- By Nancy Ferguson -
SCUBA (Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus) Diving
Divers are a strange breed. If necessary they will beg, borrow and perhaps even steal to get to the next location which is reported to have schools of manta rays or that absolutely proven but untouched Spanish galleon with the queen’s treasure still intact. They will suffer any indignity, from carrying heavy and unwieldy mountains of dive gear down interminable airport ramps to accommodations of the most primitive sort, where the only water is immense ocean or what could be carried in bottles, to try for that one great picture of a cuttle fish or explore the cave that a buddy insists has a resident shark just sleeping on the bottom.
FAQ: How did you get started diving?
A friend was very excited one day. "I’ve always wanted to SCUBA," he told me, "and my son has found an instructor who’ll come to the house at night, since I haven’t time to go to classes."
"Well," I responded, bemused. "That sounds great."
"Have you always wanted to learn, too?"
"I don’t know," I answered, "What is it?"
That was my introduction to the obsession that would last me over thirty years.
We all went - now eleven of us - to the dive shop and bought the necessary equipment. That night I broke my toe. Good thing a lot of our beginner classes was verbal, not physical. Please believe me. It’s no fun putting fins on with a broken toe.
Our classwork consisted of listening to lectures about Boyle’s Law, learning that one always dives with a buddy and the first, most vital rule of diving - never, ever hold your breath - plus misleading films about cave diving, (I shudder) taking off tanks underwater, and ridiculous discussions about whether to wear one’s wetsuit over or under booties.
Then we progressed to my friend’s pool, working towards certification, without which no dive operation would fill our tanks. Finally we began scuttling around the bottom of the pool in dive gear, practicing buddy breathing and dropping weight belts. It was summer and in a heated pool. Little did we know. The ocean is COLD off Southern California.
Class work was almost over and a certification dive was planned. But my dive instructor decided he’d take me to the beach for my first genuine underwater exposure.
Maybe you know the beach at Zuma. It’s lovely. But the waves come in large and powerful sets, daunting to a novice. In a wetsuit, with ten pounds around my waist, a fifty pound tank on my back, and SCARED, I walked backwards (the only way one can walk with fins on,) struggling to stay upright and get far enough out to immerse myself into the Pacific.
Seemed there was a problem. The ten pounds wasn’t enough weight and I kept rising to the surface. Finally my valiant leader grabbed my weight belt and held me down. I was diving!
What did I see? A few orange or purple starfish, a small school of minnows and LOTS of sand. Somehow it was enough. There must be all kinds of exotic critters just waiting for me out there. Diving is an addiction—and - like that!—I became an addict.