I was a dark and stormy night, and all around me lightning flashed and thunder rolled, while inside my little white car, I slept dreaming contentedly about my last year as a diver and the day which was still not quite yesterday. This is my story...
I suppose I should begin with a little background on myself to get you up to speed. This time last year, I was your average person-on-the-street. Thoughts of diving occasionally flittered through my head, but I gave them all the consideration of a passing bird. Just your normal passing bird, mind you, not the one that flew in front of the car in front of me on the way home from this trip -- even your average Joe would pay attention to a darting brown object that disappears in a huge puff of feathers, but at least it didn't suffer -- anyway, I digress.
So, diving wasn't exactly on my mind until one fateful evening, when I was over at a friend's house for my weekly delivery of freshly baked bread (timed, as always, to coincide with dinner and our regularly scheduled watching of House). She mentioned that her dad had signed their entire family into a scuba class, and the cute little diving birdie in my head was instantly transformed into a giant cloud of feathers. I merrily collected the stuffing and went off to find the glue with which to create the wings to fly me to wonderland. (I could attempt to mix several more metaphors here, but in the interest of sanity, brevity, and humanity, I suppose it's time to just move on.)
First came a month of classes. They taught me many important things, like how to breathe through a regulator, how to find your regulator when you've decided that you really would like to breathe again, and how to breathe out through your nose to get the water out of the mask that you've just put back on your face after you very calmly and intentionally removed it to simulate what would happen if you ever decided your face was drying out just a bit too much. Then came a whirlwind weekend of open water checkout dives. They showed me that visibility is optional, that recovering your regulator is useful when you've just been kicked in the face, and that portly firemen could beat Chuck Norris any day in a one-on-one underwater ClayJar's-face-kicking competition (with the associated side lesson on clearing a mask that was just kicked by a portly fireman's flailing fin).
With my first certification in hand, things moved quickly. (This is the narrative element which will allow me to summarize the next ten months or so in one fell swoop in order to get on with the story. Fasten your literary seatbelts for the rest of the paragraph... or just skip it and pick back up after the rapids.) I bought my gear, did lots of pool work, and started diving in earnest. Then I started adding certifications as fast as the shop could get around to teaching them. Nitrox, Advanced, Rescue, O2, CPR, NAUI Master -- certifications, logged dives, and experience piled up like needles under a month-old Christmas tree -- one which had concealed quite a few gifts of new gear, by the way. (At this point, the program exits fast-forward mode and resumes a more leisurely pace in time to amble through to the finish.)
We rejoin the story this winter. In November, I'd made the plunge to enter the world of drysuit diving (which, being as it's really a "drier-suit" and that I'm originally from Wisconsin, officially makes me a "damp yankee"). I soon added dry gloves to the mix. They say gear multiplies like rabbits, and true to form, diving dry began to foment the seeds of a revolution. I'd been completely content to dive a jacket BC from the very beginning of my diving life (which is an entertainingly preposterous way to refer to a period of ten months or so, wouldn't you agree?), but now, I began to find that the advantages were falling away like so many dropped weight pockets (odd, of course, as I never dove integrated).
The cries of "Pockets! It's got pockets!" were drowned by the cold realization that working the zippers with dry gloves was not only a nearly Sisyphean task, but it was also rendered completely pointless by the fact that while I could still contort enough to reach into the pockets, there was no way I could reach in with dry gloves and rings. The shouts of "D-rings by the dozen! Get your D-rings here!" were mooted by their... er... "very creative"... locations. The calls of "Depth compensating cummerbunds! Super-deluxe 12-strap system!" were inevitably greeted by building bewilderment that all of that was necessary.
Eventually even I, a self-proclaimed jacket apologist, succumbed the heresy the befalls many a diver. I began to wonder whether *less* may indeed sometimes truly be *more*. If BC pockets were such a pain, could I work without them? Could significantly fewer metal D-rings, placed properly, work *better* than eight bulky plastic rings in odd locations? Could a harness consisting of barely more than plain webbing be more stable and comfortable than all the ad copy in the diving magazines could find to oppose it? I *had* to know... I *had* to try...
I decided to go with a Deep Sea Supply single-tank rig, as by all reports, it's quite nice. I chose a steel backplate, as I could use the extra weight (and I rarely fly to dives), and obviously, I had to go with the hog harness -- if I was going to jump off the ledge, I may as well go all the way, and the infinitely adjustable hog harness seemed like a welcome respite from the jacket BC that could never quite put things where they'd be most useful. With a quick phone call, the kit was ordered and I was on the path to enlightenment or perhaps to failure. Either way, the winds of change were blowing.
Which brings us to last Thursday. The little (quite small, actually) box from DSS was waiting for me at home, and with more than a little excitement (and perhaps a twinge of apprehension), I carefully opened it. (I wasn't about to risk damaging the wing, after all. It may not be too fragile, but this is a new toy, and you can't do a Christmas morning Walmart exchange run on it.) After looking at the instructions (and checking out several sets of photo-intensive instructions online), I wove together the plate and all the hardware. Unfortunately, it was far too easy, and before I'd even had a chance to get up to a full tinker, I had the plate on and was checking the fit. A few tweaks here and there, and I strapped in a full AL100 to walk around the house a bit. It was excellent, and I could hardly wait for the weekend to get it wet in the springs.
I know what you're wondering. You want to know what a life-long (hehe, for 10 months and 95 dives, at least) jacket BC user thought about diving a backplate and wing in a hog harness. Well, you know what they say -- you can't always get what you want. Oh, wait... I suppose that part *was* the entire reason for this rambling bit of narrative. Well, sometimes you *can* get what you want, then. On with the show.
I arrived at the springs and quickly set about gearing up. Of course, that involved more than usual, as I'd also just bought a pair of Turtles to wear with my big drysuit boots, and I had to pop the buckles and clamp on some spring straps. Once that was done, however, it was time to grab the plate... and set it aside while I put new bungee in my computer and compass wrist boots (also made by DSS, but I have the *pink* ones, just to be different). *Anyway*, with that done, I got into my fleecy layer and drysuit, and I made the final adjustments to the hog harness.
People sometimes say it's hard to get into or out of a hog harness, but I dare say, that was not the case for me. Admittedly, it wasn't completely trivial (the first time for any new skill often isn't), but in a drysuit with glove rings and a shoulder dump, I've had just about as much fun trying to get into or out of my jacket BC. Once I was strapped in, it was amazing how well the harness worked. The waist belt was *so* much more comfortable than the jacket BC's cummerbund (which was always either so loose it rode sloppily or so tight it was all but squeezing breakfast out of me like a just opened tube of toothpaste -- I don't have enough... er... "cushion" in the middle, apparently). Anyway, the stability and comfort of the rig in the water was indeed unparalleled.
Which brings us to the good part -- the wing. In my case, it was a DSS Torus 35 (for many reasons, which can quite easily be discussed at length). I'd always heard good things about trim with back inflation (well, that and the bit about the boogey man of face-down at the surface). As for the boogey man, I filled the wing to overflowing at the surface, and I didn't get all dippy bird on myself, so that put that to rest in my mind.
I suppose I should begin with a little background on myself to get you up to speed. This time last year, I was your average person-on-the-street. Thoughts of diving occasionally flittered through my head, but I gave them all the consideration of a passing bird. Just your normal passing bird, mind you, not the one that flew in front of the car in front of me on the way home from this trip -- even your average Joe would pay attention to a darting brown object that disappears in a huge puff of feathers, but at least it didn't suffer -- anyway, I digress.
So, diving wasn't exactly on my mind until one fateful evening, when I was over at a friend's house for my weekly delivery of freshly baked bread (timed, as always, to coincide with dinner and our regularly scheduled watching of House). She mentioned that her dad had signed their entire family into a scuba class, and the cute little diving birdie in my head was instantly transformed into a giant cloud of feathers. I merrily collected the stuffing and went off to find the glue with which to create the wings to fly me to wonderland. (I could attempt to mix several more metaphors here, but in the interest of sanity, brevity, and humanity, I suppose it's time to just move on.)
First came a month of classes. They taught me many important things, like how to breathe through a regulator, how to find your regulator when you've decided that you really would like to breathe again, and how to breathe out through your nose to get the water out of the mask that you've just put back on your face after you very calmly and intentionally removed it to simulate what would happen if you ever decided your face was drying out just a bit too much. Then came a whirlwind weekend of open water checkout dives. They showed me that visibility is optional, that recovering your regulator is useful when you've just been kicked in the face, and that portly firemen could beat Chuck Norris any day in a one-on-one underwater ClayJar's-face-kicking competition (with the associated side lesson on clearing a mask that was just kicked by a portly fireman's flailing fin).
With my first certification in hand, things moved quickly. (This is the narrative element which will allow me to summarize the next ten months or so in one fell swoop in order to get on with the story. Fasten your literary seatbelts for the rest of the paragraph... or just skip it and pick back up after the rapids.) I bought my gear, did lots of pool work, and started diving in earnest. Then I started adding certifications as fast as the shop could get around to teaching them. Nitrox, Advanced, Rescue, O2, CPR, NAUI Master -- certifications, logged dives, and experience piled up like needles under a month-old Christmas tree -- one which had concealed quite a few gifts of new gear, by the way. (At this point, the program exits fast-forward mode and resumes a more leisurely pace in time to amble through to the finish.)
We rejoin the story this winter. In November, I'd made the plunge to enter the world of drysuit diving (which, being as it's really a "drier-suit" and that I'm originally from Wisconsin, officially makes me a "damp yankee"). I soon added dry gloves to the mix. They say gear multiplies like rabbits, and true to form, diving dry began to foment the seeds of a revolution. I'd been completely content to dive a jacket BC from the very beginning of my diving life (which is an entertainingly preposterous way to refer to a period of ten months or so, wouldn't you agree?), but now, I began to find that the advantages were falling away like so many dropped weight pockets (odd, of course, as I never dove integrated).
The cries of "Pockets! It's got pockets!" were drowned by the cold realization that working the zippers with dry gloves was not only a nearly Sisyphean task, but it was also rendered completely pointless by the fact that while I could still contort enough to reach into the pockets, there was no way I could reach in with dry gloves and rings. The shouts of "D-rings by the dozen! Get your D-rings here!" were mooted by their... er... "very creative"... locations. The calls of "Depth compensating cummerbunds! Super-deluxe 12-strap system!" were inevitably greeted by building bewilderment that all of that was necessary.
Eventually even I, a self-proclaimed jacket apologist, succumbed the heresy the befalls many a diver. I began to wonder whether *less* may indeed sometimes truly be *more*. If BC pockets were such a pain, could I work without them? Could significantly fewer metal D-rings, placed properly, work *better* than eight bulky plastic rings in odd locations? Could a harness consisting of barely more than plain webbing be more stable and comfortable than all the ad copy in the diving magazines could find to oppose it? I *had* to know... I *had* to try...
I decided to go with a Deep Sea Supply single-tank rig, as by all reports, it's quite nice. I chose a steel backplate, as I could use the extra weight (and I rarely fly to dives), and obviously, I had to go with the hog harness -- if I was going to jump off the ledge, I may as well go all the way, and the infinitely adjustable hog harness seemed like a welcome respite from the jacket BC that could never quite put things where they'd be most useful. With a quick phone call, the kit was ordered and I was on the path to enlightenment or perhaps to failure. Either way, the winds of change were blowing.
Which brings us to last Thursday. The little (quite small, actually) box from DSS was waiting for me at home, and with more than a little excitement (and perhaps a twinge of apprehension), I carefully opened it. (I wasn't about to risk damaging the wing, after all. It may not be too fragile, but this is a new toy, and you can't do a Christmas morning Walmart exchange run on it.) After looking at the instructions (and checking out several sets of photo-intensive instructions online), I wove together the plate and all the hardware. Unfortunately, it was far too easy, and before I'd even had a chance to get up to a full tinker, I had the plate on and was checking the fit. A few tweaks here and there, and I strapped in a full AL100 to walk around the house a bit. It was excellent, and I could hardly wait for the weekend to get it wet in the springs.
I know what you're wondering. You want to know what a life-long (hehe, for 10 months and 95 dives, at least) jacket BC user thought about diving a backplate and wing in a hog harness. Well, you know what they say -- you can't always get what you want. Oh, wait... I suppose that part *was* the entire reason for this rambling bit of narrative. Well, sometimes you *can* get what you want, then. On with the show.
I arrived at the springs and quickly set about gearing up. Of course, that involved more than usual, as I'd also just bought a pair of Turtles to wear with my big drysuit boots, and I had to pop the buckles and clamp on some spring straps. Once that was done, however, it was time to grab the plate... and set it aside while I put new bungee in my computer and compass wrist boots (also made by DSS, but I have the *pink* ones, just to be different). *Anyway*, with that done, I got into my fleecy layer and drysuit, and I made the final adjustments to the hog harness.
People sometimes say it's hard to get into or out of a hog harness, but I dare say, that was not the case for me. Admittedly, it wasn't completely trivial (the first time for any new skill often isn't), but in a drysuit with glove rings and a shoulder dump, I've had just about as much fun trying to get into or out of my jacket BC. Once I was strapped in, it was amazing how well the harness worked. The waist belt was *so* much more comfortable than the jacket BC's cummerbund (which was always either so loose it rode sloppily or so tight it was all but squeezing breakfast out of me like a just opened tube of toothpaste -- I don't have enough... er... "cushion" in the middle, apparently). Anyway, the stability and comfort of the rig in the water was indeed unparalleled.
Which brings us to the good part -- the wing. In my case, it was a DSS Torus 35 (for many reasons, which can quite easily be discussed at length). I'd always heard good things about trim with back inflation (well, that and the bit about the boogey man of face-down at the surface). As for the boogey man, I filled the wing to overflowing at the surface, and I didn't get all dippy bird on myself, so that put that to rest in my mind.
