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1279 Words Precisely
Fog Index Factor: 7.09
Non-Fiction
As Published in Scuba Times Magazine
Suffocation
Copyright 1985 TrixiePixGraphics
My company's tug was moored serenely to one of the yacht floats in the boat basin. Having become tired of my ill-fitting Kirby Morgan, I'd tested several new deep sea helmets already that morning, and finding none very satisfactory, dawned yet another and plunged over the side. I walked around the bottom for awhile, perhaps fifteen minutes, adjusting it and moving it around on my head. But it was already uncomfortable, and obvious that after ten or twelve hours the fit would be even painful. I announced to my tender, Paul, that I was coming up, and to have the next hat ready; I could clamp it on without coming fully on deck, which was something of an ordeal, in deep sea dress. Paul said "sure", he'd be ready, and I slowly ascended.
When my face plate broke the surface I saw Paul leaning over the rail of the tug; he was holding an obviously empty gas can, shaking it.
Out of G-A-S, he tried to shout, though I could barely hear him through the heavily insulated hat. He pointed toward the compressor on the deck of the tug, and then down the dock, as if to indicate he was going for more. I chinned myself up on the rail of the tug for a second and looked at the compressor on the deck. It was stopped. And before I could turn my eyes back to Paul he had spun on his heel and was walking nonchalantly down the dock, gas can swinging lightly at his side.
I tried to yell, but almost no sound could escape the helmet, and the com was turned low. Only when he was too far away to hear, I thought of pounding on the rail of the tug. But it was no use. I hung on the seaward side of the tug, straining to look over the rail as my tender walked casually down the float, stopping occasionally to chat with some yachter working on their own boat in the warm sun, and never once glancing back at me.
There was five minutes of reserve air in the light compressor-- one we used only for general errand work in shallow water. On such shallow work I rigged no bail-out bottle.
Presently my tired hands lost their grip of the slippery rail of the tug, and I plopped back into the water. Weighted with a sixty pound lead harness I sank quickly to the bottom. Not knowing how much air remained in the reserve tank on deck, and hesitant to waste it by inflating my suit, I dumped the lead harness and rose to the surface. And my right hand reached for the latch that would release the hat.
After a moment I cursed softly, "Damn!" I couldn't find the mechanism-- but it was an unfamiliar helmet; I remembered then; the latch was on the left, and I tried for it there. But somehow my cold fingers couldn't activate the lever, couldn't figure out just how it needed to be pushed or pulled or twisted-- I couldn't see it of course. And in another moment I realized that I could have a very serious problem.
I lay on the surface of the water then, like a bloated cod, face down, struggling with that latch--- fighting against apprehension, for apprehension often matures to fear, and fear can easily escalate to panic--- and for a diver panic nearly always evolves to death.
Eventually I began to fancy that the air was coming more dryly from the hose, that I was breathing too heavily, sucking, straining, huffing even. My God air is precious-- worth more than gold or diamonds-- or pride-- or money-- A man will sell his soul for a breath, and at the snap of the fingers, or the drop of a hat. Air is so sweet, and to be without it is so....
Presently it was clear that the air was coming less easily from the regulator inside the helmet. There could only be moments or seconds left. I believe I began to thrash lightly, there, in the water, not ten feet from the deck of the tug. Apprehension was winning. Logic and calm and reason were draining away, and slipping through my fingers.
I splashed to the rail of the tug and with superhuman effort-- the strength of the condemned-- pulled myself over and flopped to the deck, knocking the helmet against a fitting and cracking my neck.
For an instant I felt relief. I was on deck, safe, and sound. There was no longer any question of drowning-- I've always been afraid of that. I'd cheated that damned thick water. Here was AIR! --Right outside my hat---! But there was no mistake, then; to drag in a breath was definite work. The reserve tank was nearly out of air.
Laying on the deck I glanced at the pressure gauge mounted on the compressor. My vision was blurring with fog inside the face plate, but the gauge read dangerously low. I wanted to claw at the thin air; I could see it! --Not half an inch away through the thin glass! I wanted to grab it, to pull it into my hat so I could breath it in. It was so absurd! I wanted to press my mouth against the glass-- perhaps a few molecules could be strained through-- I was on the threshold of panic, and I snatched and slapped at that damned release latch.
I kicked my feet, as though they could somehow help. I got up and began to move for the dock side of the tug. I would run down the dock and find some yachtsman who would help-- but as I took three steps my hose caught on some deck fitting and I went down with a great crash.
I wanted to strike out, to hit, to fight back, to kill my attacker. It hurt! But there was no visible enemy. I slammed the helmet against the wood deck of the tug, hoping it would break open like an egg, but it only stunned me.
There was a light wrench lying on the deck, and frantically I pounded away at the glass of the face plate, but it was strong, and designed never to break.
The air inside was hot and thick, though to breath it offered no relief-- only pain. There was not even the oxygen with which to scream. Oh God, I didn't want to die like this. It would be so embarrassing...
Then there was no pain at all.
I felt a jostling, a thumping through my hands and chest as I lay on the cool, rough deck; it was Paul and one of the yachtsmen running and turning me over. There was muffled yelling and confusion, and a loud clicking that resonated through the hat. I opened my eyes to see the sky, and a glint of the handle of a pair of pliers as Paul jerked and twisted at that damnable latch. I recall hoping he'd make it in time... But there was also the curious feeling that if he didn't, it was of no real consequence. I just mildly hoped-- and I hoped he wouldn't feel badly if he was too late. He would have tried. There was no shame.
An instant later there was a rush of cool air, sweet air, different air. It was cold on my sweating face, and I was aware of my chest heaving with great gasps. It was like breathing in a million dollars-- CASH!
Air. What bloody marvelous stuff.
I rested, and in the late afternoon was back at the business of testing hats. I never did find one that fit really well, though the company spent incredible sums over the years in that pursuit.
We notified the government safety board, and even had them come out and look at the hat. The faulty latch was a flaw in design, and five years later the same deep sea helmet was still on the market, with no change in the latch.
