Diving...Again...in Tortola

Road Town, Tortola

In what seems like a lifetime ago, I learned to dive on the exquisite island of Bonaire. The island is situated near the Venezualan border. There, the reef is so close to shore that all you have to do is walk into the water, swim out a bit and descend to the amazing underwater abundance.

I was learning to dive on Bonaire with two 17 year-olds: Hans, the son of the Dutch governor of the island, and his boarding school chum who was visiting him for the Christmas holidays. The divemaster was about their age, tall and lanky, with shoulder length dredlocks, and kind, dark eyes. You don't even need to do the math--I could have been all of their mothers.

After the classroom instruction, we did our first open dive. Now, for those of you, dear readers, who are not diving enthusiasts, the big deal in diving safety for "casual divers" is.... ( No, it's not the bends--too dramatic or having someone cut your air supply--only happened to Lloyd Bridges on Sea Hunt ). The big deal is equalizing the pressure --remember atmospheres and psi in physics class?

Hans and his buddy slid down to 40 feet in what seemed like an instant. I, on the other hand, was slowly trying to stop the pressure in my left ear from building. Gradually, I descended, pinching my nose and swallowing to clear my ears, anxious to explore this vast, new universe. The next day, I felt more confident, maybe too confident. I descended more quickly, seeing the boys below me already. At about 30 feet, I heard a high pitched screech in my left ear.

That was the end of my diving on Bonaire. I spent the next day or so finding out about medical clinics and Dutch doctors to be sure I hadn't ruptured my eardrum. I hadn't, but was advised to stop diving for the duration of the trip. Actually, that was the end of my diving. Period.

Until yesterday. In the morning, I emailed my son, Ben, before I left for diving class to tell him the news. His return email said simply: "Mom--Equalize. Equalize.Equalize."

Caroline, my instructor from Dive Tortola, a perky, petite, competent 30 year old had all the dive gear ready at the edge of the pool when I arrived. Two hours later, I'd mastered all the basic skills--breathing with the regulator, clearing my ears, practicing hand signals and emergencies. Turns out Caroline is a native Chicagoan, her parents both in police work: dad's a detective and mom is responsible for all the forensic evidence in criminal cases. After graduating from University of Illinois, she started traveling, and diving; quit her paralegal position, and began teaching diving, most recently in Saba, a tiny island near St. Martin. I passed the morning course and was off to Road Town where Alex, Caroline's boyfriend ( small world ) would take me for my first open water dive in 20+ years.

Alex, who I'd met before, waved as I approached the boat, his 6'6" frame and dark, thick curly hair silhouetted against the white diveboat. Much to my surprise, the owner, Marti was also there. She would pilot the dive boat and go for a dive herself.A native Floridian, she owned several hair salons in Sarasota; sold them a couple of years ago, and moved to Tortola. It was Marti, and my friends Joan and Michael, that were the real catalysts in this can-she-dive-again experiment. My friends won a trip on Dive Tortola with Marti and her crew but couldn't use it. So, they gave it to me, knowing I wanted to dive.

We arrived at our diving destination--the Indians, off Norman Island--the same place I had snorkeled and scraped my way through the underwater tunnel. Remember? Alex, from the Netherlands, had been teaching diving for several years. He had the kind of presence that made you instantly assured. One thing I knew from the first dive experience was that underwater, your divemaster is your lifeline. I was pretty sure Alex fit the profile of a good lifeline. And, what a perfect way to begin again. I was the only dive student. I couldn't have asked for more ideal conditions.

First the wetsuit, then the fins, then the dive gear. I waddled to the edge of the boat, sure I looked as awkward as I felt. Alex was already in the water. "Just step off the boat when you're ready; head up."

" Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. My mantra to myself for the first few seconds. Alex watched me like a hawk, as I grabbed the dive line that would lead me to the bottom. Breathe, valsalvo, breathe. Down a bit, then my right ear felt tight; back up a few inches. Breathe, valsalvo, breathe. Down 5 feet now. 7. 15 feet; left ear is tight; back up. Same drill. It seemed like a long time, but each time I went back up to equalize, Alex would give me the OK sign. "Slow is good," he had said just before we got in the water.

Then, he signaled I could let go. I had done it. I was 35 feet down. My instincts took over as I glided through the water, my hands clasped in front of me, gently moving my hips so my fins would carry me along. We would go up a few feet as the reef undulated. In and out of canyons, the sealife brilliant cerullean blue and green, umbers and garnet. I could reach out and touch schools of parrotfish, enormous sea fans, exquisite damselfish, pufferfish.

Alex, above me a bit and to my left--hovered. He stayed in that position for the entire 45 minute dive. I'd look up every so often just for reassurance, and he was omnipresent. I relaxed. My breathing slowed to the natural rhythm of the sea. I felt that existential knowing-- that this was exactly where I was supposed to be, where I'd been before, where I should be again.
But the magic of diving for me is its ability to suspend time and space. It's almost impossible to go fast down there. It's as if there is a primordial physiological pull to move in the cadence that exists below the surface. And the silence was broken only by the sound of my own breathing. I said when I began this trip that beauty was important to me --not just to the aesthetics of a place but interior beauty, like the feast offered on the reef.

Yesterday, watching the world below continue its lifecycle, I was awed again on the simplicity it teaches, the peace it engenders, the miracle it represents.



M.C.