Clockwise from top left: A frequently dived wreck, the Jake seaplane is one reminder of Palau’s war-torn history. Glittering alien creatures fill the water column during Palau’s famous blackwater dives. It’s well worth the early wake-up call to watch Palau’s bumphead parrotfish spawn at dawn. 78 | FALL <strong>2017</strong>
made it a favorite of wreck divers. We carefully inspect the depth charges and helmets before moving forward, passing the compass that sits on the bridge and circling the bow. Before ascending we take our time looking over the items that rest near the stern gun: boxes of detonators and bottles, a gas mask and dishes. Palau’s violent history is again made clear when we dive the IJN Iro. This Japanese oil tanker was bombed multiple times while at anchor, which killed 50 crew members, including the captain. The Iro is a monstrous upright structure, 470 feet long, and the persistent rain has turned the water column murky. With the main deck lying at a shadowy 90 feet, I can’t help feeling spooked as the huge stern gun comes into view. The wooden structures that once shielded the platform are gone, leaving behind an eerily skeletal framework. There are no other divers around us, and I feel the need to look behind me, paranoia taking hold as a result of narcosis or thoughts of bloody war. When we ascend toward the aft mast and then the towering goalposts amidships, I feel my nerves loosen. The posts, carpeted by anemones that provide homes for dozens of tomato anemonefish, are reeflike enough to impart familiarity and relief. The Chuyo Maru, another ship that was bombed at anchor, is a short ride away. This 285-foot-long freighter rests upright at 115 feet, and though smaller and shallower than the Iro, it’s no less fascinating. We explore the stern gun and nearby ammunition boxes, each covered with a colorful combination of sponge and black coral. Meanwhile, the tech divers in our group beeline straight for the silty, overhead comfort of Chuyo’s engine room, its incredibly intact components famous among wreck enthusiasts the world over. We rendezvous at the upright kingposts, watching together in admiration as anthias rise from the abundant hard coral. Perhaps the most commonly visited war relic here is a seaplane (thought to be sunk while stationary) commonly called the Jake. Resting in a pristine coral garden in 45 feet of water, the plane’s nose is layered with hard corals and sponge, and wire coral pokes from the cockpit and wings. The sun has made a brief appearance during our dive, and in the late afternoon rays, the scene is oddly peaceful. SUNDOWN AND SUNUP Our time in Palau is dwindling by the time we’ve conjured the motivation to do a night dive. With the reefs and wrecks and schooling fish and sharks, I’ve found it hard to get enthusiastic about being tethered under a skiff over nothingness. It takes a minute to get accustomed to it; a mild current is running (no surprise there), giving us the strange sensation that we’re drifting through space. That impression is furthered by the alien beings that pass by at regular intervals. At first glance they are nothing special, just specks of crud in the water, but my perception changes when I aim my light’s beam and look closely. How have I missed this before? The nighttime open ocean, it turns out, is filled with gleaming, darting babies, the tiniest of which are protected by transparency — this is the basis of blackwater diving. I forget about the deep water and concentrate as our guide points out various creatures to me. My poor camera lens struggles to focus, as do my inexperienced and aging eyes. After 30 frustrating minutes, I decide to stick with older — and blessedly pigmented — creatures, making exceptions for squid and tiny jellyfish. Hours pass in a psychedelic blur, and when I surface under a star-filled sky, I feel oddly tranquil (despite the certainty that this was one of the least-productive photographic dives of my life). It’s a moment of weakness, so when the guide asks me how I’d feel about doing a spawning dive the next morning, I’m easy prey. Serenity and niceties are in short supply when my alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m., and our small group of suckers staggers groggily toward the coffee, grunts at one another and blearily boards the skiff we disembarked only hours before. We make a short run to an unnamed site, gear up and drowsily roll into the dark ocean, the moonless sky having clouded over once again. Below us we can make out dozens, then hundreds of bumphead parrotfish pacing back and forth over the shallow reef. This spectacle alone is almost worth the price of admission — each fish is more than 4 feet long, and because they’re a vulnerable and heavily overfished species, viewing hundreds of them at once is almost more than my unfocused brain can handle. But I know that something more is happening, something big. We follow the mass of parrotfish to deeper water, where they meet up with masses and masses of other parrotfish. Thousands of bumpheads now mill around below us as we desperately monitor our depth and try to decide how best to photograph this huge gathering of fish with almost no ambient light. Suddenly, a cluster of fish bolts upward into the water column, a female releasing her eggs, surrounded by a throng of males releasing sperm. A fat bull shark plows toward them, missing the amorous mob by inches. The bumpheads continue to swim, and we follow them doggedly, breathing away our air supplies at an alarming rate. As a dim morning light penetrates the water, the fish rise and fall again and again and again, the ocean misty with a new generation. ALERTDIVER.COM | 79
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