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I've said for a long time that diving a drysuit isn't rocket science. We do it all the time up here. Heck, we even certify OW in drysuits. It took me less than a dozen dives to have enough control of the bubble to feel completely at ease in my neoprene drysuit. Drysuits are easy, right?
So, after about fifty dives in that suit I'd had enough of doing the neoprene dance to put on the suit every time the water was cold enough to warrant some serious wool underneath. Besides, the socks were a bit on the small side, the darned rockboots were a pain to lace just snug enough to keep from slipping off, but still not so tight that they constricted blood flow to my feet, and the single thigh pocket didn't have room for the safety equipment I like to bring every time I dive. Enter the membrane suit. Waterproof D7. Bea-u-ti-ful! In the dressing room, the boots were just the right size, slightly snug but not constricting with thick woolen socks, so no more squished toes. I slipped easily into the suit, so no more neoprene dance. Two wonderfully large, expandable pockets with D-rings inside, for bungeeing stuff so it doesn't fall out and disappear as I'm pulling out something else. Fronzip, so it's actually possible to take a leak without serious danger of peeing on my suit as it peeks out between my knees where I'm trying to pinch it to keep it out of the way. The fit seemed good. I could kneel without being hindered, I could lift my knees to about 90 degrees and and just feel a slight tension, I could reach across my chest and touch my shoulders. No more feeling constricted by tight neoprene. Or so I thought.
Properly warned and with a suitably humble attitude (or so I thought), the first dive was supposed to be an easy one. Unfortunately, when I finally was able to do the dive, the viz in my local waters was only marginally better than in the pea soup I sometimes cook for dinner, so we drove an hour's time towards the coast in search for more transparent waters. The site is pretty benign, with an easy shore entry and a nicely sloping bottom with pebbles and small kelp plants in the bay. Paddle out of the pay and towards the headland, and there's a nice wall with some light current and quite a bit of life. Perfect, yes?
We kit up. I'd been told I'd need a couple more kilos of weight, but I'm thinking it's better to be slightly overweighted than underweighted initially, so I'm adding about 4kg. We enter the water and start putting on the fins. First observation: Make sure you can bend your knees as easily after kitting up as you could in the dressing room. Because I couldn't. There was something about how the BCD held the suit. Finally, I've got the fins on. Second observation: Make sure you can move your right hand over to your left upper arm as easily after kitting up as you could in the dressing room. Because I couldn't. There was something about how the BCD held the suit. I manage to reach the valve and decide to keep it fully open, to avoid embarrasing incidents. Or so I thought.
We descend. Or rather, my buddy descends. I continue to bob on the surface. Red flag #3, right? Finally, I manage to dump all the air I'm able to dump - including every sip I've got in my lungs - and start sinking. Slooowly. At about 5m depth, things start to improve. I collect my bearings, go horizontal and start feeling pretty OK. Except for the viz. It sucks. 5m, max. OK, one thing to do: Go deeper, below the soup layer. In the summer, it usually clears up between 7 and 10m depth, but I've had crappy viz down to 15. This time, it's slowly getting better when we get below 20. Things work out. Yes, there's more of a bubble, but it's managable. Yes, the valves are another brand and sligthly different to operate, but it's managable. I turn head down to get a feel for the bubble. Crap! My boots and fins seem to slip off! I go head up. Oh, good. The boots and fins are back on, and I have a just-so-slight squeeze on my feet. Feels good, I'm in control. I go horizontal. There's not that much more drag, I'm fine. Feels good. A little constricted here and there, remember to check on that before splashing next time, OK?
We've been down almost half an hour. I reach turnaround pressure and signal my buddy, and we slowly make our way towards shallower water. I'm getting a bit on the light side, so I'm dumping some of the air from my BCD. Oops, there's nothing coming out. I roll to my right and slap my exhaust valve to make sure it's dumping. Nothing. I start thrashing a bit. Sh!t, I'm losing my boots again! And now, my springstraps aren't behind my heels anymore. They're below the soles of my feet, just hanging on the loose boots. SH!T! I stop finning, 'cause I'm definitely positive, my fins are pretty negative, and I won't be able to get down to pick them up if I lose them. The elevator is starting its ascent. SHHHHIIIIIIIIIIT! I'm even less in control than I was on my first OW dive. I can't go feet up and fin down, 'cause I'm worried I'll lose my fins. I go head up, my left thumb is frantically pushing my BCD thumb valve, my right palm is pushing on my suit valve and I'm exhaling all I can. I take microscopic sips of air just when I really need it, and I exhale again as quickly as I can. No effing way. The surface is coming closer all the time. Luckily, I'm not on the express elevator, that could have been nasty. But I'm not able to stop my ascent, no way. I look down and see my buddy's bubbles below me. We were close when I lost control, I'm pretty sure he's seen what happened. I break the surface, inflate my BCD and look around. I see the guys on the beach, and they see me. Luckily, I didn't come up feet first, that'd been too embarrassing. After a couple of minutes, my buddy surfaces, and we exchange give OK signs. He paddles over to me and asks if I'm fine. I'm fine. Just a bruised ego. I roll on to my back and start sort of paddling towards the shore, with my springstraps still below my heels. I climb out of the water, take off the fins, manage to stuff my feet back into my boots and we make our way up to the car. I'm humiliated, and I'm telling my buddy I'm sorry I cut the dive short with about 50% of the planned time. He's cool with it, but the other guys are smirking. Just ever-so-slightly, but definitely noticeable. At least I think so.
Dear membrane suit: I think we'll be good friends after a while. But we really need some quality time together to sort out a few issues, so that I can learn your quirks and peculiarities. And I need to find a solution to those boots slipping off. But right now I need a little time by myself, to soothe my seriously bruised ego.
Yours, truly.
S.
So, after about fifty dives in that suit I'd had enough of doing the neoprene dance to put on the suit every time the water was cold enough to warrant some serious wool underneath. Besides, the socks were a bit on the small side, the darned rockboots were a pain to lace just snug enough to keep from slipping off, but still not so tight that they constricted blood flow to my feet, and the single thigh pocket didn't have room for the safety equipment I like to bring every time I dive. Enter the membrane suit. Waterproof D7. Bea-u-ti-ful! In the dressing room, the boots were just the right size, slightly snug but not constricting with thick woolen socks, so no more squished toes. I slipped easily into the suit, so no more neoprene dance. Two wonderfully large, expandable pockets with D-rings inside, for bungeeing stuff so it doesn't fall out and disappear as I'm pulling out something else. Fronzip, so it's actually possible to take a leak without serious danger of peeing on my suit as it peeks out between my knees where I'm trying to pinch it to keep it out of the way. The fit seemed good. I could kneel without being hindered, I could lift my knees to about 90 degrees and and just feel a slight tension, I could reach across my chest and touch my shoulders. No more feeling constricted by tight neoprene. Or so I thought.
Properly warned and with a suitably humble attitude (or so I thought), the first dive was supposed to be an easy one. Unfortunately, when I finally was able to do the dive, the viz in my local waters was only marginally better than in the pea soup I sometimes cook for dinner, so we drove an hour's time towards the coast in search for more transparent waters. The site is pretty benign, with an easy shore entry and a nicely sloping bottom with pebbles and small kelp plants in the bay. Paddle out of the pay and towards the headland, and there's a nice wall with some light current and quite a bit of life. Perfect, yes?
We kit up. I'd been told I'd need a couple more kilos of weight, but I'm thinking it's better to be slightly overweighted than underweighted initially, so I'm adding about 4kg. We enter the water and start putting on the fins. First observation: Make sure you can bend your knees as easily after kitting up as you could in the dressing room. Because I couldn't. There was something about how the BCD held the suit. Finally, I've got the fins on. Second observation: Make sure you can move your right hand over to your left upper arm as easily after kitting up as you could in the dressing room. Because I couldn't. There was something about how the BCD held the suit. I manage to reach the valve and decide to keep it fully open, to avoid embarrasing incidents. Or so I thought.
We descend. Or rather, my buddy descends. I continue to bob on the surface. Red flag #3, right? Finally, I manage to dump all the air I'm able to dump - including every sip I've got in my lungs - and start sinking. Slooowly. At about 5m depth, things start to improve. I collect my bearings, go horizontal and start feeling pretty OK. Except for the viz. It sucks. 5m, max. OK, one thing to do: Go deeper, below the soup layer. In the summer, it usually clears up between 7 and 10m depth, but I've had crappy viz down to 15. This time, it's slowly getting better when we get below 20. Things work out. Yes, there's more of a bubble, but it's managable. Yes, the valves are another brand and sligthly different to operate, but it's managable. I turn head down to get a feel for the bubble. Crap! My boots and fins seem to slip off! I go head up. Oh, good. The boots and fins are back on, and I have a just-so-slight squeeze on my feet. Feels good, I'm in control. I go horizontal. There's not that much more drag, I'm fine. Feels good. A little constricted here and there, remember to check on that before splashing next time, OK?
We've been down almost half an hour. I reach turnaround pressure and signal my buddy, and we slowly make our way towards shallower water. I'm getting a bit on the light side, so I'm dumping some of the air from my BCD. Oops, there's nothing coming out. I roll to my right and slap my exhaust valve to make sure it's dumping. Nothing. I start thrashing a bit. Sh!t, I'm losing my boots again! And now, my springstraps aren't behind my heels anymore. They're below the soles of my feet, just hanging on the loose boots. SH!T! I stop finning, 'cause I'm definitely positive, my fins are pretty negative, and I won't be able to get down to pick them up if I lose them. The elevator is starting its ascent. SHHHHIIIIIIIIIIT! I'm even less in control than I was on my first OW dive. I can't go feet up and fin down, 'cause I'm worried I'll lose my fins. I go head up, my left thumb is frantically pushing my BCD thumb valve, my right palm is pushing on my suit valve and I'm exhaling all I can. I take microscopic sips of air just when I really need it, and I exhale again as quickly as I can. No effing way. The surface is coming closer all the time. Luckily, I'm not on the express elevator, that could have been nasty. But I'm not able to stop my ascent, no way. I look down and see my buddy's bubbles below me. We were close when I lost control, I'm pretty sure he's seen what happened. I break the surface, inflate my BCD and look around. I see the guys on the beach, and they see me. Luckily, I didn't come up feet first, that'd been too embarrassing. After a couple of minutes, my buddy surfaces, and we exchange give OK signs. He paddles over to me and asks if I'm fine. I'm fine. Just a bruised ego. I roll on to my back and start sort of paddling towards the shore, with my springstraps still below my heels. I climb out of the water, take off the fins, manage to stuff my feet back into my boots and we make our way up to the car. I'm humiliated, and I'm telling my buddy I'm sorry I cut the dive short with about 50% of the planned time. He's cool with it, but the other guys are smirking. Just ever-so-slightly, but definitely noticeable. At least I think so.
Dear membrane suit: I think we'll be good friends after a while. But we really need some quality time together to sort out a few issues, so that I can learn your quirks and peculiarities. And I need to find a solution to those boots slipping off. But right now I need a little time by myself, to soothe my seriously bruised ego.
Yours, truly.
S.
