Saturday, March 10, 2007
How Not to Dive
David S. started a new discussion on the Oceanblue Divers message board this week, inviting us to post the "close calls" we've experienced while diving as examples of what not to do. So far, it's proving to be an entertaining and informative thread, so I wanted to share my own experience here as a means of directing Dive Evangelist readers to this valuable discussion.
My most boneheaded example of "how not to dive" happened two years ago. As embarrassing a story it is, I wish I could say I was a new diver at the time, and thereby blame it on lack of experience. But I'd been certified for more than 20 years at the time, so what I'm about to recount serves instead as a shining example of the effects of complacency.
I joined the Dive Animals, a local dive club, on a weekend trip to La Bufadora ("The Blowhole"), a small bluffside village outside of Ensenada, Mexico. The crew makes this trip four times a year, and I'd wanted to join them for awhile, hearing stories of how healthy the marine life is there (anemones the size of dinner plates, kelp forests more appropriately called kelp jungles, starfish as big as manhole covers, and so on).
Upon arrival, we noted the seas were much rougher than normal, which would make launching the panga boats through the surf a bit challenging. The conditions were otherwise excellent, however, so we loaded up the boats and endured the bumpy ride under sunny skies.
We made our first dive in a narrow bay, seeking shelter from the surge in one of those "kelp jungles." It was an enjoyable and uneventful dive, and I did indeed see some of those gargantuan anemones and starfish. Our next stop was at a pinnacle called Piedra Ahogada ("Drowned Rock"). Imagine a finger jutting up from the sea floor at a depth of about 120 feet, rising to just below the surface. The only sign of its presence from topside was a swirling froth in the troughs of the swells as they passed over the pinnacle. It deserved its name.
The little panga boat pitched and rolled in the swells, but I knew things would be a lot smoother underwater, so I hurriedly donned my gear and got ready to do a backroll off the boat. I sat on the edge of the boat in the stern, and exchanged OK signs with my buddy, who sat on the edge in the bow. He rolled overboard first, and I got ready to do the same. Looking over my shoulder first, I leaned back and let gravity pull me overboard.
I knew something was not right the instant I hit the water. Rather than sinking smoothly into the water, I felt a soft resistance when I hit the surface. When I popped back up, I found my buddy floating alongside the boat, dazed and spluttering. I had rolled off the boat right on top of him, my tank hitting him in the head! When he rolled off into the water, the current carried him quickly back from the bow to the stern. In my complacent and hurried attitude, I only looked over ONE shoulder to make sure the way was clear. Had I looked over both shoulders, I would have seen him floating into my entry point.
Unfortunately, my embarrassing story doesn't end there. Any responsible, sensible diver would have aborted the dive after such an occurrence. Instead, we floated alongside the boat, evaluating his condition. He pulled off his hood, and I looked at his head. There was a small amount of blood, but as far as I could tell bobbing in the bumpy seas, it looked more like a bruise than a cut. He said he felt okay to continue the dive, so we did just that.
Because the boat couldn't approach too closely to the pinnacle, we swam as close to it on the surface as we could safely do in the rough swells, and planned to close the distance underwater. As we descended, we paddled through the murky green water in what we thought was the right direction to encounter the pinnacle, passing 60, 70, 80 feet. We hit 100 feet, and I could see the sea floor about 20 feet below us – but no sign of the pinnacle.
We kept swimming for a minute or two, until a belated "What the hell am I doing?" flashed across my brain pan. I was at a depth of 100 feet, searching for a pinnacle in low vis, with a buddy with an unevaluated head injury. A recipe for disaster. I turned around, gave him the thumbs-up, and got us the hell out of there.
After we got back to shore, my buddy packed up his things and went back home to Tijuana. The next day, I learned that he had a fairly large head cut that required stitches. He had a good sense of humor about it, and still speaks to me (and even treated me and my family to dinner at his restaurant for my birthday last year), but I feel bad about it to this day.
It doesn't require much imagination to think of what might have happened down there at 100 feet. Close call, indeed. Rolling off the boat and onto his head was a stupid accident; continuing the dive was just stupid. But if I can sacrifice a little pride by sharing this story and warn about the dangers of complacency, then that's okay by me.
I grew up at the beach, and over the years became very comfortable in rough waters as a sailor, swimmer, snorkeler and scuba diver. So in that little panga boat in rough seas, I wasn't too concerned, and didn’t pay enough attention as a result. The more at ease we become with diving, the better we are able to handle unforeseen events – but also the more prone to complacency we may become. It's easy to forego those buddy checks when we feel like we’ve done them a hundred times. Sometimes you might just jump in the water without your fins; or you might jump in and descend with your air turned off.
So learn from my stupidity: Enjoy your diving, have lots of fun, but follow all the little procedures you learned. Do your buddy checks, make your safety stops – and by all means look BOTH ways before rolling off a boat!
Read about other close calls and post your own story on the Oceanblue Divers message board.
My most boneheaded example of "how not to dive" happened two years ago. As embarrassing a story it is, I wish I could say I was a new diver at the time, and thereby blame it on lack of experience. But I'd been certified for more than 20 years at the time, so what I'm about to recount serves instead as a shining example of the effects of complacency.
I joined the Dive Animals, a local dive club, on a weekend trip to La Bufadora ("The Blowhole"), a small bluffside village outside of Ensenada, Mexico. The crew makes this trip four times a year, and I'd wanted to join them for awhile, hearing stories of how healthy the marine life is there (anemones the size of dinner plates, kelp forests more appropriately called kelp jungles, starfish as big as manhole covers, and so on).
Upon arrival, we noted the seas were much rougher than normal, which would make launching the panga boats through the surf a bit challenging. The conditions were otherwise excellent, however, so we loaded up the boats and endured the bumpy ride under sunny skies.
We made our first dive in a narrow bay, seeking shelter from the surge in one of those "kelp jungles." It was an enjoyable and uneventful dive, and I did indeed see some of those gargantuan anemones and starfish. Our next stop was at a pinnacle called Piedra Ahogada ("Drowned Rock"). Imagine a finger jutting up from the sea floor at a depth of about 120 feet, rising to just below the surface. The only sign of its presence from topside was a swirling froth in the troughs of the swells as they passed over the pinnacle. It deserved its name.
The little panga boat pitched and rolled in the swells, but I knew things would be a lot smoother underwater, so I hurriedly donned my gear and got ready to do a backroll off the boat. I sat on the edge of the boat in the stern, and exchanged OK signs with my buddy, who sat on the edge in the bow. He rolled overboard first, and I got ready to do the same. Looking over my shoulder first, I leaned back and let gravity pull me overboard.
I knew something was not right the instant I hit the water. Rather than sinking smoothly into the water, I felt a soft resistance when I hit the surface. When I popped back up, I found my buddy floating alongside the boat, dazed and spluttering. I had rolled off the boat right on top of him, my tank hitting him in the head! When he rolled off into the water, the current carried him quickly back from the bow to the stern. In my complacent and hurried attitude, I only looked over ONE shoulder to make sure the way was clear. Had I looked over both shoulders, I would have seen him floating into my entry point.
Unfortunately, my embarrassing story doesn't end there. Any responsible, sensible diver would have aborted the dive after such an occurrence. Instead, we floated alongside the boat, evaluating his condition. He pulled off his hood, and I looked at his head. There was a small amount of blood, but as far as I could tell bobbing in the bumpy seas, it looked more like a bruise than a cut. He said he felt okay to continue the dive, so we did just that.
Because the boat couldn't approach too closely to the pinnacle, we swam as close to it on the surface as we could safely do in the rough swells, and planned to close the distance underwater. As we descended, we paddled through the murky green water in what we thought was the right direction to encounter the pinnacle, passing 60, 70, 80 feet. We hit 100 feet, and I could see the sea floor about 20 feet below us – but no sign of the pinnacle.
We kept swimming for a minute or two, until a belated "What the hell am I doing?" flashed across my brain pan. I was at a depth of 100 feet, searching for a pinnacle in low vis, with a buddy with an unevaluated head injury. A recipe for disaster. I turned around, gave him the thumbs-up, and got us the hell out of there.
After we got back to shore, my buddy packed up his things and went back home to Tijuana. The next day, I learned that he had a fairly large head cut that required stitches. He had a good sense of humor about it, and still speaks to me (and even treated me and my family to dinner at his restaurant for my birthday last year), but I feel bad about it to this day.
It doesn't require much imagination to think of what might have happened down there at 100 feet. Close call, indeed. Rolling off the boat and onto his head was a stupid accident; continuing the dive was just stupid. But if I can sacrifice a little pride by sharing this story and warn about the dangers of complacency, then that's okay by me.
I grew up at the beach, and over the years became very comfortable in rough waters as a sailor, swimmer, snorkeler and scuba diver. So in that little panga boat in rough seas, I wasn't too concerned, and didn’t pay enough attention as a result. The more at ease we become with diving, the better we are able to handle unforeseen events – but also the more prone to complacency we may become. It's easy to forego those buddy checks when we feel like we’ve done them a hundred times. Sometimes you might just jump in the water without your fins; or you might jump in and descend with your air turned off.
So learn from my stupidity: Enjoy your diving, have lots of fun, but follow all the little procedures you learned. Do your buddy checks, make your safety stops – and by all means look BOTH ways before rolling off a boat!
Read about other close calls and post your own story on the Oceanblue Divers message board.
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