GRAND CAYMAN– The divemaster is quite clear in his directions. “You
won’t need your depth gauges,” he explains to a boatload of indifferent scuba
divers, “The bottom is 50 feet. You couldn’t go any deeper if you wanted to.
See you in 40 minutes.” At the 38-minute mark, when the boat should be
comfortably overhead, our craft is no-where in sight. We’re drifting in 60 feet
of water with another 40 below. Our navigator, my old pal RonRico, vaguely
knows how the compass works, which is more than can be said for me or The
Whipp. As RonRico swims up and gives the universal “we’re fucked” shrug, we’re
not surprised.
RonRico makes a rapid ascent for a visual sighting. When a diver surfaces in
an unexpected place, he’s supposed to give an arm sign, something like a giant
O, letting people above know he’s not being dragged under by a shark. A
conundrum is at work: Follow the rules signaling there’s no emergency, also
telling everyone in the Caribbean we’re a bunch of idiot lost divers, or hope
no one sees you and swim like a motherfucker to the boat. I knew RonRico’s plan
before he popped up on the choppy surface.
After a quarter-mile swim against a strong current, we surface, out of air, as
if nothing were awry. No damage done. Our diving reputations intact. The
eagle-eyed divemaster is kind, quietly inquiring if we’d enjoyed our swim.
Soon, a lengthy discussion ensued concerning whether or not scuba diving is a
“sport.”
Neither strength, coordination, or good looks are necessary to engage in what
RonRico, with Solomon-like wisdom, proclaimed to be a “recreational activity.”
Hairy, elephantine divers, scrawny divers, gnarled old divers, and pasty
accountants from Scotland are common as weeds.
Divers, like cockroaches and golfers, are a hardy and persistent lot. On our
final day of diving, Cayman was caught in the backwash of Hurricane Erin,
hundreds of miles to the east. The last few days the weather was borderline
bad, but today was dreadful. It would get much worse. We all sit, in a howling
gale, like baby ducks in a torrential rain storm, thunder and lightning
crashing everywhere. The sea heavy, the sky blacker than a pimp’s heart. I
choose this inpropitious moment to attempt what would prove to be an
ill-conceived maneuver. Instead of walking to the stern of the wildly pitching
craft and jumping in like everyone else, I decide upon a back entry.
I last attempted a back entry some years ago in a swimming pool. In theory,
it’s simple enough: hold your mask and regulator tight and fall in backwards.
The pool, of course, did not simulate six-foot waves, a pitching deck, or a
vicious current. In a survival-driven desire to clear the boat, I apply too
much oomph, landing head first in the hostile sea, knocking off my mask
in the process. Dazed, I’m unprepared when, a moment later, my head is smashed
into the side of the tossing vessel. I’m rendered practically unconscious. I
cling tenaciously to the anchor line, the rest of the divers waiting patiently
60 feet below. Had I attempted a complex athletic procedure without success? Or
had I, as I’m prone to do, overcomplicated the simple act of walking a few
steps and hopping in the water?
Our daily routine had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Morning dive, home
by noon, an icy beer or six, followed by hours reading and sunning in the
ghastly Cayman midday heat. On the third day, I spot a tall, rangy woman in a
modest but perky bikini sunbathing on our small beach. My “Caribbean romance”
had begun.
Eye vibes are exchanged: Shallow breathing, an increased heart rate and a
dry mouth indicate the onset of a chemical event. I’m hoping this is not just
my fantasy. After allowing this reverie to fester for an hour or so, I
move, catlike, down to the empty beach. I’m trying – it’s a losing battle – not
to stare. Our sunglasses are dark. Our heads are tilted to allow mutual
staring. I’ve pretty much given up on any pretence of reading anymore, her
every movement is meant for me. When she enters the ocean, I make my “move.”
After a discreet period of time, I follow. I say, “It’s hot.” She says, “Yeah.”
An hour later, she slowly, very slowly prepares to leave. She smooths her
towel and folds it carefully. She changes out of her nifty bikini by covering
herself with a beach towel – oh god! – changing into a dry one. She has my
complete and undivided attention. She changes her top by simply turning away,
leisurely changing into a dry one. Ahhhh!
I’m wishing it would go on forever, but finally she’s ready to go. She turns,
looks right at me and says, softly, “Bye.” The Whipp and RonRico, who
witnessed various stages of this performance, want more, but really it was
perfect. Any words or actions would’ve spoiled the delicious pretend person
she’d become. I thought about her that night and I hoped she wondered about me.
I did not see her again.
A quiet week passed too quickly. We had too much rain and too many clouds.
Never say it can’t get any worse, it can. The morning we left, the sky was
clear. Not a cloud in sight. The ocean was smooth as glass. n
Talk to me:
This article appears in August 11 • 1995 and August 11 • 1995 (Cover).