The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.
Columnist Sherryanne De La Boise
In 2015, I was off to Raja Ampat, Indonesia with National Geographic. The pristine, protected waters there are the intersection of several tectonic plates, with steam vents and creatures found nowhere else. Since NG said there would be opportunities to scuba, I enrolled in Learn to Scuba. For 16 weeks, the instructor terrorized us with all of the ways we could die, from unfilled air tank, getting caught in fishing lines, or becoming a tasty morsel for a passing barracuda.
Once in the swimming pool, my long suffering Huzband panicked about drowning (forgetting he could just put his foot down and just stand up). As he swam, he released a horrific mass of bubbles, a sign of a diver under stress. Anyone swimming above him would enjoy a free Jacuzzi-style bubble treatment. He looked so adorable in all that scuba gear, but no dice. Once we got to Raja Ampat, even snorkeling was forsaken. For, he discovered he could see the reefs in an inflatable glass bottomed boat with adult beverages.
Properly terrified, the rest of the scuba class headed to the quarry in Kankakee. The quarry was surrounded with artificial palm trees of both the plastic and neon variety. Objects were sunken for divers to explore, like empty school lockers (Davy Jones), a crashed airplane (Amelia Earhart), and a sunken ship (the Leaking Lena). Even though it was June, the water was bone chilling cold. I doubted my sanity at pursuing scuba, when we reached the point where we had to take off our masks underwater. Sending air through my nose to empty the mask of water is pure hell. But, I did it and passed.
Called NG immediately and told them the good news. I'm going diving with them!
"Oh, no. You can't dive with us unless you are a Certified Advanced Diver with at least 30 dives in your logbook."
With one dive and 2 months until departure, I risked $1,000 for airfare and a week on Blackbeard's Live Aboard in Nassau, Bahamas. I highly recommend doing this. No luxury cruise. My well-packed rolling suitcase (not the aluminum one) was left on the dock. I was made to forsake everything but two bathing suits, pj's, sweatshirt, three cover-ups, towel and toothbrush. No face cream, sunscreen, lounge wear (with matching shoes) for under the stars. We slept on bunk-beds. We ate at a picnic table in the hold under the clothesline of drying towels. The shower water was "recovered" engine and toilet water. I spent the week very salty and drank wine with every meal.
Eight of the 24 passengers were Dads on their annual vacation each with their adult sons. These men traveled the world, a week at a time, doing scuba. There was also a French mother who wanted her daughter involved with the wealthiest father or son. Early on, she used up the broadband doing background checks. Boy was she working it when my assigned dive buddy turned out to be the desired one (But, that's another story).
My dive buddy was a large, heavyset man. In his black gear, he attracted more than the French Mama: A Sucker fish kept mistaking him for a whale and traveled with us for many days, just to attach itself to the underside of his belly. Any time we saw a shark or a barracuda, I would slowly drift to his other side, making certain he was between me and the predator. A woman of traditional build might be viewed as a tasty morsel by certain creatures. I was not going to be devoured before Raja Ampat.
The critters below were well worth the drama aboard ship. Every diver keeps a log of date, time, location, gear and depth in a logbook. Most were a stapled pile of index cards. But a few had scrapbooks which included airline tickets and brochures. On every dive, I tried to draw one thing that I had seen and record a new experience into my logbook. My fish and coral sitings were significantly helped after sea water drenched the log turning them into water color drawings.
We did night dives and got attacked by tiny red creatures that followed beams of light. Had to be careful not to "sunburn" the brain coral with our brilliant torches.
Swimming to an island beach dive, we picnicked in the white sand and had a longer swim back to the sailboat, as the tide had come in. We did one where the current tossed and turned you, like you were in a washing machine with turtles alongside, just like in the "Finding Nemo" film. I dragged my bedding to the deck and slept under the stars. 21 dives added to my logbook. I hope you get the chance to do this. It was really fun.
Once again, dear reader, I have gotten long winded. I promise I will finish this tale next week.