Sinking (Spring Equinox 2015)

Sinking (Spring Equinox 2015) - a reading (on YouTube)


My junior year of college, most of my annually shifting set of dorm-mates were certified divers. Spring break that year, they planned a trip down to the Florida Keys to do some reef diving. I wasn’t a diver and wasn’t much for boating but I love being in the water. So I tagged along with fins and a mask to snorkel.

As soon as we were all free, eleven of us packed into four cars, drove down to Key Largo and camped out by the beach. The next morning, we rented a boat, a fiberglass, center console fisherman just over twenty feet long. We paid for a set number of hours in advance. One guy’s parents were vacationing from England and graciously put up the deposit even though they weren’t coming with us.

All of us piled in the boat, loading fifteen to twenty dive tanks in the back. A lot of people and a lot of gear but it was cleared by the rental company. My roommate Dick was the boat-master. He’d done this type of thing before.

It was a beautiful Florida spring day, warm and sunny without much wind. We motored to John Pennekamp State Park about four miles offshore. Once we were over the reef with fifteen to thirty feet of water below our keel, we ran up a dive flag. My other roommate, Tracey, set our anchor in a large sandy patch between banks of coral so we wouldn’t drift.

We spent most of our time in the water, keeping an eye on the clock for when the boat was due back. None of us was in a hurry. Being poor college students, we all wanted to get the most time for our money. Mid-afternoon, a tourist dive ship pulled up and held station half a mile or more away, playing hide and seek on the edge of our vision for the rest of the day. Seemed like we’d picked a decent spot.

The water was crystal clear and teeming with fish and other sea life. The coral was colorful, densely layered and healthy, at least as far as I could tell. I spent most of my time chasing schools of fish, struggling off and on to get my ears to clear. For me, the freedom and solitude of the water was a subtropical paradise. I tried to stick close to the boat, but now and then found myself swept up by a current and farther away than I would have liked. The seas were mostly calm so swimming back to it wasn’t too much of a problem. The sun was warm but not hot, a pleasant contrast to the cool but not cold water.

By late afternoon, a couple of us noticed the boat had begun riding lower in the water. Initially, Dick wouldn't listen to our concerns. We pestered him until he finally saw for himself that the boat was losing ground, or rather gaining water. He tried the bilge pump but couldn’t get it to fire. He thought maybe the boat was self-draining. So even though we still had divers in the water, he decided to try and get it up on plane to see if it would empty.

When it wouldn't, his expression hardened to concern. But Dick figured if he could keep the boat moving, we’d probably be ok. That meant heading back to shore.

Back on station, he cut the engine and we scrambled to get everyone out of the water. Most of our divers had surfaced, wondering why their ride had fired up for a high speed spin in a long, lazy circle. We frantically called to the divers on the surface and told them to relay the signals to anyone underwater. We were met with much reluctance and confusion. Even though the sun was drifting toward the horizon, we still had plenty of time left on our rental.

By now the boat was riding really low, lower than it had been before. Suddenly, a sense of urgency crept into getting everyone on board. Two guys stood by the back ladder physically pulling each diver and his gear from the water. Tanks and equipment were quickly stowed. With each extra pound of weight added, the boat sank a little deeper. Water climbed a little higher up the side.

I hovered by a gunwale trying to keep out of the way. Everyone was shouting instructions and advice, including me. I focused on getting people into lifejackets, but no one was inclined to listen. They all thought that once we got underway, we’d be fine. Remember those airline lectures about securing your own oxygen mask before helping others? There’s a good reason for that instruction. Once the chaos starts, you just might not have time.

As the last diver heaved his tank onto the dive platform, Dick frantically tried to restart the engine. It just made that rurr-rurr-rurr sound like a car with a battery that was nearly dead. Someone shifted from port to starboard to make room for the new arrival. The deck tilted beneath our feet. Suddenly, water started pouring over the gunwale. And the deck didn’t stop turning.

I dove clear before the sea completely eclipsed the sky. Like a wounded U-boat evading depth charges, our little boat shot straight for the bottom. Tanks and dive gear fluttered away from it on the way down like false markers for an enemy destroyer, or the trail of jetsam that would eventually lead to the rediscovery of our miniature Titanic.

The first thing I remember doing as I broke the surface was cursing, and then swimming. I still hadn’t donned my own lifejacket before the boat had transitioned to a mortally wounded submarine. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what was Plan B?

In front of me, I spotted a string of lifejackets quickly drifting away. So I power stroked after them, throwing one then another then another toward the confused and angry voices behind me. I recovered maybe five before the current dragged the remainder out of reach. I was afraid if I continued after them, this time I wouldn’t make it back. Though I did remember to save the last one for myself. I wouldn’t need to learn that lesson twice.

When I finally looked back to evaluate our situation, I found our group was strung out in a long, ragged line. A quick headcount showed we hadn’t lost anyone. But we were four miles off shore with thirty feet of water between us and the boat that had settled on the sandy bottom. I don’t think there was a radio onboard not that it mattered now. But I didn’t remember anyone calling mayday. We had no flares or strobe lights. Maybe half of us had on lifejackets. At least we knew all of us could swim. Some of the guys still had on their fins.

Some days, it’s better to be lucky than good. Before we had bobbed there very long trying formulate what exactly to do next, that tourist dive ship we’d been playing hide and seek with on the horizon came charging toward us. Someone must have seen us flounder. We found out later they’d just been bringing up the last of their divers when they’d seen us heel over. In another fifteen minutes, they would have been headed back to port. And we would have had to hone our meager survival skills at sea.

The dive ship started pulling our people from the water. I don’t remember where I fell in order; I wasn’t the first but not the last. Only a couple strangers offered us towels, snacks or even condolences. Most just gave us dirty looks or disgusted glares. The crew completely avoided us once they’d fished us out.

A second boat materialized and began rescuing the remainder of our people. They’d heard the dive ship’s mayday and come running. A few minutes later, a third, smaller boat appeared with a trio of divers about our age. My roommates began coordinating with them on salvaging our gear, shouting back and forth across the water.

Once we were all safe and dry, the dive ship’s captain became anxious to get back to port, his maritime duty done. The trio on the smaller boat said they’d finish hauling up our scattered equipment. Contact information was exchanged so we could connect with them on shore. I’m not sure in that moment whether the trio’s intentions were entirely honorable. Or perhaps they were and it was only later that opportunity called them like a siren’s song. Regardless, they seemed friendly as they said they’d return our equipment, no problem. And we had bigger issues anyway, like explaining to the rental company why we were coming back without their boat.

On the journey back, we huddled together like refugees in stunned and embarrassed silence. Thankfully, the dive ship was half empty that day. Everyone left us to our thoughts. That was when the enormity of the situation began to settle in. What the hell had just happened?

On shore, our odyssey was not quite over. The rental company insisted whatever had happened was completely our fault. First they said we’d overloaded the boat, even though they’d approve the number of passengers and equipment. Then they changed tack, saying it must have been something else we’d done. They threatened to confiscate our deposit and make us pay damages. We shot back that their boat had sank out from under us, and their bilge pump had never worked. We were the aggrieved party.

As both sides argued back and forth, their salvage company motored in at twilight with our boat in tow. They’d managed to float it off the bottom without incident, which didn’t exactly help our case. A quick inspection revealed no cracks. In the end we all agreed that assignation of blame would have to wait until they ran a test on the hull. We’d meet again in the morning.

Our next stop was to pick up our gear from the trio of divers. When we finally caught up with them at their condo, they’d decided they deserved a finder’s fee. They returned our fins, masks and snorkels as promised, but wanted hundreds of dollars for the tanks and regulators they could pawn. Money we certainly didn’t have and couldn’t get. Technically, it was all maritime salvage so they had the right to it. Legally, anyway.

Around ten at night, after heated negotiations back and forth, my roommate Tracey tried to play the peacemaker. He identified the most reluctant member of the triumvirate and drew him aside. They talked quietly in the darkness away from the rest of us for a little while. They might have gotten down on a knee to pray. I learned later that Tracey invoked their common Christianity.

Whatever argument Tracey used, the third guy eventually agreed to spring our gear. He’d wait for the other two to leave and then let our people into the condo so we could pick it up. Ironically, he planned to tell his partners they’d been robbed. About one in the morning we got the call, and our guys picked up their equipment. With that we were halfway home. Hopefully no one came looking for us.

The next morning, we all held our breath as the rental company hoisted the boat and began filling it with water. Our hearts began to sink when no cracks miraculously appeared. Then, drips and runnels began forming beneath the fiberglass surface, first sporadic then steady. A spider web of hairline cracks slowly revealed themselves as if written in invisible ink and exposed to a secret element. We all smiled, feeling vindicated. While the company argued they shouldn’t have been enough to sink the boat, they eventually returned our deposit and cut us loose from all liability. They were probably lucky none of us decided to sue.

Before they could change their mind, we quickly piled back into our cars and crawled home, licking our wounds and thanking all the gods of the sea that events hadn't unfolded much differently. At least some of us anyway.

Back at school, bravado took over as we talked about the incident. A handful of our divers insisted we’d never been in any real danger. They were confident that they could have swum back to shore and gotten help even though land was out of sight. I disagreed. I’d swum a mile in controlled conditions on an open lake and knew exactly how tiring it was. Four miles is the type of distance that gets people killed if they've never done it. None of them had. Never mind currents, darkness and disorientation. Or dehydration, exposure and the risk of separation. Had it come to that, the odds were maybe fifty-fifty that not all of us would have made it back.

I’ve always known exactly how lucky we all were that we never had to place that bet. Even thirty years later, I can’t forget the sensation of having a once stable world twist and slip from beneath me. Or that detached feeling of being kid swimming in water way over my head, knowing that whatever happened or however tired I got that I wouldn’t be able to touch. Or seeing the sun sinking toward the horizon as we floated without direction, resigned to spending a night or longer on the open sea.

Looking back, it strikes me that boats are like the equinox, a finely-tuned balance of air and water, one of man’s early engineering marvels. But no matter how idyllic your surroundings, it always pays to be prepared in case wind or weather turn against you. Because should a spider web of cracks upset that equilibrium, water and gravity always win.


© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III