“Emhasize the physicality.”
That’s what Executive Editor Ryan Miller told me when I asked him if I could do a sports (and recreation!) story on lobster diving at Anacapa Island.
Later, as I stood—red faced and swearing horribly—in the dive shop fitting room struggling to get into a wetsuit that, I’m sure, was a smaller size than labeled, those words would come back to haunt me.
This was originally going to be a recounting of the Great Lobster Hunt of 2009.
And while there were lobsters (none for this greenhorn, but the other guys captured four between them), the real adventure started toward the end of our last dive.
I was low on air, so on the surface I told “Steve”—names have been changed to protect the innocent—to finish his dive, and that that I would swim back to the boat.
Mistake one.
Rule one of diving is “Don’t leave your buddy.” But, as I would be swimming back on the surface, and this was an ex-commercial diver who regularly went his own way while lobster hunting, I didn’t give it a second thought.
After starting the 150-or-so-yard swim back to the boat, I looked up after a few minutes and noticed a slight problem: The current was sweeping me past the boat.
After several more minutes—“emphasize the physical” going through my head with every other kick—the boat still wasn’t getting closer.
All right.
I’d never been caught in a current before, but there was no cause for alarm. Yeah, they were going tease me after they got back to the boat and came to pick me up, but that sort of thing is good for character building.
Mistake two.
Always leave someone on the boat.
After about five minutes of kicking, two things happened within about 30 seconds of each other.
One: I saw that I was steadily losing ground against the current, and was now in real danger of being swept past the end of the island and out into the open ocean.
Two: I heard a distant shout. About 300 feet farther out than me—and well into that open ocean—was “Jack,” the third member of our little expedition.
Now there’s a bit of (slightly more than) mild concern.
I dropped my weights and made a mad dash for a lobster trap buoy floating about 15 yards away, across the current. Neptune granted me my first break of the day, and I managed to grab the buoy before I was swept past.
OK. Just hanging on to the buoy was a feat in itself; every third or fourth swell dunked my head under the water, and actually hanging onto the buoy was like holding onto, well, a buoy in a strong ocean current—kind of tiring.
I tied myself off to the buoy, broke out the emergency whistle (this was a day of firsts), and started blowing. Even tied off against the current, it was still a struggle to keep my head out of the water: Buoyancy compensators are designed for underwater use; their tendency is to float face down.
I was worried at that point, but still trying to stay calm.
“We’ll be fine, so long as Steve gets back to the boat … .” Even as I thought it, I heard a shout from over my shoulder. Steve was on the island.
He hadn’t been able to make the boat either.
The earlier fitting room profanity had nothing on the stream of invectives I let loose at that moment.
I had only one option left: swim to the island.
It took me another five minutes to work up the nerve to detach myself from the buoy because—after how far the current had carried me—what was left of the “island” were a few rocks 30 yards away.
If I misjudged and missed them, it would be out to open water and, I’m pretty sure, Hawaii.
Finally, after a quick prayer, I ditched my BC and set off.
Looking back, I’ve never swum a longer 30 yards. But in all, it couldn’t have taken me more than five minutes. With a final kick, I was hauling myself up onto the rocks.
It was a temporary respite though: Every fifth or sixth wave was crashing over my little patch of terra firma, and the tide was rising. I needed to get to higher ground. Higher ground, however, required me to cross a channel between rocks. Timing the waves, I waited for a lull, and hurried across.
Or tried to.
I misjudged, and only had time for a startled shout as a wave swept me off the rocks.
Hell.
An even faster swim than before got me (a bit worse for wear) back onto the rocks, and I climbed—ripping several nails and tearing up my hands—like a bat out of hell.
Panting, but safe now above the tide line and (most of) the waves, Jack—who had made his way down a bit closer to me—and I managed to eventually hail a passing boat.
They plucked Jack out of the water and motored as close as they could to the rocks.
Then it was back into the water, and one last swim from the rocks to the boat, and the more exciting parts of our adventure were over. We transferred what remained of our gear back to our boat, did the same for ourselves, and it was time to head home.
We made three mistakes that day, two of which I’ve already mentioned. I’m fully prepared (and, in fact, already have) to accept the shaken fingers and “what-were-you-thinkings?”
We split up, and we didn’t leave anybody on the boat. Yes, even experienced ex-commercial divers and the son of a commercial diver can make obvious mistakes.
The third mistake? I will never again—not even if the lobsters are swimming up to the boat and flinging themselves into the cooler—go diving on a full moon. m
Staff Writer Nicholas Walter is going to write about something safer next time, like bungee jumping. Send his wife condolences at nwalter
@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Oct 8-15, 2009.