Ocean
Watch
Monday, October 26, 1998
Spooky night dive
rivals Halloween
chills and thrills
Halloween is the time of year people invest a lot of
energy and money into getting scared.
We don uncomfortable masks and bulky outfits, then
creep down dark corridors of haunted houses waiting for monsters to leap
out and scare us half to death.
This is fun because, although the fear feels real, we
know in our hearts we're actually quite safe.
To me, the whole thing is akin to night diving.
I remember my first night dive vividly, and that memory
still gives me chicken skin worthy of any Halloween fright.
It was a moonless night on Australia's Great Barrier
Reef.
I was on a live-aboard dive boat and had had marvelous
diving all day. Now it was time to do my first night dive.
As I struggled into my cold, clammy wet suit, I peered
into the black water. I had seen a sea snake down there that day, and a
couple of fearsome-looking moray eels.
Both my shoulders and heart slumped as the dive master
deposited my tank onto my back.
"Here," he said, handing me a chemical light
stick. "Tuck this into your mask strap after you get in."
With shaky fingers, I fastened my weight belt around my
waist, lowered my mask and watched the others jump in.
I knew if I hesitated one moment longer, I could never
muster the courage to leap into that dark, spooky water. I stepped off the
rail.
The water was cold and my mask popped off. After some
sputtering and fumbling, I finally got organized enough to shine my dive
light into the water beneath me.
I know this sounds silly, but I was shocked that I
could see nothing on either side of that narrow line of light.
I jerked the flashlight right, then left. Why, a great
white shark could be right behind me and I would never know it, I thought,
knowing that the odds of this were about the same as having Dracula bite
my neck.
While I was still waving my dive light all over the
place, I suddenly noticed that all the other glow-in-the-dark sticks were
rapidly dimming. My second fright of the night was occurring: The other
divers were leaving me.
I yanked my purge cord and down I went.
Ahead of me, all I could see of my companions were
disembodied glow sticks bobbing like tiny, greenish ghosts.
I was so intent upon staying close to these people, I
could barely look around. Occasionally, however, I would shine my dive
light under a ledge or into a crevice.
Once, I spotted a glob of mucus about the size of a
football.
Leaning into the hole, I soon recognized a parrotfish
snoozing inside this sleeping bag of slime. Each night, these fish produce
copious amounts of mucus, then rest in the center. Apparently, the
substance masks the smell of the fish from would-be predators.
For the umpteenth time, I circled my light in the void
in front of me, then flashed it over my shoulder.
I wished that I, too, could secrete a protective coat
of goo around myself and take a nap.
As we headed back toward the boat, I looked closely at
the white stuff in the water that had been reflecting off my light.
It was billions of tiny, wiggling worms.
Countless animals live on, in and around the Great
Barrier Reef, and these larvae were some of their offspring.
Knowing this didn't help.
When I saw my wet suit covered with the creepy things,
I bolted up the ladder.
Safely on the deck of the boat, my anxieties fell away
with my gear.
I pulled on my warm sweats and sat back, enjoying a
peaceful, post-adrenaline glow.
"Good dive?" the captain asked.
"Great dive," I beamed.
Getting a little scared is fun, especially when it's
safe -- and always when it's over.
Happy Halloween.
