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Health & Fitness

Stupid Choices and Near Death Experiences

Scuba divers left behind...how one man's naive decisions almost cost him his life.

Whenever one of my kids leaves the house, my wife will often call out “make good choices!”  After a while, the phrase becomes almost comical in its simplicity.  The kids usually smile and wave her off, laughing as the door shuts behind them.

Recently, I read an article about a pair of scuba divers who were inadvertently left behind by their dive boat, the divers eventually being rescued hours later as they clung to a fishing buoy. This got me thinking of my own “near death experience,” and how choices, particularly stupid choices, are usually responsible for such events.

This happened to me over 20 years ago, but it still seems like yesterday….  

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I should have died.  I should have experienced a very lonely, horrifying death.  I was alone, floating on the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, a current with the strength of a healthy river pulling me out to open seas, with the next landfall, Cuba, roughly 200 watery miles away.  Before the next sunrise, I was going to die, and I deserved it.  

One week earlier, after weeks of course work and a few introductory dives in a swimming pool, my friend, Ken, and I found ourselves on Catalina Island, completing our final certification hurdle: an open water, ocean dive.  My first scuba dive in the ocean (if diving from the rocks at the casino in Avalon can be considered “the ocean”) was a tame, controlled dive that was essentially choreographed by my Divemaster to ensure that I passed the open water testing required by the Professional Association of Diving Instructors (PADI) in order to receive the required Open Water Scuba Certification. 

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Soon after descending into the depths, I realized that my feet were trying to rise to the surface and I found myself struggling to maintain a depth of 30 ft., telltale signs that I failed to ensure that my weight belt was heavy enough to compensate for my 210 lb. frame and the buoyancy provided by my foamed, neoprene wetsuit. This is a common mistake made by novice divers, as placing weights around one’s waist in order to sink in the ocean seems to defy common sense.  Sort of like voluntarily jumping out of a mechanically sound airplane.  

Nonetheless, I eventually maneuvered the rope-like kelp and the countless orange Garibaldi fish to my instructor’s satisfaction, and ascended to the surface without complication.  I was certified.  As Ken and I left to enjoy the limited pleasures that the Avalon nightlife had to offer, I felt comfortable in knowing that I was now fully qualified and competent to dive anywhere in the world, wherever a boat could take me, in any conditions.  I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

One week later, Ken and I traveled to a renowned scuba diving Mecca, confident that we could meet any underwater challenge we might face. Cozumel, Mexico is a divers’ paradise, an island surrounded by unparalleled underwater beauty. Particularly, Palancar Reef, a coral reef on the southwest side of the island, is known the world over as a premier dive location, with dives ranging from 50 feet to 110 feet, the area teeming with underwater wildlife including turtles, parrotfish, angelfish, barracuda, groupers the size of small cars, Moray eels and sharks—lots and lots of sharks.  

After completing one spectacular dive in the afternoon, Ken and I decided to do something daring, something that requires a good deal of courage, but more importantly, a good deal of expertise and experience. We would complete our first “night dive,” diving to explore a sunken airplane, a 40 passenger, twin engine, short-range Convair airliner. The craft, which was built by the Convair Division of the General Dynamics Corporation, was deliberately sunk in June of 1977 as a movie prop for the Mexican movie “Survive.” The plane lies on its back in 30-40 feet of water, just over 100 yards off the coast near the El Cid La Ceiba Hotel, and is a well-known dive destination.

We called a local Dive shop to reserve our spots on a boat and were advised in broken English that the boat would pick us up at the end of the hotel dock at sunset.  After the water had turned from blue to black and the sun had set, and with no boat in sight, we called the shop and learned that the “captain” of the boat had forgotten to pick us up.  As compensation, a truck would deliver a total of four tanks of air to the dock, double what we had agreed to pay for.  In exchange, all we had to do was to strap our tanks on and swim in the dark of night over 100 yards to the boat that had already arrived at the dive site. 

Stupid.  There is no other way to describe it.  Two pink Americans with a total of two dives each under our belts were about to swim in dark waters to a boat, manned by an inept captain, in order to dive 30 to 60 feet in pitch black water to explore a 20 year old sunken airplane on a moonless night.  Really, really stupid.

The swim was surprisingly easy. The surface current was strong, and it pushed us directly offshore toward the boat. Upon arrival, we noticed that all the other divers had those green lightsticks on the top of their tanks so that the divers could be easily seen by those manning the boat. Ken and I didn’t have those lightsticks. Stupid once again. The ship’s crew tossed us a couple of linternas, high powered lanterns, so that we could see underwater, lanterns with ropes to wrap around the wrist; which I failed to do. Stupid. Again.

We descended into the inky depths, our lanterns illuminating the wing of the sunken plane roughly 30 feet below. Unfortunately for me, I was experiencing a case of déjà vu.  As I had done one week earlier, I failed to place enough weight on my belt, and as I descended, I found my feet desiring to rise to the surface.

The current at only 30 feet was surprisingly strong, so as I struggled to achieve a comfortable equilibrium, I found myself grasping a hole in the wing of the airplane, my feet rising, my body being pulled by the current at a 45 degree angle.  I looked for Ken, but could only see a few green lightsticks rising to the surface, and nothing more than a section of the wing of this sunken plane illuminated by my light. Everything surrounding my beam of light was absolutely black.  Honestly, the shark from ‘Jaws’ could have been about to nibble on my ear and I never would have known it.  It was that black.

As I struggled to achieve some level of composure, I learned what that rope on the lantern was for.  As my left hand struggled to hold onto the hole in the airplane wing, my right hand decided, against my better judgment, to promptly drop the lantern into the depths. 

I could no longer see the airplane wing, in fact, I couldn’t see a thing.  Choices now limited, I rose to the surface far faster than I should have, and upon ascending, noted that the other divers were climbing onto the boat as it rocked on the surface, roughly 20 yards to my left.  Actually, it was so dark that I couldn’t really see the divers, but I could see the green lightsticks on the tops of their tanks rise out of the water and bob on the rocking boat.  I could hear the laughter of the divers on the boat, divers like me, sharing the details of their dive and excited to return to shore in order to hurry to the local watering hole, Carlos ‘n Charlie’s. I was relieved. Very, very relieved. This dive was a major mistake and all I wanted to do at this point was get on that boat … the same boat that just started its engine and was apparently pulling away toward shore. 

Before descending, Ken and I had been advised to “watch out for Mexican boaters” as the laws were lax, and Mexican fisherman would often fish these waters despite the fact that stupid, pink, inexperienced American divers were diving in the vicinity. I could hear the boats, but I could see none. I was calling for Ken, but as he failed to answer, I assumed he was on the boat, probably flirting with some girl from Houston, oblivious to my absence, and preparing his argument as to why it was only fair that I should pay for the first round of beer. 

As I gazed at the twinkling lights on the shore, I noticed a rope with buoys passing me on the right. The buoys were moving very fast and were obviously being pulled by one of the fishing boats that I had been warned about. I admit that I was confused and scared, but I didn’t really find myself in a state of panic until moments later when I finally realized that the lights on the shore were getting dimmer, the water was getting colder and choppier, there no longer was any laughter in the night air, and that line of buoys … the buoys that I thought were being pulled by a boat, were not being pulled at all. I was being pulled, pulled by a very strong current to open ocean in the dead of night, soon with no reasonable hope of rescue. 

Frightened out my mind, I instinctively threw my right arm over the buoy rope as a large, round red buoy pressed  gainst the back of my right shoulder. As my body turned and I rolled under the rope, I found myself  floating on my back, the cold salt water lapping over my face and stinging the new rope burn on my left cheek as the current pushed against my head and shoulders. What I then saw still amazes me to this day; there was only one more buoy. Just one. I had managed to catch the next to last buoy on this long line of buoys, the next buoy beyond this line probably floating serenely hundreds of miles away in Havana harbor.

It seemed to take forever, but I started pulling myself along the buoy line and was able to make steady progress toward land. I remember counting each pull on the buoy rope in order to take my mind off of thoughts of what might be lurking just below me. Despite the strong current, I moved quickly, and before long I made it to shore.  

To my relief, I found Ken sitting on the El Cid La Ceiba beach. He had swum to shore before the current captured him, assuming all this time that I was on the boat, flirting with some girl from Houston, oblivious to his absence, and preparing my argument as to why he had to pay for the first round of beer. We sat exhausted on the beach for about half an hour, then stood to make the slow walk back to our hotel down the street. 

The El Cid La Ceiba is a nice hotel, with an impressive marble lobby overlooking the ocean. Notwithstanding the opulent surroundings, after what we had experienced, Ken and I had no qualms about walking through the lobby in our wetsuits and tanks, dripping salt water on that cold marble floor, the guests at the formal cocktail party staring at us with a combination of amazement and disgust as we each grasped a glass of complimentary champagne and walked out the front doors to the streets of Cozumel, making a beeline in the Mexican night to Carlos ‘n Charlie‘s. 

It’s one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

This happened to me 20 years ago, and although I have had one or two additional close calls, this constitutes my one and only true “near death” experience. I met my wife, Julie, on that Avalon trip, and we have dived many times since. I think Julie would agree that I am now a relatively conservative diver with a firm grasp on a “safety first” attitude. Yet, it seems to me that most of these close calls are usually not a product of happenstance, but are due to mistakes, stupid mistakes, often a series of such mistakes. Mistakes that could be avoided with a good helping of common sense.

Almost every week there is a story of a young person who tragically dies as a result of a simple mistake, or series of mistakes, behind the wheel of a car.  We are often saddened by the news of a young person dying as a result of drugs.

Choices. Our destinies are often determined by our own choices, some good, some not so good. My close call years ago in those Mexican waters was entirely due to my choices, stupid choices born of arrogance and bravado. I suppose I’ve learned my lesson, but tonight, as he is tucked into bed, it might very well be a good time to whisper in the ear of my 12 year old son, a phrase born of love and experience....

“Make good choices ….”

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