Ocean Watch

As my friends and I got ready to go scuba diving at Shark's Cove last Sunday, I wondered for the thousandth time, "Why do I do this?"

My equipment bag is so heavy, I tend to drag it rather than carry it. The tanks bang and bruise my legs as I wrestle them into and out of the car. And every time I screw on my regulator and the pressure gauge whooshes to 3,000 pounds, the setup feels more like a bomb than a breathing machine.

And that's just the beginning. Before I hoist this contraption onto my back, I have to squeeze into a wet suit that feels like a too-small girdle (neoprene shrinks!) and instantly becomes a sweat chamber. Then I don large dive fins that cramp my calves, and strap on, of all things, lead weights.

No matter how many times I dive, I never will feel entirely comfortable about fastening a load of lead around my waist and jumping into the water.

But I do jump in, and I float. Considering that I am wearing more junk than I can carry, this feels both wrong and wonderful at the same time.

Sometimes, like last week, the surf is up, and I have to snorkel out through breaking waves, trying not to crash into rocks or swallow excessive sea water.

Then, finally, I'm organized and the descent begins.

And the world changes.

The sounds of wind, waves, traffic and people suddenly vanish, replaced only by the sound of my own breathing.

In the 1940s, Jacque-Yves Cousteau developed a breathing device that released air upon diver demand. The simple invention, called a regulator, marked the beginning of the sport of scuba diving.

SCUBA stands for Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus. As the diver inhales, the regulator hisses; exhaling produces bubbly gurgles. For me, these two rhythmic sounds are like a meditation mantra, and in seconds I am completely relaxed.

Another tranquil sensation is that of weightlessness. A diver wears a vestlike jacket called a buoyancy compensator, or BC, that, among other things, holds air. After adjusting the amount of air in the vest to achieve neutral buoyancy, I can float and spin like an astronaut in space.

Regulators made scuba diving possible but wet suits make it comfortable. My skin-tight suit is now a blessing because it has trapped a thin layer of water next to my body. That trapped water quickly heats to body temperature and thereafter acts as a layer of insulation against the surrounding water.

Hawaii's water may feel warm on the surface, but 50 or 60 feet down, for most of us, it's cold.

The bad news about neoprene is that it floats, and that's where lead weights come into the picture. The lead compensates for the superbuoyant wet suit.

On this particular dive, the surge is strong, and it rocks us back and forth. So here I am, warm, weightless and swaying like a contented baby in a fluid cradle. I glide past moray eels, pufferfish and countless other animals going peacefully about their business.

It's an alien world, and for a brief time I am part of it.

Then our gauges tell us it's time to head back.

Later, as I drive home with wet towels, clothing and gear soaking the entire interior of my car, a feeling of great satisfaction comes over me. I didn't see anything rare or remarkable during this dive, but it doesn't matter. I have once again entered another universe and lived as another life form.

And that's why I go scuba diving.