It was just before 11:00 when the horn sounded and the crew pulled in the bar,
sending a steward to the bow to gather us out of the roiling waters. I had
already descended to the Bimini with hook-line and sinker in search of calmer
water. My stab jacket full of nitrox, I searched the surface for a sausage,
grabbing my pony bottle out of which my tangled octopus floated in the
thermocline. Armstanding off the rusted gunwale 38 meters below, I piked into
a tuck roll, shucking my backplate and headed toward a blue hole.
My Aquatimer screamed its diminished minutes as I cut through my bell
harness believing it to be a whale line and ascended blindly into the light
above. Just as I broke the surface of the water, my J-valve slammed shut as
the crew grabbed me with a Jonline. In less than an hour I was dry, dressed,
and regaling those with whom I dined with my tales of the deep, the
Aquatimer safety on my wrist.
