Part 40 A Mexican Odyssey

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Dumb Diving
By Bill Reed

From around 1976 to 1989, SCUBA diving was an almost daily event for me. Sylvia became quite professional also, and often followed me down to depths approaching 180 feet. I usually went on down to 200, worked a minute or so looking for the big ones, then joined her for our decompression ascent. She always leveled off above me, watching carefully for any signs of distress. At those depths, diving alone is a no, no. The major cause for concern is the accidental loss of air. In that case, the diver in distress can signal for help, then "buddy breathe" with the assisting diver by taking alternate breaths of air from the same regulator.

I had lost air on many occasions, but had always managed to make it back, somehow. Sylvia, Gerardo Velasco, Javier Gutierrez, Lalo Moreno, Savoy, had all warned me repeatedly: "Billy, you're pushing it too far...." I wouldn't listen of course. I was UDT trained, and the Under-Water Demolition Team was the forerunner of the U.S. Navy SEALS. I was the best damn diver in the whole world! But even the best diver in the whole world can get into serious problems underwater if he gets too cocky, and doesn't use common sense. My turn came on a diving trip with Gerardo Velasco. My theoretical safe diving time - including a decompression stage while hunting for smaller fish in caves up the sides of the big island-rock of Los Arcos - was 32 minutes. A perfect arrangement, which wasted no time ascending by stages in open water. As I was decompressing, I was shooting fish. I did this so often, without mishap, that I became careless on occasion, pushing for just a little more than my carefully pre-computed two minutes bottom time. That's what happened on that fateful dive with Gerardo Velasco. Gerardo and I had been diving together for some time now, and he had become so professional that I trusted him completely to watch my back. He leveled off at 180 feet, and I went on down to 200, looking for that last big one.

I found nothing, clocked my ascent time, and was about to head upwards, when a monster tuna spun by me and then continued on down, beyond 200 feet. I chased him, couldn't catch him, and started my ascent. I noticed that I was at 220 feet. I had been at max and beyond for four minutes. I figured that I had just enough air to make it back by using my reserve air supply (another no, no for any diver). I switched to reserve and ... nothing! The air flow stopped completely! Undoubtedly a broken or jammed release valve, I thought. I had 220 feet to surface, with no air in my tank. I assure you that that is impossible, even for the real Superman. You couldn't hold your breath and attempt it, since the existing air, under pressure in your lungs, would expand with the decreasing pressure through ascent, and your lungs would literally explode. Ascending, one had to get that compressed air out of the lungs by exhaling slowly and steadily. If you tried to hold your breath and shoot to the surface, you would assuredly contract the bends due to the inability of your bloodstream to so quickly clear excess nitrogen bubbles. They would lodge in your joints, or elsewhere, and either cripple you for life, or lead to a possible fatal internal hemorrhage. So I had some interesting choices about the manner of my death, but die I surely would unless I got air, immediately.

I signaled to Gerardo. He saw me. He was also just about out of air, but he started down to assist me. Then he stopped. I saw his indecision. He had enough air to make it back alone, if he started upwards at that moment, otherwise Quien sabe? We stared at each other through face masks for a few seconds; a moment of truth that seemed to stretch out for an eternity. Then he pantomimed a shrug and came down for me. That seemingly careless shrug actually meant (and we both knew it) that if we were going to die, we were going to die together.

We buddy breathed on the way up. While buddy breathing, one should take no more than three short intakes of air, then pass the regulator back over. My body was so starved for air by this time, however, that my teeth locked involuntarily onto the mouthpiece, and I took more air than I should have. Finally Gerardo jerked the regulator hose away from me. He got the hose, but the mouthpiece stayed locked firmly in my teeth! When I realized what had happened, I took the mouthpiece from my mouth and tried to reattach it. Instead, I dropped it. We watched it sink slowly downwards into that deep dark void, and realized that we might well soon be following it. Now we had only the bare metal stem from which to suck air, and that permitted water to mix with the air intake.

Gerardo's eyes widened. He began to gesticulate wildly.
We still had some 90 feet to go before reaching the surface. What could I do? Then it dawned on me that before I switched to my reserve I was still getting some air from my main tank. It had been hard to suck out of there, at that depth, but it should logically be easier to do so now, since the ambient water pressure around us had decreased considerably. Was it possible? I switched my own tank back to main, and lo and behold I had air.

Not much, but at least we now had a sturdy, intact, mouhpiece to suck on. It was just enough. When we hit the surface, the tank was dead empty. So was I. I had used up every ounce of energy in my 50-year-old body.

I didn't even have the strength to dog paddle.

And of course the damned boat was nowhere in sight. I said to myself, Aw, the hell with it! I was ready to let go and sink back into the depths. It would be peaceful down there. I would be able to rest. I began to sink.

Gerardo dove down and pulled me back to the surface. He slapped me hard across the face, repeatedly, and supported me on the surface while at the same time calling for the boat. Carlos finally heard him, then located and picked us up.

It was a long time before I went SCUBA diving again (all of two weeks). I knew that I would never come closer to death than that and be able to talk about it. For some time after that close call, Gerardo and I took up safer sports, such as Beach Parties and Beach Golfing.