Last month, my most capable buddy was doing her NAUI Master Scuba Diver checkout. Included among the eight or nine dives, we had a night dive on a bridge span. (Panama City Beach, Florida's Bridge Span 14 -- sand at about 72', top around 45-ish.) It was a site we've visited many times. Few people would write home about it, but we certainly enjoy it.
As is our custom, we splashed first and immediately headed down the line to the span and on to the sand bottom. We usually start dives on the spans by doing a perimeter tour, with or without some compass patterns out across the desert. Anyway, when we got to the bottom (well, a foot from it and in proper non-silting trim), I did a quick dark check. When I covered my light, there was still plenty of light from the quarter moon high in the sky. I shrugged a "Well? What do you think?" to my buddy, who did a dark check and signaled affirmatively. With that, we both doused our lights and headed off around the span.
We went at a very leisurely strolling pace, all but hovering our way around the site. The schools of fish were quite fascinating in the dull shades of grey that permeated the sea. It was almost as if the water had vanished and we were simply hovering weightless in a great void. Although there was certainly enough light to see the bridge beams and fish and everything, the bottom did not stand out quite as solidly as normal -- while it was there for reference, it was almost as if it were a mere echo of a thought of where the bottom would have been.
As we slowly made our way around the end of the span, I began to notice the tiny luminescent planktonic organisms that were all around. I had always known they were there on the safety stops, but I had never let my eyes adjust well enough to know that they permeated the entire water column. What very little current there was would push them into the beams and sea-fan-like things and ourselves... little twinkles of starlight flashing everywhere there was any obstruction or diversion of the flow. The occasional subtle twinkle of one hitting your mask was disconcerting at first, but once you figured out what it was, it was actually quite calming.
Everyone else must not have been as ready as we were, as we had about completed our tour of the bottom perimeter before bright lights started arriving in the vicinity. We took that (and our planned times and depths) as our cue to head up to the top of the structure. From above, the divers and their lights looked quite interesting as they scurried all over the bottom. Some lights were crisp, clear beams, while others were obscured in clouds of silt. Thankfully, we were above all that, so the misfortunate lack of skills on their part didn't impede our vision. :biggrin:
Only once, I believe, were we approached by someone who felt the need to inquire about our apparent lack of lighting. (We were marked by the glow sticks our shop's DMs/instructors had distributed, and we had six dive lights between us, but we only used our dive lights to occasionally charge our phosphorescent instruments.) Anyway, it was one of the best night dives either of us had ever done. It was so peaceful and intriguing and just plain fun, and we were confident enough in our skills and familiar enough with the site that it was not at all dangerous or confusing.
Anyway, all too soon we were up the anchor line and back to the back of the boat (where we have a "deco bar" hanging at 15' for any and all to use for their safety stop). Upon arriving, we met the shop owner (one of the instructors) and his buddy. They saw us enjoying the dark and decided it looked like a nice way to hold a stop, so they doused their lights, too. We all sat there playing with the bioluminescent stuff (which always makes you feel a little like a wizard, throwing sparkles out of your hands and all).
Well, wouldn't you know, the best night dive in my memory couldn't just end like that -- not after we'd been tempting fate with all the dark diving and such. Sure enough, while we were sitting there, I suddenly heard a rapid clicking sound. I couldn't place it at first. Was it my O-ring starting to blow? Was a first stage about to give way? Then I saw some large silvery fish-or-something swim by below and beside us. I couldn't place what exactly they were, what with the limited light and all, until... more clicking and...
...a whistle!
Well, I may not be the best at fish identification, but it doesn't take a sound guy to know what makes clicking and whistling sounds. Sure enough, as I tried to get the others to look, there around us came, in all their amazing splendor, a rather large pod of dolphins! Dolphins! In the wild!
After but a turn or two around us, they headed away. The clicking quieted and then disappeared completely. Excitedly, I turned to my buddy and asked, "YOU HEAR [SWIBBLE]??? YOU SEE [FLOPPING WET CARPET]???" I seemed to be having a slight case of communication difficulty.
I turned to the instructor and buddy and asked, "YOU HEAR??? YOU SEE [WAVY-WAVY SWIM-SWIM]???" He didn't quite get what I was trying to say, either, but he kindly entered translation mode.
With that, I figured I'd just have to wait until we were back on the boat. I didn't know exactly how to get across "dolphin" to them. I'd never quite given it much thought, and I was a bit excited at having heard, then seen, them. Then I noticed that my buddy had this nice, medium-large dive slate clipped off. I lunged at it, quickly appropriated it, and wrote in large letters:
*That* got their attention, and they certainly understood. My buddy read it once, looked at me, read it again, and pointed to it as if to ask, "Really? You mean it? You saw *dolphins* right here?!?" I answered, "YES! ME HEAR DOLPHINS. ME *SEE* DOLPHINS. BIG DOLPHINS!" She replied by making the fists-rubbing-crying-eyes pout.
Well, that would've been a great story... for me... but a rather sad one for the other three who were right there. To be *that* close to dolphins in the wild, and while scuba diving, and to have missed them. I felt a little sorry for them, although it was still the coolest dive *ever*. And then something else happened...
I heard clicking...
This time, I knew *exactly* what I was hearing. I gesticulated wildly.
"HEAR DOLPHINS! HEAR DOLPHINS! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!" I signaled as I pointed randomly in all directions at once (that mime training and cartoon watching from my childhood *finally* pays off!).
There they came, out of the dark. A whole pod of dolphins (almost as many visible as the first time around) swam right by us. They circled from below-front up and over us toward the back of the boat and back around for another pass. It was *awesome*. Just as quickly, they sped off again, out into the great dark unknown.
For a moment, the four of us looked at each other with stunned-but-satisfied expressions on all our faces. Then the instructor raised his hand up and gave a high-five. We all joined in, high-fiving all the way around and smiling enough that we had a few extra mask-clearing drills for good measure. It truly was the best night dive ever!
A few minutes later, the other two ascended, and after a while longer, my buddy and I finally made our way up to the ladder and back on the boat. She said that she only realized how cold she truly was when she was just about on the ladder, but once she noticed, she was *quite* cold indeed. Of course, I had the benefit of my drysuit, so hey. :biggrin: By the time we were on the boat, everyone had been told about the dolphins, and for once, not a single person wondered why we always spend that little extra time relaxing at the deco bar.
It's just a little lagniappe.
As is our custom, we splashed first and immediately headed down the line to the span and on to the sand bottom. We usually start dives on the spans by doing a perimeter tour, with or without some compass patterns out across the desert. Anyway, when we got to the bottom (well, a foot from it and in proper non-silting trim), I did a quick dark check. When I covered my light, there was still plenty of light from the quarter moon high in the sky. I shrugged a "Well? What do you think?" to my buddy, who did a dark check and signaled affirmatively. With that, we both doused our lights and headed off around the span.
We went at a very leisurely strolling pace, all but hovering our way around the site. The schools of fish were quite fascinating in the dull shades of grey that permeated the sea. It was almost as if the water had vanished and we were simply hovering weightless in a great void. Although there was certainly enough light to see the bridge beams and fish and everything, the bottom did not stand out quite as solidly as normal -- while it was there for reference, it was almost as if it were a mere echo of a thought of where the bottom would have been.
As we slowly made our way around the end of the span, I began to notice the tiny luminescent planktonic organisms that were all around. I had always known they were there on the safety stops, but I had never let my eyes adjust well enough to know that they permeated the entire water column. What very little current there was would push them into the beams and sea-fan-like things and ourselves... little twinkles of starlight flashing everywhere there was any obstruction or diversion of the flow. The occasional subtle twinkle of one hitting your mask was disconcerting at first, but once you figured out what it was, it was actually quite calming.
Everyone else must not have been as ready as we were, as we had about completed our tour of the bottom perimeter before bright lights started arriving in the vicinity. We took that (and our planned times and depths) as our cue to head up to the top of the structure. From above, the divers and their lights looked quite interesting as they scurried all over the bottom. Some lights were crisp, clear beams, while others were obscured in clouds of silt. Thankfully, we were above all that, so the misfortunate lack of skills on their part didn't impede our vision. :biggrin:
Only once, I believe, were we approached by someone who felt the need to inquire about our apparent lack of lighting. (We were marked by the glow sticks our shop's DMs/instructors had distributed, and we had six dive lights between us, but we only used our dive lights to occasionally charge our phosphorescent instruments.) Anyway, it was one of the best night dives either of us had ever done. It was so peaceful and intriguing and just plain fun, and we were confident enough in our skills and familiar enough with the site that it was not at all dangerous or confusing.
Anyway, all too soon we were up the anchor line and back to the back of the boat (where we have a "deco bar" hanging at 15' for any and all to use for their safety stop). Upon arriving, we met the shop owner (one of the instructors) and his buddy. They saw us enjoying the dark and decided it looked like a nice way to hold a stop, so they doused their lights, too. We all sat there playing with the bioluminescent stuff (which always makes you feel a little like a wizard, throwing sparkles out of your hands and all).
Well, wouldn't you know, the best night dive in my memory couldn't just end like that -- not after we'd been tempting fate with all the dark diving and such. Sure enough, while we were sitting there, I suddenly heard a rapid clicking sound. I couldn't place it at first. Was it my O-ring starting to blow? Was a first stage about to give way? Then I saw some large silvery fish-or-something swim by below and beside us. I couldn't place what exactly they were, what with the limited light and all, until... more clicking and...
...a whistle!
Well, I may not be the best at fish identification, but it doesn't take a sound guy to know what makes clicking and whistling sounds. Sure enough, as I tried to get the others to look, there around us came, in all their amazing splendor, a rather large pod of dolphins! Dolphins! In the wild!
After but a turn or two around us, they headed away. The clicking quieted and then disappeared completely. Excitedly, I turned to my buddy and asked, "YOU HEAR [SWIBBLE]??? YOU SEE [FLOPPING WET CARPET]???" I seemed to be having a slight case of communication difficulty.
I turned to the instructor and buddy and asked, "YOU HEAR??? YOU SEE [WAVY-WAVY SWIM-SWIM]???" He didn't quite get what I was trying to say, either, but he kindly entered translation mode.
"See swimming?"
"BIG SWIM! BIG SWIM ME HAPPY!"
"[something that, to me, looked maybe a bit dolphin-like, perhaps]?"
"UM, SURE! LOTS! BIG SWIM!"
"You saw shark?" (Oh, *that's* what he meant!)
"OH, NO! *NOT* SHARK!... UM... (I know!) AIR SHARKS! AIR SHARKS!" (i.e. pointing to my reg, then saying fin-forehead)
"Share-air, you saw sharks?" (Oh, phooey.)
"NO, NO, NO! ME OKAY! WHATEVER!"
"BIG SWIM! BIG SWIM ME HAPPY!"
"[something that, to me, looked maybe a bit dolphin-like, perhaps]?"
"UM, SURE! LOTS! BIG SWIM!"
"You saw shark?" (Oh, *that's* what he meant!)
"OH, NO! *NOT* SHARK!... UM... (I know!) AIR SHARKS! AIR SHARKS!" (i.e. pointing to my reg, then saying fin-forehead)
"Share-air, you saw sharks?" (Oh, phooey.)
"NO, NO, NO! ME OKAY! WHATEVER!"
With that, I figured I'd just have to wait until we were back on the boat. I didn't know exactly how to get across "dolphin" to them. I'd never quite given it much thought, and I was a bit excited at having heard, then seen, them. Then I noticed that my buddy had this nice, medium-large dive slate clipped off. I lunged at it, quickly appropriated it, and wrote in large letters:
pod of dolphins
MANY!!!
MANY!!!
*That* got their attention, and they certainly understood. My buddy read it once, looked at me, read it again, and pointed to it as if to ask, "Really? You mean it? You saw *dolphins* right here?!?" I answered, "YES! ME HEAR DOLPHINS. ME *SEE* DOLPHINS. BIG DOLPHINS!" She replied by making the fists-rubbing-crying-eyes pout.
Well, that would've been a great story... for me... but a rather sad one for the other three who were right there. To be *that* close to dolphins in the wild, and while scuba diving, and to have missed them. I felt a little sorry for them, although it was still the coolest dive *ever*. And then something else happened...
I heard clicking...
This time, I knew *exactly* what I was hearing. I gesticulated wildly.
"HEAR DOLPHINS! HEAR DOLPHINS! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!" I signaled as I pointed randomly in all directions at once (that mime training and cartoon watching from my childhood *finally* pays off!).
There they came, out of the dark. A whole pod of dolphins (almost as many visible as the first time around) swam right by us. They circled from below-front up and over us toward the back of the boat and back around for another pass. It was *awesome*. Just as quickly, they sped off again, out into the great dark unknown.
For a moment, the four of us looked at each other with stunned-but-satisfied expressions on all our faces. Then the instructor raised his hand up and gave a high-five. We all joined in, high-fiving all the way around and smiling enough that we had a few extra mask-clearing drills for good measure. It truly was the best night dive ever!
A few minutes later, the other two ascended, and after a while longer, my buddy and I finally made our way up to the ladder and back on the boat. She said that she only realized how cold she truly was when she was just about on the ladder, but once she noticed, she was *quite* cold indeed. Of course, I had the benefit of my drysuit, so hey. :biggrin: By the time we were on the boat, everyone had been told about the dolphins, and for once, not a single person wondered why we always spend that little extra time relaxing at the deco bar.
It's just a little lagniappe.
