AD 2017 Q4

Seemingly minor problems can amount to
bigger ones under water. Predive anxiety
and a fogged mask compounded to nearly
trigger a state of panic in this diver.
It was a beautiful, placid day on the Straits
of Mackinac — a rare state of affairs at the
convergence of Lake Michigan and Lake
Huron in Michigan. Holly was a relatively new
diver but had taken to the sport like a fish.
After completing her open-water course the
year before, she had been eager to gain experience at
every opportunity.
This dive was to be a crowning achievement. We were
set to descend onto a 600-foot-long shipwreck resting
on its side in 100 feet of water. The Cedarville, like many
Great Lakes shipwrecks, has something of an undeserved
bad reputation. Sure, these wrecks can be challenging
to dive due to cold water and frequently unpredictable
currents and surface conditions. But in the past 30
years the lakes’ invasive zebra mussels have dramatically
increased visibility — from an average of 10 feet to about
80 feet. The ability to see what you’re getting yourself into
can make a dive much more benign. Based on Holly’s
father’s own experiences 30 or 40 years earlier, however,
he believed the wreck to be rather dangerous and had
told her so on several occasions.
We suited up and splashed near the stern mooring;
this provided easy access to cabins as shallow as
60 feet. Everyone was having a great time as we
swam along, casually inspecting the hulk’s features:
freshwater tanks on the aft cabin roof, the skylight to
the engine room, the smoke stack and the coal bunker.
I was leading the dive and often swam backward to
keep an eye on my flock.
Forward of the coal bunker, the wreck is basically
one gargantuan cargo hatch after another all the way
to the bow, so this was as good a turning point as any.
Before we headed back, however, I wanted to make
a brief foray into the mammoth, cathedral-like cargo
hold. I motioned for the gang to follow and finned
ahead, gliding through the hatch like a Volkswagen
entering a commercial aircraft hangar. Like any
“cavern,” the hold is dark, especially at first. After a
minute or two, once your eyes have adjusted to the
low light, you realize that getting out of the current
has caused the visibility to improve. Through the
gloom you can see more than 100 feet, and the row of
enormous cargo hatches letting in beams of blue-green
light is a sight to behold. (It’s not unlike the famous
black-and-white photo of Grand Central Station.)
When I turned around I was surprised to see that
none of the group had followed. Was the hold really that
intimidating? The opening is so huge that it hardly counts
as a cavern. But they were still outside, so I headed back
out to join them. Outside the hold, I sized up a whole
new situation. Holly was no longer swimming casually
in a prone position. She was now vertical, fins aflutter.
I recognized her intent immediately and made haste to
arrest what was about to become an emergency ascent.
The rapid egress of bubbles from her regulator told me
she was breathing just fine. I took her hand to physically
maintain our proximity in the water column and further
assessed the situation. She returned an OK sign, but she
clearly wasn’t feeling it. She gave a second, much more
insistent sign: ascend.
I could just barely see Holly’s wide, panicked eyes
through the fog in her mask, so I motioned to her to clear
it, which she did. Within three frantic breaths, it was
again fully fogged up. I now understood what was going
on. I led her back to the mooring line, and we all made a
normal ascent and safety stop and exited the water.
Amid the excitement of the upcoming dive and
the thrill of buying new gear, no one had explained
to Holly that her brand new mask first needed to be
thoroughly scrubbed out before a defogging agent
could effectively do its job. Her entire experience of
the Cedarville had unfortunately been consistent with
her father’s recollections and stern warnings. Though
I was merely 10 feet away when I swam into the cargo
hold, from her perspective I completely disappeared
into utter blackness.
That was the final straw: A state of panic began to
take hold then and impair her judgment. Despite her
brother and another instructor being right there, she
began swimming for the surface, which threatened
to create numerous problems: separating the group,
getting divers swept away in the current and, worst of
all, risking injury with an out-of-control ascent.
Looking back, this incident was a classic example of
a situation snowballing. Little things matter, and they
can quickly accumulate. A dab of toothpaste in Holly’s
new mask or improved awareness of the anxiety she
was feeling about the dive might have prevented this
near miss, which fortunately ended well.
Holly is a formidable spirit and has since returned
to the wreck several times — conquering her nemesis,
as she put it. I’ve seen problems no bigger than these
snowball into dive fatalities. It’s easy to say, “It’s just a little
mask (or snorkel or fin strap), what could go wrong?”
but every new piece of equipment should be tested on a
shallow, controlled dive — and every feeling of concern
or discomfort should be heeded. AD
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