Diving for Goats, St. Thomas: Part Three

BE SURE TO READ PARTS 2 AND 3 FIRST
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Here was a scene with faint echoes of Jules Verne. Like the diving suits hanging from the walls of the Nautilus, our equipment was lined up on a rectangular wall. We backed into our equipment; it was placed on us by the employees and adjusted. The walk across the beach and into the water was awkward, to say the least. Movement, of course, is easier underwater, but it can be strenuous even there. Experts say that scuba diving burns 574 calories per hour—more than whitewater kayaking, more than surfing and only slightly less than mountain biking.

We walked into the sea until the water was up to our chest. Now it began. We submerged.

It seemed such a simple thing beforehand—how could breathing through a mouthpiece be difficult? But we had been warned that most people would suck air like it was the last breath of life. It is—to put it mildly—unnatural to take a breath underwater. Logic is overtaken by instinct, which screams loudly: “This is a shortcut to the worm farm.”

We stayed in the shallows, practicing various skills: recognizing hand signals, recovering a lost air hose, clearing our masks of water. Then our guide signaled to follow and we began the swim into deeper water.

We were told to relieve the pressure in our ears every 10 or so feet of descent (I don’t remember the exact distance) by pinching our nose and blowing through it—just as you do in an airplane. I was religious about it, and everything seemed to be going well. My wife, as I would find out later, was having more trouble than I was and nearly quit, but at the last moment, equalized the pressure and reduced the pain.

At first, the bottom was just sand, nothing spectacular except for the dappled lights shining on the sandy bottom. I focused on our guide, who had a line running out from a yellow spool on his hip. The line went to the surface, no doubt to a buoy or marker keeping track of our position. We would find out later that they also had a diver floating on the surface watching over us. Safety was a prime concern.

There was that sound—familiar from the movies—of underwater breathing and bubbles rising to the surface. But otherwise, silence. This was truly a “blue world,” a whole new dimension. But I can’t say that everything was comfortable at first. I’m not sure that the weights given me were correct; it was often hard work just keeping at a level depth and it took some effort to descend. My wife had an exceptionally hard time; she kept bobbing toward the surface, but our guide was able to adjust her weights.

We made our way to a small reef that had a pole going to the surface—likely as a navigational beacon warning boats where the reef was.

The reef itself, though not huge, was more like my Jules Verne expectations. There were plenty of fish and some unusual (for us) sea life. Our guide pointed them out, handing some to us to hold, including one that seemed to me to be a dinosaur sized daddy long legs.

We saw no sharks, nor even barracudas (as we once had while snorkeling in Key West). By now, my breathing was normal and I was very comfortable except for a very dry mouth—no doubt from sucking huge quantities of oxygen early on.

We probably spent about 45 minutes diving. The swim back to the shore was uneventful, but getting out was just as awkward as walking in.

We hung around the beach and soaked up the sun sitting on the warm sand while the other groups finished. Coki Beach, though small, is beautiful. Today it was packed with noisy families having a great time. Back on the bus, our friend who had panicked was all smiles: he had gone again with another group and this time he had made it.

Today’s dining theme for lunch back on the ship was “island foods.” We sat in the buffet area, next to a window showing us the bay and mountains surrounding Charlotte Amalie and talked about what we had accomplished while we made runs up to the serving area, sampling the local fare.

My wife came back to the table carrying a bowl of steaming food. She was absolutely expressionless as her fork dove into the food.

“It’s goat stew,” she said, looking not at me but at the pieces of meat floating in the gravy. “Excellent.”

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Travels of the heart, mind and spirit.