wisdomie a couple times a year. But how do you go on after such a day? How do you enjoy your time together with this hanging over your head? Well, for one thing, you try to appreciate every moment you have with family and friends. And that was the sort of resolve I knew would I would have to summon the rest of our time there—if I could climb out of the dark place in which I found myself on this boat ride.
We arrived back at Kaua'i around 4:30. We'd gotten on the boat that morning at 5:30. It was a long day. At the pier, we were met by a couple of young women who counted heads, showed us where to rinse off and where we could use the restrooms, and huddled us into a corner as the picnickers hiked single-file back to their shop, I presume, to bitch and moan some more. We were glad simply to be back ashore.
Once we were alone, though, one of the women gave us the news: They had found Doug! Unbelievable! How? Where? Was he alive? What happened?
We were incredulous. Hugs. Tears. High fives. All of it. The relief was palpable, like a huge dark cloud had lifted from our collective heads all at once. Like parole. And we all knew it.
Apparently, Doug, like me, had indeed gotten caught up by some sort of rogue current sweeping down the vasty Pacific from the Aleutians. But instead of going down current, as you would expect, he found himself on the back side of Lehua, facing the northside beaches of Ni'ihau. He didn't see anyone, but he didn't panic. Instead, in the leeward, current shadow of Lehua, swam across the narrow channel to the Forbidden Isle, which is where the dive boat eventually spotted him. Apparently, on a whim, and against any sort of common sense, they'd decided after we left to explore the back side of the island. And that's when they spotted him. He'd laid out his dive gear on the beach and was waving his sausage in the air waiting to be spotted.
What's more, the woman told us, when the dive boat came to shore to pick him up, with the helicopter hovering overhead to make sure he didn't need to be taken to an emergency room, they were greeted by a contingency of locals who were apparently brandishing spears. Ni'ihau, recall, is off limits. You have to get prior permission to go there, and apparently the locals thought some tourists were invading their private beaches. All was explained to everyone's satisfaction, and Doug and his bride were re-united.
Here's the newspaper story of the incident if you care to read it..
We never saw Doug. And we never saw his wife after we swam across to the catamaran. I'd hoped we would run into them on the island at some point so I could tell them how happy I was for them. I would love to've bought them a bottle of celebratory champagne and, yeah, toasted their marriage. But it didn't happen.
That evening, our family treated ourselves to a nice dinner out. No one felt like cooking or grilling. We were all emotionally wrung out. After all, we'd spent roughly 6 hours in abject shock and grief, only to have the whole thing vanish into joy and relief in an instant.
And it was Wisdoc's and my anniversary—27th! Thanks for asking.
As tired as we were, we all stayed up late into the night after dinner, talking, watching a rerun of Game of Thrones, and, quite simply, not leaving each other's sight.
----------
More snaps from Kaua'i (click to embiggen):
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| Na Pali Coast |
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| Endangered Monk Seal lounging on a public beach |
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| Into the clouds |
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| Shipwrecks Beach |
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| Near Poipu at sunset |
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| Out toward Na Pali |
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| Heading North |
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| View from the Na Pali coast trail |
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| Na Pali |
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| Roots |
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| Near Poipu |
02 August 2013
Diver Down: The Forbidden Isle, Pt. 5
[Sorry about the break in the blogging action—that happens to me sometimes when I try to do serial posts. My train of thought gets derailed (for whatever reason), and I have trouble getting it back on track. Then, I want to post on some pressing matter and don't because I fear I'll interfere with the series' continuity but can't seem to get back into the essayistic mindset. And then I become paralyzed. Arrrgh. I'll try to wrap this tale up soon. Thanks for your patience.]
Here are the previous posts in this series. Read from the bottom up; it's a blog.
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While Wisdomie (voluntarily) and two of the other Dive Masters (our paid guides) were down 100' and more searching the deepest nooks of the dive site for the missing diver, Doug, most of the rest of us in the boat kept up our search on the surface. The boat made ever further forays downstream with the current, which was flowing in a northerly direction. We went out and back. Out and back in ever wider circles. More and more folks came up to the bridge to look out.
It felt crowded up top, and I began to feel superfluous—despite my vanity about my eyesight prowess. Also, after standing in the glare of sun and sea for about an hour, I was beginning to feel dehydrated, something you have to pay attention to in the tropical sun. I went down to the main deck and got a bottle of water from one of the coolers and half a sandwich.
I sat with Wisdoc and Wisdaughter, making sure they were staying properly hydrated, and filled them in on how the search was going. While we were talking, I noticed a woman sitting by herself in a beach chair one of the crew had set out near the rear of the boat. Shaked, one of my favorite Dive Masters ever, told me it was the wife of the missing diver. No one was near her. No one was speaking to her. No one, it seemed, was even looking at her.
I took it upon myself to bring her a bottle of water. She thanked me. She hadn't thought to drink even though she was sitting in the sun. It was approaching mid-day. I asked her if she'd eaten anything. She said she hadn't and that she wasn't hungry. I fetched her a half muffin anyway. Turns out she was gluten-sensitive. I went back and found a pack of potato chips. Salt would be good for the electrolytes she'd lost. I gave them to her, and she immediately tore into them. Turns out she was really hungry despite what she said.
I sat beside her and talked for a few minutes. Told her my name was Jim. Told her I was here with my family and had a son who lived on Oahu who was down now helping to search for her husband. She told me she was from Arizona and that though she was a novice diver, Doug was very experienced. I felt like she was trying to convince herself of something. That's when it sort of hit me: we'd been searching for Doug for well over an hour and hadn't seen any sign of him or his equipment. The longer we searched, I realized, the greater the chance we weren't going to find him. I looked at her and could tell she knew it too. She was bravely silent, barely holding back sad, desperate tears. I sat with her some more in silence just to be a physical presence, to be someone who at least acted like he understood what she was obviously going through—though nothing was said.
Because the back of the boat was mostly in the now-overhead sun, I felt my initial application of sunscreen wearing off. I excused myself from her presence and went forward to regrease. Wisdaughter sat down beside me and, in a chiding sort of way, asked why I was talking to this woman. "She looks like she just wants to be left alone," she said. I found myself disagreeing—and because Wisdaughter usually has a pretty good read of others' emotions this took some effort. I struggled to find the right words. I told her that what I felt was called for in this situation was "simple human kindness." Just being human—a nosh, a drink, an acknowledgement of her predicament. I couldn't relieve the despair or dread she must've been feeling about possibly losing her new husband, but I could just sort of be present for this woman, I told Wisdaughter as I sprayed us both down. And as I was spraying my leg, another person's foot asserted itself. It was Doug's wife. She said nothing. She had walked back to where Wisdaughter and I were connecting at a profound and meaningful parent/child level about what it means to be human together, and, without words, had asked me to spray her feet as well. Which, of course, I did.
It was a moving moment for so many reasons. Not the least because this woman felt comfortable enough with me and my simple human gesture to venture out of her own grief and ask me to anoint her with sunscreen. A little thing normally: people on dive boats often share sunscreen. But in this context, it was a statement of a deeper need.
Wisdaughter and I went back with her to her seat and one of us was with her pretty much the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon as the search for her husband continued.
[to be continued]
-------------
Pics (as always, click to embiggen slide show; mouse over for extras):
Here are the previous posts in this series. Read from the bottom up; it's a blog.
-------
While Wisdomie (voluntarily) and two of the other Dive Masters (our paid guides) were down 100' and more searching the deepest nooks of the dive site for the missing diver, Doug, most of the rest of us in the boat kept up our search on the surface. The boat made ever further forays downstream with the current, which was flowing in a northerly direction. We went out and back. Out and back in ever wider circles. More and more folks came up to the bridge to look out.
It felt crowded up top, and I began to feel superfluous—despite my vanity about my eyesight prowess. Also, after standing in the glare of sun and sea for about an hour, I was beginning to feel dehydrated, something you have to pay attention to in the tropical sun. I went down to the main deck and got a bottle of water from one of the coolers and half a sandwich.
I sat with Wisdoc and Wisdaughter, making sure they were staying properly hydrated, and filled them in on how the search was going. While we were talking, I noticed a woman sitting by herself in a beach chair one of the crew had set out near the rear of the boat. Shaked, one of my favorite Dive Masters ever, told me it was the wife of the missing diver. No one was near her. No one was speaking to her. No one, it seemed, was even looking at her.
I took it upon myself to bring her a bottle of water. She thanked me. She hadn't thought to drink even though she was sitting in the sun. It was approaching mid-day. I asked her if she'd eaten anything. She said she hadn't and that she wasn't hungry. I fetched her a half muffin anyway. Turns out she was gluten-sensitive. I went back and found a pack of potato chips. Salt would be good for the electrolytes she'd lost. I gave them to her, and she immediately tore into them. Turns out she was really hungry despite what she said.
I sat beside her and talked for a few minutes. Told her my name was Jim. Told her I was here with my family and had a son who lived on Oahu who was down now helping to search for her husband. She told me she was from Arizona and that though she was a novice diver, Doug was very experienced. I felt like she was trying to convince herself of something. That's when it sort of hit me: we'd been searching for Doug for well over an hour and hadn't seen any sign of him or his equipment. The longer we searched, I realized, the greater the chance we weren't going to find him. I looked at her and could tell she knew it too. She was bravely silent, barely holding back sad, desperate tears. I sat with her some more in silence just to be a physical presence, to be someone who at least acted like he understood what she was obviously going through—though nothing was said.
Because the back of the boat was mostly in the now-overhead sun, I felt my initial application of sunscreen wearing off. I excused myself from her presence and went forward to regrease. Wisdaughter sat down beside me and, in a chiding sort of way, asked why I was talking to this woman. "She looks like she just wants to be left alone," she said. I found myself disagreeing—and because Wisdaughter usually has a pretty good read of others' emotions this took some effort. I struggled to find the right words. I told her that what I felt was called for in this situation was "simple human kindness." Just being human—a nosh, a drink, an acknowledgement of her predicament. I couldn't relieve the despair or dread she must've been feeling about possibly losing her new husband, but I could just sort of be present for this woman, I told Wisdaughter as I sprayed us both down. And as I was spraying my leg, another person's foot asserted itself. It was Doug's wife. She said nothing. She had walked back to where Wisdaughter and I were connecting at a profound and meaningful parent/child level about what it means to be human together, and, without words, had asked me to spray her feet as well. Which, of course, I did.
It was a moving moment for so many reasons. Not the least because this woman felt comfortable enough with me and my simple human gesture to venture out of her own grief and ask me to anoint her with sunscreen. A little thing normally: people on dive boats often share sunscreen. But in this context, it was a statement of a deeper need.
Wisdaughter and I went back with her to her seat and one of us was with her pretty much the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon as the search for her husband continued.
[to be continued]
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Pics (as always, click to embiggen slide show; mouse over for extras):
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| Jim H. hiking |
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| Crossing the creek with rope assist |
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| Into the mists with Wisdoc |
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| Under the spreading Banyan Tree |
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| Korean Studies Center at Univ. Hawaii @ Manoa |
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| Wesdom cavorting in the falls |
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| Bird of Paradise (fuzzy) |
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| The unofficial county bird of Kaua'i. No wild chickens on the other islands |
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| Lights, camera, motion: This is a high school group at a Polynesian Heritage Festival |
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| From a boat in a cave on Na Pali coast |
28 June 2013
Diver Down: The Forbidden Isle, Pt. 4
We scanned the surface looking for Doug's sausage...
Let me back up. This is where it starts to get surreal and profoundly emotional, and perhaps that's why I find it so hard to write about.
As I've mentioned, you want to hike or tour with me. Not the least of the reasons is that I have incredibly sharp, quick vision, even with presbyopic glasses. If there is wildlife to be spotted—be it a monkey or exotic bird in a tree, a Cape buffalo in the forest, a raptor on a wire or in the air, a snake in the weeds, a turtle or a dolphin or a shark on the surface of the ocean, or a cool fish undersea—it's a good bet I'm going to be the first to see it. Trained local guides have all remarked on this gift of mine. It's happened time and time again on hikes, car rides (even if I'm driving), boat rides, bus tours, whatever. I'm a great spotter. You have to take my word for this.
So, when we started circling the dive site, without saying anything to anyone, I went up to the top deck with the captain and one of the other dive masters and stationed myself at one side and began scanning the water. Most of the others, except eldest son, Wisdomie (who was keenly aware of what was happening), were down below. Every time I saw the shadow of a breaking wave or a bird bouncing around on top of the ocean, adrenaline rushed to my brain, and I focused like a laser on the object trying to process the visual clues until, hope against hope, I could rule it out as not Doug.
Now it bears telling, we were all hoping—it was unsaid, but everyone on the crew and Wisdomie and I knew—that we wouldn't find a dark object floating on the swells. Or even a shiny object. Whenever you do a drift dive, or a dive where there's a risk of some current, you take down with you what's called a Scuba safety sausage: a large, long, brightly colored—usually yellow, red, or orange—inflatable bladder that floats up to the surface so that bubble watchers and other boaters will be alerted that there's a diver down, often at a safety stop about 15' below the surface. We were hoping to spot Doug's sausage. That would mean, of course, that he'd deployed it and was floating close by waiting for us to pick him up. Seeing a dark or a shiny floating object would mean a person floating face up or face down (tanks flashing in the sunlight).
Let me back up. This is where it starts to get surreal and profoundly emotional, and perhaps that's why I find it so hard to write about.
As I've mentioned, you want to hike or tour with me. Not the least of the reasons is that I have incredibly sharp, quick vision, even with presbyopic glasses. If there is wildlife to be spotted—be it a monkey or exotic bird in a tree, a Cape buffalo in the forest, a raptor on a wire or in the air, a snake in the weeds, a turtle or a dolphin or a shark on the surface of the ocean, or a cool fish undersea—it's a good bet I'm going to be the first to see it. Trained local guides have all remarked on this gift of mine. It's happened time and time again on hikes, car rides (even if I'm driving), boat rides, bus tours, whatever. I'm a great spotter. You have to take my word for this.
So, when we started circling the dive site, without saying anything to anyone, I went up to the top deck with the captain and one of the other dive masters and stationed myself at one side and began scanning the water. Most of the others, except eldest son, Wisdomie (who was keenly aware of what was happening), were down below. Every time I saw the shadow of a breaking wave or a bird bouncing around on top of the ocean, adrenaline rushed to my brain, and I focused like a laser on the object trying to process the visual clues until, hope against hope, I could rule it out as not Doug.
Now it bears telling, we were all hoping—it was unsaid, but everyone on the crew and Wisdomie and I knew—that we wouldn't find a dark object floating on the swells. Or even a shiny object. Whenever you do a drift dive, or a dive where there's a risk of some current, you take down with you what's called a Scuba safety sausage: a large, long, brightly colored—usually yellow, red, or orange—inflatable bladder that floats up to the surface so that bubble watchers and other boaters will be alerted that there's a diver down, often at a safety stop about 15' below the surface. We were hoping to spot Doug's sausage. That would mean, of course, that he'd deployed it and was floating close by waiting for us to pick him up. Seeing a dark or a shiny floating object would mean a person floating face up or face down (tanks flashing in the sunlight).
After circling the dive site a number of times, the captain and crew analyzed the currents and headed downstream while one of the dive masters went down and searched the area where Doug had last been seen. We rode for 10-15 minutes more, I would guess, then they realized they had to call in the Coast Guard. The nearest CG helicopters had to be deployed all the way from Oahu. As well, there was a tourist catamaran nearby on Lehua, picnicking and snorkeling. The captain hailed them on the radio and alerted them that we had a diver down, eventually enlisting them in co-ordinating the search.
Meanwhile, the only thing I'm doing is scanning the ocean. I borrowed the captain's binoculars and scoured the inner rim of the volcanic rock edge of Lehua hoping Doug had washed up on or against it, though the surf was rough and the rocks really jagged. I was afraid that if he was on the rocks, it was not voluntarily. Because the swells were growing as the sun got hotter, the binoculars proved difficult. Nevertheless, I persisted, running them along the entire length of the comma several times. As time passed, it became ever more apparent, though again unsaid, that this wasn't just a case of a guy who was floating around nearby waiting to be picked up by us. Our search was becoming more desperate by the moment.
I stayed in my place on the upper deck as we rode down and back up the current stream from the dive site scanning the back quadrant of the ocean on the starboard side of the boat. Others had stationed themselves at other quadrants and the captain had the sweep of the bow. It's times like this, when you're searching, hoping to spot one tiny thing, that you realize just how vast the ocean is and how little you in your boat are. As I said before, the Pacific stretched from Lehua all the way to the Aleutians. For our purposes, there was so much water between where I was standing on the boat and the edges of my, albeit sharp, vision. So much information to process. It felt overwhelming and overwhelmingly bleak.
As I mentioned, I have a tendency to get seasick. There was a lot of swell, and the boat was bouncing around quite a bit, but the sickness in the pit of my stomach that morning had nothing to do with the ocean. The longer we searched, the sicker I felt.
Now, for you non-divers, this kind of thing just doesn't happen with professional organizations. One of the crew members told me he'd been leading dives here for over 20 years and never heard of anything like this. The crew were shell-shocked, questioning themselves and their competence, wondering how this could've possibly happened, what, if anything, they'd done wrong, how this guy had simply vanished. Worried sick, like me.
Some of the crew suited up and decided to go down a second time and re-swim the dive course. They wanted to see if the hinky currents had dragged Doug down under a ledge they'd all swam across earlier. They were worried that maybe he'd become negatively buoyant or gotten entangled below.
This was where I became emotional. Wisdomie, who as I've mentioned is a 23-year old Scuba Instructor and certified Rescue Diver living in Honolulu, stepped up and said he wanted to go down with them to help in case they got in trouble. At first they refused because he wasn't an employee of the dive shop and didn't know the waters. But he convinced them of his bona fides, and they recognized the value of his idea to act as a safety back stop. He had no duty to undertake an unplanned, dangerous rescue dive mission at a strange dive site off the Forbidden Isle of Ni'ihau in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean, but he did it. He has a giant heart. I was so proud I was moved to tears. In my eyes, at that moment, I knew he'd become a man. I recognized at once his competence and his courage and, despite my paternal feelings and reservations, did not object. I merely said to him as he was about to jump in, "Be careful, Son. I love you."
[to be cont'd]
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| Not plastic flowers |
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| Wizened face in the cliff side? |
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| Wisdoc, parasol in hand, through the forest |
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| Fresh Lychees!!! for the hike |
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| Jim H. fiddling with the camera while he walks |
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| The beach from "The Descendants" movie |
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| Jim H's muddy Vibram 5 Fingers after a short hike |
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| Wisdomie and Wesdom rinsing theirs off |
25 June 2013
Diver Down: The Forbidden Isle, Pt. 3
I wouldn't know Doug if he was sitting next to me on a bus.
I never spoke to him on boat ride from Kukui'ula Harbor, Kaua'i, out to Ni'ihau and Lehua. I was enjoying the day with my family, joking around, trying to fend off any incipient seasickness, and helping Dive Master Shaked untangle like a mile of fishing line she wanted to use for her jewelry sideline while the other dive masters spun heavier test line onto a couple giant fishing reels. Lunch was starting to sound like a big deal! Doug was with his wife, I presume, in a different part of the boat. Besides, it was early—not my most social time of day.
When we arrived at Lehua—17 miles from Kaua'i, about 2+ hours boat ride—the captain and the dive masters, in consultation, inspected then rejected two different dive sites because of difficult currents. They settled on Keyhole, feeling it was suitable for our first dive of three. Here's Wikipedia:
Our group waited as the boat backed up and brought the diver who failed to equalize back on board, drifted out of the notch, and backed back in. And down we went.
Even though the swells were high, bouncing us up and down at the surface, we had a fairly smooth descent to 40' or so. No pressure issues. In my family dive group, I like to bring up the rear. That way I can keep an eye on everybody. The boys like to lead, and because Wisdomie is a Scuba Instructor, that's perfectly fine with me.
We headed out, going with the current, and down, heading toward about 100'. I had a bit of trouble descending further, but then caught a downdraft and before I knew what was happening I was below the rest of the group.
I ascended, and all of a sudden I found myself up above them. I turned and tried to kick my way back down to them, but the upswell started pushing me even further up. Next thing I knew I was at the surface.
As I said, that's when I decided to scrub the dive.
Because it was a deep dive profile, it was a short dive. Soon the first group came up. By the time they'd gotten on board and out of their equipment, my group was ascending. That was the first time I heard Doug's name. His wife said he'd gotten separated from her under water, and she figured he'd latched on to our group to complete the dive.
Not so. He didn't come up with the rest of my group.
The business of climbing out of the water and getting out of the cumbersome gear and stowing the heavy tanks and equipment is fairly routine. That's when it began to register with the crew that Doug might be missing. They did a head count from the manifest. Then another. A feeling disbelief, then shock seemed to take over the boat. Then the scramble began.
"How big is he?" "What color are his fins?" "Is he a good diver? How much experience?" "When was the last time anybody saw him?" were some of the questions making the rounds as the boat began circling the dive site, then in ever-widening circles the area around the Keyhole side of Lehua.
[to be cont'd]
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More Pics:
I never spoke to him on boat ride from Kukui'ula Harbor, Kaua'i, out to Ni'ihau and Lehua. I was enjoying the day with my family, joking around, trying to fend off any incipient seasickness, and helping Dive Master Shaked untangle like a mile of fishing line she wanted to use for her jewelry sideline while the other dive masters spun heavier test line onto a couple giant fishing reels. Lunch was starting to sound like a big deal! Doug was with his wife, I presume, in a different part of the boat. Besides, it was early—not my most social time of day.
When we arrived at Lehua—17 miles from Kaua'i, about 2+ hours boat ride—the captain and the dive masters, in consultation, inspected then rejected two different dive sites because of difficult currents. They settled on Keyhole, feeling it was suitable for our first dive of three. Here's Wikipedia:
"When weather and wave conditions permit crossings from Kauai, Lehua is a noted destination for snorkeling and scuba diving. It is also well known for an unusual geological formation dubbed 'the keyhole'. Located in one of the crescent's narrow arms, this is a tall, thin notch cut from one side, all the way through to the other side of the arm."Doug's group, to my chagrin, got to go in first. [I'm an eager diver. I always want to be the first in and the last out.] We watched as they descended. One guy had some trouble equalizing the pressure in his ears and came back up. For those of you who don't dive, the feeling is similar to that of going up in a high elevator or in an airplane, though more intense. The air pockets in your ears and sinuses have to equalize with the water pressure against your skull, or your head will implode. Something like that. Some divers adjust the pressure merely by swallowing. Others do it by exercising the jaw muscles like yawning. Sometimes, if that doesn't work, you simply press your nasal passages closed and blow.
Our group waited as the boat backed up and brought the diver who failed to equalize back on board, drifted out of the notch, and backed back in. And down we went.
Even though the swells were high, bouncing us up and down at the surface, we had a fairly smooth descent to 40' or so. No pressure issues. In my family dive group, I like to bring up the rear. That way I can keep an eye on everybody. The boys like to lead, and because Wisdomie is a Scuba Instructor, that's perfectly fine with me.
We headed out, going with the current, and down, heading toward about 100'. I had a bit of trouble descending further, but then caught a downdraft and before I knew what was happening I was below the rest of the group.
I ascended, and all of a sudden I found myself up above them. I turned and tried to kick my way back down to them, but the upswell started pushing me even further up. Next thing I knew I was at the surface.
As I said, that's when I decided to scrub the dive.
Because it was a deep dive profile, it was a short dive. Soon the first group came up. By the time they'd gotten on board and out of their equipment, my group was ascending. That was the first time I heard Doug's name. His wife said he'd gotten separated from her under water, and she figured he'd latched on to our group to complete the dive.
Not so. He didn't come up with the rest of my group.
The business of climbing out of the water and getting out of the cumbersome gear and stowing the heavy tanks and equipment is fairly routine. That's when it began to register with the crew that Doug might be missing. They did a head count from the manifest. Then another. A feeling disbelief, then shock seemed to take over the boat. Then the scramble began.
"How big is he?" "What color are his fins?" "Is he a good diver? How much experience?" "When was the last time anybody saw him?" were some of the questions making the rounds as the boat began circling the dive site, then in ever-widening circles the area around the Keyhole side of Lehua.
[to be cont'd]
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More Pics:
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| Swimming with Sea Turtles at Poipu Beach |
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| A Swim-through off Kaua'i |
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| Looks like the whole fam damily down. |
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| Onward gang! |
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| Once again, Jim H and dive buddy Wisdaughter in a cool spot |
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| Jim H: Bubble Boy! |
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| Jim H trying not to kick a friendly Sea Turtle |
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| Jim H @ Keyhole waiting his turn to go down, rocking that wetsuit and that Stannis Baratheon haircut |
17 June 2013
Diver Down: The Forbidden Isle, Pt. 2
[cont'd from previous posts]
Let me back up a bit. Here are two things you need to know about me: First, I am, by and large and for the most part, fairly even-keeled, emotionally speaking. I have a loud voice by nature which gets even louder when I'm passionate about the subject matter (e.g., political fools & knaves, scurvy surveillance states, hypocrisy, injustice, etc.), but I almost never raise my voice in anger.
In my nearly 20 years of practicing law, I yelled at a subordinate a grand total of once. And that was after a grueling 36-hour brief-writing episode. I apologized to him the next day. We chalked it up to "the stress". Over the years I worked with any number of screamers and nasty bosses and associates but never rose to the bait. That's simply not who I am.
Nor do I yell at my kids. Now they're grown and make fun of me when I "get that tone." They try to see if they can detect a hint of anger in the quality of my voice at times. It's a game.
I am comfortable with my emotional self. I express my feelings healthily and directly and try to keep them in check. I laugh when I'm happy. I cry when I'm truly sad. I don't harbor hate, and I try to deal directly with frustration and anger—though I'm usually slow to it.
In my nearly 20 years of practicing law, I yelled at a subordinate a grand total of once. And that was after a grueling 36-hour brief-writing episode. I apologized to him the next day. We chalked it up to "the stress". Over the years I worked with any number of screamers and nasty bosses and associates but never rose to the bait. That's simply not who I am.
Nor do I yell at my kids. Now they're grown and make fun of me when I "get that tone." They try to see if they can detect a hint of anger in the quality of my voice at times. It's a game.
I am comfortable with my emotional self. I express my feelings healthily and directly and try to keep them in check. I laugh when I'm happy. I cry when I'm truly sad. I don't harbor hate, and I try to deal directly with frustration and anger—though I'm usually slow to it.
Second, I am a rational person. Even though I have a graduate degree in Theology, I am not religious. Nor am I superstitious. Don't believe in miracles or magic or the mystical. Nothing supernatural. [Attentive readers will note that I spent 16 posts upon my return from hiatus the first of this year laying the metaphysical groundwork for a possible non-supernatural theism, a Whiteheadian panentheism, if you will: Being v. Becoming series here] That's not to say I'm an atheist. Rather, I am agnostic. Like the early Wittgenstein, that about which I cannot speak I must remain silent. Atheism, to my mind, is a belief as irrational as theism; from a logical point of view, 'belief that G' is no different than 'belief that not-G.' That is to say, a belief founded on no rational evidence, but on faith.
So, when I tell you I had some sort of weird, premonitory, though inchoate, feeling about my trip to Hawaii, you will get a sense of how profound the emotional experience at the heart of these post was for me—nearly as profound as the experience at the heart of my lengthy Thyraphobia series.
Wisdoc left a few days before vacation to attend a biological psychiatry conference in San Francisco. I was to fly out and meet her in Kaua'i. On the Friday night before I was to leave on Sunday, we spoke on the phone, and I broke down in a fit of tears and anger at her. For no reason. I told her I was so upset with her I was thinking about not even going to Hawai'i. I ranted for like 10 or 15 minutes. For no reason!
Wisdoc left a few days before vacation to attend a biological psychiatry conference in San Francisco. I was to fly out and meet her in Kaua'i. On the Friday night before I was to leave on Sunday, we spoke on the phone, and I broke down in a fit of tears and anger at her. For no reason. I told her I was so upset with her I was thinking about not even going to Hawai'i. I ranted for like 10 or 15 minutes. For no reason!
This never happens. I never lose control like this. Never! I never raise my voice at my wife. Never! (Nor she at me, for that matter.) But, on a transcontinental phone call, here I was pacing up and down my room in tears of rage. It took us both aback. We talked it out on subsequent phone calls. Several times. I realized how irrational and overwrought I was being—for no reason: she'd done nothing to merit it.
I apologized, even though I didn't understand why I'd gotten so upset. She understood and forgave. And, of course, I flew out to Hawai'i. Even enduring an unexpected seven-hour layover in the un-air conditioned section of the Honolulu airport waiting on the broke-down puddle-jumper to Kaua'i in good humor, joking around with Wisdomie and Wesdom the whole time.
Wisdoc met us at the airport around midnight, after our 23-hour travel ordeal, drove us to the rental apartment (she'd been there for a full day), and she and I talked late into the night about how strange it had been for me to behave that way. All in a good-humored, 'what-the-hell-was-that-all-about'? kind of way. After that, the subject never came up.
I apologized, even though I didn't understand why I'd gotten so upset. She understood and forgave. And, of course, I flew out to Hawai'i. Even enduring an unexpected seven-hour layover in the un-air conditioned section of the Honolulu airport waiting on the broke-down puddle-jumper to Kaua'i in good humor, joking around with Wisdomie and Wesdom the whole time.
Wisdoc met us at the airport around midnight, after our 23-hour travel ordeal, drove us to the rental apartment (she'd been there for a full day), and she and I talked late into the night about how strange it had been for me to behave that way. All in a good-humored, 'what-the-hell-was-that-all-about'? kind of way. After that, the subject never came up.
Until after The Dive.
[to be cont'd]
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[click pics to embiggen + slide show, mouse over pics for quips]
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[click pics to embiggen + slide show, mouse over pics for quips]
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| Magical Kaua'i Sunrise |
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| Na Pali Coast. Unique in all the world land formations. Unique palette. |
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| Interesting skies. Translucent waves. |
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| About to get soaked! |
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Wave-hollowed lava.
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| Precipitous? Damn right! |
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| Interesting sky through a Monkey Pod tree. |
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| Rocky pool 'neath a waterfall. |
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| Kaua'i near sunset. |
10 June 2013
Diver Down: The Forbidden Isle
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| [click pics to embiggen] |
Just off Ni'ihau is a tiny comma of land jutting up out of the Pacific. Lehua is an uninhabited crescent rim of an extinct volcano. It is noted for its diving. And it was for that purpose 11 of us, not including dive leaders, set out on Friday morning, May 24.
There is nothing between Lehua and the Aleutian Islands, and it was the morning after the full moon.
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| Lehua and Ni'ihau |
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| Lehua |
I was aware that this dive at Keyhole, a magnificent spot on the eastern, smaller prong of Lehua, was going to be a challenge. There would be some current, so we would do a drift dive along the edge of the volcano rim at about 85'. We would have the opportunity to see up to five kinds of sharks, manta and eagle rays, tons of large (ubiquitous) sea turtles and friendly, tropical reef fish, and possibly endangered Monk Seals, plus magical underwater topography.
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| Keyhole. Lehua. |
I had no trouble equalizing the pressure in my ears and descending, and before I knew it I was down about 65' and in contact with my group alongside the wall. The current pressed us on. But, and this is the point about the full moon, a down-swelling current pushed me down to over 100' before I knew what was happening. I was below the group and had to work to elevate. The next thing I knew, however, I was above them. I checked my depth gauge and found I was at 40'. Now I was behind my group. I had never had such trouble with my buoyancy. I tried to swim swim back down to the group, even kicking my fins, but couldn't make any progress against the upswell. And all of a sudden I found myself surfacing.
Never, NEVER, had I had such a lack of control. I'm a strong swimmer and experienced diver, but a hinky, upswelling, full moon, Pacific current probably sweeping down unimpeded from Alaska and bouncing around within the concave walls of Lehua that morning, pushed me up to the surface against my will in what felt like an instant.
I have to say, I was intimidated. The Pacific is a big, strong ocean. But it was my first dive of the day, and I hadn't been down long enough to have to worry about the bends.
Visibility was great, about 120' or better. I looked down and could see my dive group about 80' below me and swimming away. At the surface I could see the boat. I gave the bubble spotter the 'Okay' sign, and she indicated they would come over. She offered to give me more weight (I was already carrying 14 lbs of sand in my BCD). But I told her I was afraid I would have to work too hard to catch up with the group against the up current. She said they could drop me on top of them. I declined.
I clambered back into the boat—swells were growing and were 5'+ at this point—and waited for my group to ascend. Wisdoc and Wisdaughter were concerned because they thought they'd lost me somewhere down there. Wisdomie and our Dive Master had seen my ascent and knew I was okay.
But my bailing on the dive due to some freaky current was not the reason we made the newspapers that day. Nor the reason the Coast Guard had to scramble helicopters from all the way out of Oahu. As I said, 11 of us went down that morning. Only 10 came up.
[to be continued]
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