I've been working on an article about some recent diving adventures. The text below was part of it, but the subject of the article morphed so much that this portion no longer worked. I decided to post it here rather than throw it out. Perhaps this will help someone else avoid similar circumstances...
One note: This trip was impromptu and I was forced to use rental gear. Yuck. Other than the faulty regulator, I'll let you have the fun of identifying all the other mistakes that were made (mostly mine), including the whopper at the very beginning of the dive...
Everything worked out alright, but this was very much a wake-up call for me.
glenn
_______________________
Were diving to the pool today. Not in a pool, to the pool. This is the swimming pool on the deck of the USS Coolidge, a cruise ship that became a troop transport during World War II. The ship struck a friendly mine while entering the harbor at Espiritu Santo Island, Vanuatu, and sank so that it makes a great shore dive. (I dont think that was on the captains mind when he purposely grounded the ship after hitting the mine, but the results are the same.) The ship is on its side, and the bottom of the pool is deep.
Me: How deep?
Dive Guide: Only 55 meters or so.
Me: Ah. Okay. Then the internal calculations start. Hmm. 55 meters. Thats uh... Three point three times fifty-five, call it one-fifty plus fifteen, carry the three, add a bit more, uh, right. One hundred eighty feet.
With us are two retired folks from Sydney. Were using single 80cuft tanks and simple recreational gear, with dive computers, but the guide will be calculating our decompression time from tables. After yesterdays incident during the engine room dive, I refuse to go inside again and I say so. He assures me that well do fine. There wont be any penetration of the wreck, and the decompression time will be short. With everyone in agreement, we trudge out through the low surf and begin the dive. The water is amniotic-warm but the visibility has decreased to about 40ft.
At the bow, 60 feet deep, the guide ties-off a stage tank for emergencies. We swim along the promenade deck, slowly descending, passing the fallen remains of the ships bridge. Shortly after the bridge, at 110 feet, the guide points downward to the pool. We all give the OK sign and start the descent: first the guide, dropping fast, followed by the Aussie couple, and myself. As we pass 120 feet my computer beeps. Ive entered deco mode.
As if on queue, I hear a POP and a sudden rush of air bubbles. It takes a moment to figure out that my rental-regs octopus is free-flowing. Oh thank you. I turn it mouthpiece-down, a traditional way to stop this sort of thing. It still free-flows. I shake it a bit. Still free-flowing. 130 feet. I pull the primary regulator out of my mouth and take a couple breaths off the octo. Still free-flowing. I put my primary reg back in my mouth. 140 feet. At this point the guide and Aussie divers have no idea whats going on above them, and Im starting to make quick, unhappy decisions. I dont like any of my options. Surface? Not a good idea. Can I reach the emergency tank before my air runs out? Probably not, its 80ft up and 200ft laterally along the promenade. Other divers around? Only the ones sinking like dropped lead below me. They are the nearest air. 150 feet. I shake the octo again, this time like Im try to dislodge a moray. The free-flow stops.
According to my pressure gauge I lost 30bar in the octo incident. More calculations... Thats, uh, what, 400psi? A dark narcosis is vignetting my brain, and math has a fuzzy logic all its own. Why am I even bothering to convert bar to psi? I pull up next to the other divers, whove stopped around 175 feet. I control my breathing and slowly return to a calmer state of mind. The guide descends a bit more to point out the colorful tiles around the pool. Yeah, thats really cool. Can we, like, ascend now?
_______________________
The rest of the dive was mercifully short, and I made it back to the deco stop with about 30bar left. The guide only found out about the regulator problems when I wrote it on a slate at the stop, and the Aussie couple never knew anything had gone wrong.
.
.
One note: This trip was impromptu and I was forced to use rental gear. Yuck. Other than the faulty regulator, I'll let you have the fun of identifying all the other mistakes that were made (mostly mine), including the whopper at the very beginning of the dive...
Everything worked out alright, but this was very much a wake-up call for me.
glenn
_______________________
Were diving to the pool today. Not in a pool, to the pool. This is the swimming pool on the deck of the USS Coolidge, a cruise ship that became a troop transport during World War II. The ship struck a friendly mine while entering the harbor at Espiritu Santo Island, Vanuatu, and sank so that it makes a great shore dive. (I dont think that was on the captains mind when he purposely grounded the ship after hitting the mine, but the results are the same.) The ship is on its side, and the bottom of the pool is deep.
Me: How deep?
Dive Guide: Only 55 meters or so.
Me: Ah. Okay. Then the internal calculations start. Hmm. 55 meters. Thats uh... Three point three times fifty-five, call it one-fifty plus fifteen, carry the three, add a bit more, uh, right. One hundred eighty feet.
With us are two retired folks from Sydney. Were using single 80cuft tanks and simple recreational gear, with dive computers, but the guide will be calculating our decompression time from tables. After yesterdays incident during the engine room dive, I refuse to go inside again and I say so. He assures me that well do fine. There wont be any penetration of the wreck, and the decompression time will be short. With everyone in agreement, we trudge out through the low surf and begin the dive. The water is amniotic-warm but the visibility has decreased to about 40ft.
At the bow, 60 feet deep, the guide ties-off a stage tank for emergencies. We swim along the promenade deck, slowly descending, passing the fallen remains of the ships bridge. Shortly after the bridge, at 110 feet, the guide points downward to the pool. We all give the OK sign and start the descent: first the guide, dropping fast, followed by the Aussie couple, and myself. As we pass 120 feet my computer beeps. Ive entered deco mode.
As if on queue, I hear a POP and a sudden rush of air bubbles. It takes a moment to figure out that my rental-regs octopus is free-flowing. Oh thank you. I turn it mouthpiece-down, a traditional way to stop this sort of thing. It still free-flows. I shake it a bit. Still free-flowing. 130 feet. I pull the primary regulator out of my mouth and take a couple breaths off the octo. Still free-flowing. I put my primary reg back in my mouth. 140 feet. At this point the guide and Aussie divers have no idea whats going on above them, and Im starting to make quick, unhappy decisions. I dont like any of my options. Surface? Not a good idea. Can I reach the emergency tank before my air runs out? Probably not, its 80ft up and 200ft laterally along the promenade. Other divers around? Only the ones sinking like dropped lead below me. They are the nearest air. 150 feet. I shake the octo again, this time like Im try to dislodge a moray. The free-flow stops.
According to my pressure gauge I lost 30bar in the octo incident. More calculations... Thats, uh, what, 400psi? A dark narcosis is vignetting my brain, and math has a fuzzy logic all its own. Why am I even bothering to convert bar to psi? I pull up next to the other divers, whove stopped around 175 feet. I control my breathing and slowly return to a calmer state of mind. The guide descends a bit more to point out the colorful tiles around the pool. Yeah, thats really cool. Can we, like, ascend now?
_______________________
The rest of the dive was mercifully short, and I made it back to the deco stop with about 30bar left. The guide only found out about the regulator problems when I wrote it on a slate at the stop, and the Aussie couple never knew anything had gone wrong.
.
.
