Too Old to Dive

Not Too Old to Dive=

Lloyd Bridges is lon= g dead and gone so I could never suppose to tell him in person what a profound imp= act he had on my life. That impac= t was not on a young child fixed in front of a black and white television in the 1950’s and 1960’s, but many decades later on a grown man who had hit and moved well into his middle age.&nb= sp;

Sea Hunt was the ser= ies Mr. Bridges starred in that so entrenched itself into my memory that as a grown man, the images of “Mike Nelson” breathing underwater are still vivid and exciting. Mike̵= 7;s escapades under the surface of the ocean frequently involved fights with kn= ife wielding bad guys always dressed in black SCUBA gear. Mike always had one of the two air= hoses cut by the bad guy. I remember sitting on the floor in my living room holding my breath for Mike just in c= ase he couldn’t. Of course = it wasn’t until years later that I learned the bad guy always cut his exhaust hose and not the fresh air hose.

As years passed and = the Sea Hunt series disappeared from the T.V. screen my fascination with SCUBA divi= ng waned in the face of the responsibilities of growing up. A career, marriage, family and fin= ancial responsibilities put personal aspirations in the background. When the years passed and the kids= grew up and out of the home, personal goals and ambitions somehow became more important, or at least more viable. Then a chance conversation with a friend a few years ago rekindled t= he memories of Mike Nelson and sparked an ever growing flame of desire to actu= ally learn to SCUBA dive.

With an encouraging = wife at my side, I made the requisite inquiries about learning to SCUBA dive. Of course I had known about METROP= OL most of my career having passed over its information in the former “N= ews and Views” magazine, now known as the “Tour of Duty”. It always seemed like a mysterious untouchable fraternity to me. It just seemed one of those clubs that skulked in the shadows of the Police Service. I knew absolu= tely no one who belonged. I never = once heard anyone talk about it.

So I took the plunge= . (Puns don’t have to be clever to be used)&= nbsp; Through the METROPOL website I signed myself up for the beginnerR= 17;s open water SCUBA course. I had visions of walking into a classroom at 52 years of age and finding a gr= oup of 12 and 13 year olds gathered around desks doing “Introduction to S= CUBA diving” word puzzles. Or doing my first pool work in a wading pool,= parents circling around the perimeter encouraging their kids while giving each other suspicious knowing nods and winks about the “old guy” in his bathing suit playing with the kids. Never taking their eyes off of the “old guy’s” proximity to their children.

Of course this was n= ot the case. A couple of paramedics, another police officer and her friend greeted me on the first day. Albeit all younger then me, it was= far less disconcerting then my pessimistic visions.

Sandy Robb was our c= lassroom and sometimes pool instructor. Dave Nykoliw and Edite Pontes did the majority of our pool instruction. As the only single in the cl= ass I also had the pleasure of buddying up with Dave for most of my instruction. (I’m certain that buddying is not a word in the Dictionary, rather a = word only known in the Diver vernacular.) Stacey Read also came every week that I recalled. So for a class of five people four= of the METROPOL executives came out each and every week. I find this an incredible commitme= nt to the program. This is especial= ly so given that the program ran in February and March when getting out to C.O. B= ick for 6:30 pm was = not always a pleasant venture. Seeing th= is commitment served me well to better understand the people involved.

I won’t dwell = on the Open Water Course only to say that it was not only an excellent learning experience but an enjoyable one as well.&n= bsp; Everyone involved made sure your comfort level was recognized. The anecdotal stories that only an experienced diver can tell drove many points home. The final exam touched upon everything taught in the manual and was not a cake walk by any stretch. Although I was the recipient of a = Keener Coat, I had to work at a few of the dive table questions.=

I was certified at Gulliver’s Lake by Sandy Robb over= a two day period in May of 2007. I can’t say enough about S= andy’s acumen for teaching. Sandy is a wonderf= ul instructor with far more patience and understanding than I have seen in people who are= in the “Patience and Understanding” business. Why I was never slapped up side th= e head as I floated up and sank down time and time again playing with my buoyancy = is beyond me. Even I wanted to s= lap me. However, even in th= e face of my bobble head buoyancy, I managed to satisfy Sandy that I possessed the requisite sk= ills, comfort and confidence to be certified as an Open Water Diver.

I remember driving h= ome after my certification thinking to myself, “Now what?” What happens after you are certified? How do you go diving? Who do you go with? Where do you go? I heard there were many divers who= went to the trouble of getting certified but then never bothered to dive afterwa= rds. Maybe it was just for their resume= , I don’t know, but what an incredible missed opportunity. By this time I had learned that th= ere are SCUBA divers everywhere. = I had worked with several of them and hadn’t known it. But of course as soon as I learned= the secret handshake, they were everywhere.&nb= sp; As time drifted on (another poor pun) I learned that although many people were certified divers, most of them had not strapped on a tank in ye= ars. Some only dove once every co= uple of years when they went down south to clear warm water.

I knew that the METR= OPOL dive club had organized dive weekends.&nbs= p; I had read about the Brockville, Kingston and Niagara trips. I was apprehensive to = even make inquiries as the term “intermediate” was listed beside them all. I made a quick call to Sandy Robb who assured me tha= t she wouldn’t let me drown if I ventured out on one of the club trips. With Sandy’s assurance I signed up for= the Brockville Dive Weekend.

Excited like a child= , I prepped for the weekend. I we= nt over my gear spread out on the living room floor for two days. I added weights, removed weights a= nd added them again. From an out= sider I must have looked like a pathetic little kid ready to pee his pants. I reviewed my manual and practiced= my dive tables just in case my instructor Sandy was using the weekend to test = my worth.

My wife Janet and I = drove out to the lovely town of Broc= kville on the Friday night booking into our room at the Motel suggested by club members. After an almost sleepless night, I was up and going back over my equipment before the sun rose. I’ll confess to s= ome apprehension and nervousness as the St. Lawrence Riv= er was only something that I thought Freighters used for hauling iron ore.

In the morning Janet= and I took a leisurely drive through town to the park at river’s edge with = our extra large Tim Horton’s in hand.&nb= sp; Although being fashionably late never entered my mind, being the fir= st there did. I didn’t wan= t to be the guy standing at the dock with his equipment piled around his feet looking like a lost puppy dog. I needn’t have worried though, as Sandy and her crew had driven down from = Toronto that morning and were waiting at the dock with most of the other club membe= rs. Introductions were fast and furious and I was relieved to actually know a f= ew of the people there. All the members were quick to extend their hands to welcome the new guy and his wife. I was immediately relie= ved and comfortable with the club members and felt like part of them right away. Well almost.=

The secret was to watch. Watch how you carry yo= ur gear like a veteran, how to board the boat and stow your things. Above all, don’t do anything= that would give off signals that you didn’t know what you were doing, whic= h I didn’t. My concern over= any pretense was quickly dissolved however as I listened to club members throwi= ng jabs at each other over their past diving indiscretions. It was at that time that it occurr= ed to me everyone here was human and had been victims of error. I immediately took a liking to Joe Garcia as he seemed to be the target of many of the jabs. Joe took all of the sarcastic barb= s in stride and was quick to point out the short comings of others. I’m sure Joe has a catalogue= of information about each and everyone on board.

Our dive boat, ̵= 6;Little Diver’, was a spacious, albeit old, boat designed for diving. Lots of room to stow your equipmen= t and get suited up. The dive platf= orm gave everyone lots of room to maneuver.&nb= sp; The upper deck was perfect to relax between dives and eat your lunch while grabbing the sun’s rays if she was kind enough to provide them.=

We had four dives sc= heduled over the two days. On Saturda= y we were to dive on the wreck of the “Muskellunge” at about 90 feet= and then the “Robert Gaskin” at around 65 feet later in the day.

Ninety Feet? They had to be kidding. I was fresh out of the 24 foot Gulliver’s lake and they were going to throw me into the St. Lawrence River to a depth of 90 feet. I wondered immediately if they had= ever left Brockville short one or two divers.

However, with Sandy = Robb and Nikki on either side of me I took the plunge and descended to 88 feet on my first real diving adventure. = It was a boat dive, deep dive and a wreck dive all wrapped into one. I believe I had an epiphany on tha= t dive. It was nothing like I had imagined= . It was 100 times better. The deep dark green of the river b= ottom gave way to the shadows of the ship hull slowly. I knew I was in the middle of some= thing that, not only I would remember for the rest of my life, but would never get enough of. As the hull of the= ship loomed closer with each kick my mind raced to questions of the ship’s demise. How had she sunk? How many souls, if any, were= lost when she went down? Was= I swimming over the historic grave of sailors from years gone by?<= /span>

I reached out and to= uched the wooden hull of this mystery and was immediately struck with the historic significance of this and other wrecks in the St. Lawrence. Why was everyone so anxious to fly= off to the Caribbean to dive when this immen= se resource of diving adventure resided here in our back yard? Of course that is a rookie questio= n from someone who has yet to dive in the Caribbean.

One of the dangers o= f this type of dive being your first is the fact that it is completely overwhelmin= g. My breathing was akin to a jet eng= ine consuming air and within a short time I was running low. Not knowing how much air I would n= eed to complete my ascent was never a problem with two experienced divers on my wings. They both kept tabs on= my consumption and even allowed me to play a little longer then I should have. Lord knows I did not want to leave= . Both Sandy and Nikki consume air l= ike sparrows and had lots to share as we sat at 15 feet for our safety stop. I struggled with my buoyancy at the safety stop. I kept feeling m= yself sink and would keep adding air to my BCD.&= nbsp; This only proved to cause Sandy no end of frustration because, unknown to me, it was Sandy who kept pulling= me down. Every time I felt myself going down I would keep adding more air.&n= bsp; Who knew? If nothing e= lse it gave Sandy a good workout.

My arrival on deck a= fter my first “grown up” dive was one of the few times in my life I remember being without words. When Janet asked me how it was, I could only smile and shake my head. It had truly been an experience in= my life that I felt richer for. I immediately understood why club members had hundreds and thousands of dives under their belts. I was read= y for my next dive right now.

Between dives I took= in all the banter between club members about previous dives and personal adventures. Again Joe was the target of some good natured laughs. Something about ending up in the middle of the St. Lawrence shipping channel. I will confess to be= ing a bit concerned about that anecdote as I knew we had three dives left. I also knew with some certai= nty that I did not want to surface looking up into the bow of a freighter barre= ling towards me in the middle of the St. Lawrence River. If it could happen to an experienc= ed diver like Joe then I was prime material for mishap.

Our second dive was = perhaps my favorite dive of the weekend. The “Robert Gaskin” lay in about 65 feet of water. The visibility was much better and= the hull was pretty much in tact sitting upright. The hull sported holes allowing for swimming in an out. I felt li= ke a baby seal slipping in and out of the hull and twisting about her timbers. Again my dive was cut short by my = massive air consumption. I truly want= ed to stay and play at the bottom but there is something inherently dangerous abo= ut having no air at the bottom of the river.&= nbsp;

The end of the secon= d dive marked the end of the diving for the first day. The only bright side to the end of= the day was the knowledge that I still had two dives ahead of me.

After disembarking a= t shore, it was a relief to know we could leave our gear on board overnight and not = have to haul it up to our cars. We= all agreed on a time and a place for dinner and then headed off to our respecti= ve rooms for some rest and relaxation.

Diving is supposed t= o be relaxing. I’m sure it will come to that with me but the tension of the day had caught up to me. I was excited and tired. Overwhelme= d and anxious. I don’t think I could have counted the emotions which I had experienced throughout the day. Maybe it was my age, may= be just because it was my first real diving adventure, but when I got to my ro= om, I dropped unconscious on my bed and slept for an hour.

We all met for dinne= r that evening and again I was mesmerized by the stories of diving adventures. It was almost a surreal experience= as I looked up and down the table sitting among real people who had experienced = real adventures.

After a good dinner,= good company and wonderful stories it was time to call it a night.

The following day we= met again at the docks. This time= I wasn’t nearly as concerned about being early. Janet and I arrived well in advanc= e of everyone else which is to be expected of a new keener like myself.

Nothing I did on the= Brockville weekend= was a disappointment, but my third dive was my first lesson in diving adversity.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Diving into a stiff current and experiencing a free flow problem introduced me to a less attractive side of diving. With the current abov= e us and my free flow only sporadically causing me problems, Sandy Robb and I he= aded down on what was a two tiered type of descent. We descended first into the curren= t to a rock plateau and then made a 90 degree turn to descend to the wreck. A short distance down the second l= eg of our descent I began to feel nauseous. I wasn’t nervous or exhausted. I just felt nauseous. It occurred to me that throwing up= while underwater with a regulator in your mouth could be problematic. I knew it could be done but I want= ed to leave that dubious honour for Dave to talk about. I wanted no such story to tell. Out of an abundance of caution I signaled to Sandy that I was going up. Without a moment’s hesitation, San= dy acknowledged my signal and we began to ascend.

My biggest concern o= ver that aborted dive was the guilt I felt in cutting my dive buddies dive short. Sandy was very gracious about missing h= er dive and just shrugged and said, “It happens.” I wasn’t so sure but had to = resign myself to accepting what had happened and being grateful that my dive buddy= was as forgiving and gracious about it as she was. I thank her for that.

Of course my nausea = went away shortly after getting out of the water. Had time permitted I would like to= have tried it again but that will have to wait for another day.

Between dives I reme= mber overhearing Brody Smollet say that he was marking his 100^th dive. I’m sure there we= re others on board with more dives but I remember thinking how unattainable th= at number seemed. I can only hop= e that I will see that number and more.

Our last dive of the= weekend was my most interesting. It w= as a dive on the “Lillie Parsons” in 59 feet of water. It was also considered a drift dive where we descended from the boat and then met up with the boat down river a= fter the dive. Once again I was gl= ad to have an experienced diver along. Once we got to the end of the rope at the bottom of the River, there= was no wreck. At least I didnR= 17;t see it. I don’t think S= andy or Roy, my other dive buddy, saw it either. I did see a few other divers from another dive boat floating around looking for it though. Sandy just grabbed her compass, looked down at it and pointed us off in a directi= on down current. I just followed= . Sure enough, we found the side of = the hull of the Lille Parsons. We didn’t spend much time at her hull though and the current made it difficult to hold on to her. = Then the fun began as we let go and allowed the current to take us down river. Akin to flying through the air, the three of us floated down the rock face of the island. It wasn’t a long dive but fl= oating with the current was fun. We = ended up at the other side of the island where the dive boat was nestled into a c= alm shallow bay.

It was sad to have t= he weekend end. I remember that distinct feeling of sadness as I loaded my gear back into my car. The only thing I could look forward to was downloading all the pictures my wife took= so that I could relive the weekend over and over again.

I don’t think I possess the words to properly explain what a profound impact my new found passion has had on me. At 52 = years of age one sometimes thinks that life has little left to throw at you that = can excite and thrill. But that i= s not the case. My Dive weekend wit= h the wonderful members of Metropol has opened my soul to an entirely new avenue = of adventure that seems endless. I can’t wait until the next time.

Larry Linton