AD 2015 Q4

OFF THE RADAR
The goal was to broaden our dive horizons by jumping
off the beaten path. In Tasmania we were destined to
succeed big time. Tucked beneath the bulk of mainland
Australia, this island serves up some of the world’s best
temperate-water diving.
The seed of inspiration for a trek to Tassie was
planted 20 years ago by photos I saw in National
Geographic — pictures of strange creatures, shadowy
kelp forests and invertebrate-plastered rocky reefs
under a heaving ocean and towering sea cliffs. It took
a while to reach these distant shores, but we’re finally
here, down under the land down under. Irrefutable
proof of our location are the road signs we passed on
yesterday’s drive from Hobart, the capital, to Eaglehawk
Neck, warning of crossing Tasmanian devils. Further
corroboration is the tiny red handfish now posing in
front of my camera. It’s one of the world’s rarest fish; the
Australian Department of the Environment estimates
that fewer than 1,000 exist in the wild, and they’re all in
Tasmania. It’s a real beauty, even if it appears to have
a bad case of measles. But it seems happy enough as it
walks stiffly along the bottom on scarlet-fingered fins.
It took Mick Baron’s eagle eyes to find the cryptic
beast hiding among a surge-tossed tangle of algae 15
feet deep in Frederick Henry Bay. Baron gives me a
good-natured ribbing while we’re celebrating after the
dive. “Sneaky little buggers,” he said. “Reckon you’d
have found it on your own?”
“Not in a hundred years,” I answer unequivocally.
“That’s about average,” Baron continues. “Takes a
while to figure them out. You’re off to a good start
having seen a handfish already.” With a combined 75
years of diving between them, Baron and his business
partner, Karen Gowlett-Holmes, know a thing or two
about this unique corner of the underwater world.
TOURING THE TASMAN PENINSULA
From our base in Pirates Bay we head south along a
remarkably rugged coastline into Munro Bight to dive
the wreck of the SS Nord. One of Tassie’s signature
dives, this 290-foot cargo steamship sank in 1915 during
a brutal storm. We’re smack dab in the middle of the
“roaring forties,” where gale-force westerly winds and
punishing waves have a long history of wreaking havoc
on vessels plying these extreme southern latitudes. But
today’s June weather is lovely — 60°F under the bluest of
skies with just a gentle breeze — and my wife, Melissa,
and I thoroughly enjoy surveying this sleeping giant from
a past age. It rests upright on a sandy bottom at 130 feet.
Our 28 percent nitrox is put to good use, extending our
bottom time at the stern. The Nord’s enormous rudder
and propeller are the prime photo attractions, glowing a
soft yellowy orange in the blue-green gloom thanks to a
patina of encrusting zoanthid anemones and sponges.
We descend on the resplendent Deep Glen Bay
North Wall, a colorful tapestry of fish and invertebrate
life. Drawing on Gowlett-Holmes’ encyclopedic
knowledge I’m able to put names to the faces of Shaw’s
cowfish, banded morwongs and gorgeous “crays” (rock
lobsters), which I find crammed into a crevice. She
saves the day when I return from a shallow dive on
kelp-wreathed Fok Rock with photos of more mystery
critters that she quickly identifies as ocellate sea stars, a
Maori octopus, and Pseudopallene ambigua — canaryyellow
creepy-crawlies also known as a pycnogonid
sea spiders. In picturesque Waterfall Bay we explore
Cathedral Cave, swimming in through the “eyes” of
the skull cave portion of this extensive sea cave system,
the largest in Australia. While Melissa and I traverse
interconnected tunnels and chambers at around 50
feet, we hear powerful wuuummphing sounds around
us every 15 seconds; it’s the waves smashing into the
cliff walls outside. It sounds like a giant heartbeat,
rhythmic, incessant and more than a little bit eerie.
With a weather forecast calling for another nice day
before winds and swell begin to build, we plan visits to
two of the more exposed sites. Because of the depth as
well as surge and strong currents that Baron says are
impossible to predict, Sisters and Thumbs are both
advanced dives. Here we plummet through darkness to
stunning sponge gardens that bloom brightly at around
130 feet. We come back up with eyes wide in wonder
— and a new list of species we’ve never seen before.
TWILIGHT OF THE KELP KINGDOM
As we drop anchor near a floating mat of golden kelp
fronds in Fortescue Bay, I proudly exclaim to all,
“Giant kelp, Macrocystis pyrifera!” I am redeemed,
finally having recognized something in Tasmania’s
marine ecosystem.
Minutes later I’m swaying in the surge 40 feet
beneath the canopy, gazing up at the magnificent algae
I know so well. I’m smiling but confused. What’s that
fish over there? And that sponge to my left? Though
the neighborhood’s architecture is familiar (this is
indeed the very same kelp species that flourishes on the
other side of the Pacific in my old stomping grounds,
California), its residents are unknown to me. Luckily,
Baron anticipated this and jumped in with us this time.
He whips out a slate and starts my education, first
pointing at something and then writing down its name
as we tootle about the forest: Johnston’s weedfish,
banded stingaree, a cute little Australian swellshark, a
ginormous 5-foot-wide ray, a short-tail stingray, and
my convict-striped bizarro — the longsnout boarfish.
My head threatens to explode from this influx of
arcane fish lore. After 50 minutes we’ve covered both
sides of the slate. During our safety stop he directs
my attention to a school of bronzy fish swimming
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