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2370 Words Precisely
Fog Index Factor: 6.75
Written 4-11-82
Non-Fiction
Copyright 1983 TrixiePixGraphics
42 Fathoms
The crew is readying my gear. One last bounce to the bottom is needed to wrap up six days of grueling work. We are seriously behind schedule; we are out of helium; and we cannot afford the hours to fly in new tanks. I remember thinking, "This is how men die."
The hum of activity around me seems hushed. Are the men unusually quiet because they knew they're leading me to my demise like a sacrificial lamb, or because they sense my fear and are embarrassed to acknowledge it? The bastards! They know I don't want to do this! They try to joke, but they do it self consciously, and I know they are glad not to be going themselves.
I can function at 200 feet. I know my own physiology. But this......
I feel the heavy helmet being lowered over my head, like the lid of my coffin. For a moment I fight back the urge to push the hat away, to refuse to do the dive. But before I can act the helmet is settled onto my head, and the moment has passed.
The helmet is still wet from an earlier dive. It's clammy against my face, and I wonder, for a second, if the previous user suffered some contagious disease. I chuckle to myself: What a thing to think! "Just before he died," the eternal records would say, "he worried about catching cold..." And the seal of the helmet is driven home. I hear the snap of the locking devices and realize it is final..
The buckles of my lead harness smack closed against my chest. I hear the familiar knock on the exterior of the hat, signaling that I am ready. They're in a bloody hurry to see me go, I think.
I try to etch into memory some final vision of the cool, wet night through my face plate as I prepare to step off the deck, into the dark world below. But, curiously, I sense no impending doom, no vision of Saint Peter gently beckoning me forth, no gleaming revelations to be taken to heart in these final moments. There is only the tug, and the dark silhouette of the shore, and the sky and the men and the seabirds as they have always been. There is no sign from above, no opening of the heavens to mark my passage, no trumpets or cheering or tears.
For a moment, in a ghastly daydream, I can envision the scrambles and shouts of the crew as they pull my lifeless form aboard, sixty minutes from now. There will be sadness and regret, and the certain hindsight that the dive should not have been attempted in the first place.
Then a noise jerks me back to reality: I am on my feet.
As my crew steadies me I move ponderously in my deep sea gear, across the wide deck to the rail of the tug, and I step forward.
I fall the few feet to the water and enjoy it. It is as though one steps calmly from a high cliff. It is as if I can fly...... And too soon the soft sea rises up to engulf me.
My canvas suit wraps tightly around me, embracing me, pinching in spots. The weight of my gear pulls me down. I could not hope to tread water or to keep my head up for I am far too heavy to float.
Dark green water covers the face plate and I feel for an instant that I shouldn't breathe. It's a curious sensation that comes and passes quickly. I am familiar with it, and reassured by it.
The emerald water clears itself of bubbles. I sink down faster. I reorganize my thinking. All that matters is the dive. I can no longer afford the luxury of frivolous thoughts. Work begins.
The sounds of the wind and the noise of the machinery and of men talking and shouting are replaced. I hear only the Ssssstt-Shooo of my breath taking in compressed air, and the irregular rumble of the bubbles escaping to the surface. I am so alone.
But as my mind clears there are other sounds: The quiet staccato of the tug's compressors, pounding relentlessly away at her bilge plates like some far off helicopter---this is felt in the chest and throat, as well as being heard.
There are sharp clicks and clacks of unknowable origin; the distant, muffled sounds of splashing, the clack-ping-clunk of something shifting and blowing in the breeze of ocean current far below me-- probably on the wreck of the Sea Hawk itself.
My face plate fogs. I am perspiring. I turn a knob on the exterior of my helmet, and air hisses gently through my defogger vents, then rumbles heavily out through the exhaust ports, and starts its long journey to the surface. My face place clears like the windshield of a car.
I look up and see the green hue of the murky water, brighter above, as illuminated by the glaring work floods on the vessels above me. The lights seem like great probing eyes, almost evil things, searching for some bit of life below, and I find that I wish to avoid them. Like a fish I seem to think there is safety in the darkness.
I strain my eyes to see into the unfathomable depths. The sea blends to brown, then to an eerie, vacant black beyond my feet. It is an abyss. --Only a few hundred feet of airless void, yet it is infinity.
But now I am deep, and it is growing so dark I can no longer see my own hand. I wave it back and forth in front of my faceplate---but is it really there, or do I only imagine it?
I slide effortlessly down my taut cable. At sixteen stories below the tug I am suddenly struck with the notion that something is down there, lurking in the dark, waiting for me with jaws wide and eyes bulging in anticipation. The space below is too vast to be uninhabited. Something is there, there in the shadow! My God it is waiting for me! It knows I am coming!
Instinctively I pull my feet up and curl into the fetal position. It is the only defense I have against the horrible, snapping creature below.
But I've been this far before, and I tame the on-rushing wave of apprehension.
I force myself to look downward again, and realize that my legs and body have not changed position after all--- I only imagined they had, for a moment....
"Unprofessional!" I tell myself. Even as the creature who surely waits below makes his attack and bites my body in half, I must calmly control my breath and deliberately take evasive measures without panic.
I pass through one hundred ninety feet and I dutifully report to the surface crew.
"How do you feel?" comes down the wire...
"Fine, no problem," I coolly retort.
A moment later I report again; "Passing two twenty five; uh, give me a little slack on the umbilical, will you Ron? --Roger, that's fine. Thanks..."
As I glide silently through this depth I notice that the myriad mysterious sounds of the first two hundred feet are muted now. There is a gradual yet distinctive hush over the miscellaneous undersea chatter of several moments before. It is as if I'd been sitting in a crowded theater, enduring the sporadic yells and conversation of a thousand anxious children in the seats, and then, without warning, the curtain is opened and the audience falls silent, waiting. At this depth the pressure of the sea seems to crush even the essence of sound.
As I slide deeper there is utter silence but for the exaggerated sounds of my own breath, heaving laboriously with the thickness of the air under pressure. It is like forcing something other than thin atmosphere into your lungs. It requires considerable effort to pull it in, and I am aware of every breath, loud and rasping in my ears. I reach to the side of my helmet and dial in more pressure. It does not help.
I feel the gas lapping at my mouth. It tickles as it falls heavily into my lungs. Small eddies of air currents swirl about my vocal cords and tongue. I feel tiny whirlpools of breath around the corners of my mouth. It comes stiffly through my regulator. I feel as though the labor of my breathing might awaken the denizens of this dark and surreal world. I try to be silent.
I approach the depth of the deck of the Sea Hawk, and I flick on my light, hoping it has not been crushed by the pressure. A feeble beam pushes weakly at the darkness. I shine it downward and am overwhelmed by the immensity of the place. I feel smaller than I had in the total darkness. I hope the illumination does not attract an unfriendly visitor and I am tempted to switch it off quickly before it can be seen.
The water seems clear, but I can't be sure how far the beam penetrates. I shine it off horizontally; visibility could be two feet or two hundred, there is no object to be used for perspective. Even the quivering cable seems only to extend into infinity, above and below. At least in space you have the relativity of planets and stars to keep you connected to reality. In this endless black void I am lost.
I casually shine my light downward again, and am horrified to see an immense shape rushing up at me. It is the largest, most evil and sinister looking thing I have ever seen. I begin to make a sound--And suddenly it is upon me.
It is the deck of the Sea Hawk at 252 feet. I have arrived.
I stagger slightly under the weight of ninety pounds of lead, and I know that I am narced. I'm giddy, and I hear myself mumbling. I hear myself giggling. I am absolutely fearless now, and not at all uncomfortable. Apprehension? It has evaporated. I cannot recall what the word means.
I muse over the muscles of my arm rippling gently through my suit and I feel cold. The suit is paper thin at this depth and I feel as though I am wearing but a light cotton shirt on a cool summer day. Every swirl of warmer current or cold is like a light breeze on my back. I remember mowing the lawn when I was a kid. It was hot, and when I was through, a wind stuck my sweat-soaked shirt to my skin....
I realize that I am inside a device. It is my helmet. I cannot seem to recall why I am in it.
Standing on the forepeak next to a bollard as tall as I am, I shine my light and I see a shadow through the dark pilot house windows of the ship. I heartily invite the danger. I beckon it on for I know I can destroy it with my gun.
It does not come forth but fades and shimmers as a reflection would, and I laugh, mocking the imagined creature's unwillingness to come and fight. I am as intoxicated as a drunk who has consumed a dozen shots in rapid succession, and the illusion itself is exhilarating. I can feel my own strength, my power, and I am sad that no undersea dragons will come forth to be slain. I crave adventure now. I am strong; I want to fight!
Suddenly my train of thought is disrupted. I sense something familiar, a sound. A human voice. I am irritated at the intrusion. I try to shut it out.
But my crew is only doing their job, as we had prearranged. They are talking to me, bringing me around, back to reality as best they can. It is time to go to work at the bottom of the sea.
I need only connect a device that will secure the last wire of the derrick above, to the sunken ship. And suddenly I realize that the odd cylindrical shape in my hand isn't some marvelous weapon with which to slay the sea's most horrendous creatures. It is only a shackle pin.
I struggle to focus but my mind wanders. I wonder if I am hopelessly tangled in the wreckage. The seriousness of my plight hits me now, and I know I have been frivolous in my hallucinations, and I re-double my efforts at completing my task. A shot of adrenaline courses through my veins-- how foolish I have been to indulge the narcosis! Perhaps I am already lost--
I run my hand along the umbilical. It seems unobstructed. It seems to lead cleanly away from the ship. Where does it lead? What was I worried about a moment before?
I hear voices again. I am here to do a job. I giggle again, because I cannot remember what it is. I do not care what it is. I want to stay here forever....
On the surface, to screw a pin in a hole would require five seconds of elementary thought. But here, now, the task consumes eleven minutes, and requires every ounce of attention and concentration I can humanly muster.
Presently it is done, at least I believe it to be, and I check and recheck my work to be certain I did not imagine the entire affair. I pull the shackle to me. I shake my head to throw off the confusion. My helmet clacks against the anchor winch and the free-flow valve is knocked open. It is hard to exhale. My helmet is trying to blow itself from my head. The voices are bothering me again. I do what they command. The free-flow stops.
I study the shackle for long minutes, straining my eyes and my mind to be sure of what I am seeing and thinking. But a clear moment prevails; the pin is secured, and I begin the ascent.