More on that harpoon

second part of nautical ignominy

Having rinsed 32 pounds of beach sand from the equipment by holding it up to the spastic, push-button shower head at the park, we loaded up the cars and headed to a very nice restaurant where there wasn't a single thing on the menu that looked appetizing, or that didn't contain blue cheese or crab (two foodstuffs I am more than just a little allergic to). I ended up with a duck confit that was simultaneously soggy and too sweet. The braised fennel was tasty, but that was about the only thing worth eating. Not a $24 value by any stretch of the imagination. Everybody else loved their food.

We headed back up to Santa Cruz where more washing of sandy-salty items occurred. I made a sausage apple pie for a speedy breakfast in the morning, and crawled into bed at the early hour of 11:30pm. Less than 6 hours later the the shrill beeping of the alarm clock ruptured the dream I'd been having, some anxiety fest related to schoolwork and exams.

Every muscle group clenched in agony as I attempted to roust myself. You've seen the teetering that occurs when old folks get up from the bench at the bus stop - the pained lurch that is more controlled fall than perambulation. I looked like that as I hobbled to the laundry room to fetch my swimsuit and the lycra jazzercize tights that make it easier to wriggle into the wetsuit. Then I fetched the wetsuits. Even though we'd hung them in a warm bathroom they hadn't dried out overnight. I pulled them off the hangers and discovered they were as cold and clammy as a dead mermaid's French kiss.* Wow, can't wait to get that on. Our boots, gloves and hoods were absolutely sodden. Mentally, I added glacial squelching to the list of impending joys.

The high point of the morning was the red, pink and orange sunrise that occurred as we neared Monterey. If memory serves, sunrise isn't usually much to see, the sky just shifts from dark to light and that's that. However there was a heavy marine layer which redirected the first rays, and there were some fluffy clouds to reflect the shifting colors. It was much more like a sunset than the 34 or so sunrises I've seen to date.

When we arrived at the park our instructor was furious that we were 45 minutes late, despite the fact that he'd made us wait nearly 4 hours yesterday. Way to start the day on the right foot. We set up grumpily, but as quickly as we could.

Getting down to business I struggled to get my tank strapped into the diving harness. The webbing straps were surprisingly stiff given how wet they were. Eventually I got the tank rigged with the breathing apparatus, checked the air pressure, and made sure the mouth bits were functioning right. Putting on the wetsuit was every bit as miserable as I imagined it would be. In addition to being dank, the soggy neoprene is ungodly grippy and it grabs at your skin and has to be roughly tugged into place. We zipped up, shouldered our rigs, strapped on our weights and bumbled to a distant bench to talk about the morning's dive plan so that we could hear each other and not the loud instructors of the groups sprawled on tarps in the park next to us. Just walking to the bench was a major endeavor for me. My stomach was still backing up lemon juice into my esophagus, and the physical effort of walking while weighted with the 100 extra was draining.

It was a beautiful morning, I could tell it would be a really good day for diving, the tide was very high, but the surf itself was much calmer. The sky was clear and only a light breeze riffled the flags. If only I didn't feel like such crap. Exhausted, agony-ridden crap.

I'll say one thing for my instructor, he knows what's what. After checking in with us, and getting not-quite responsive answers from me, he double checked me. And then he pulled my plug. He ordered me to dump my gear on the beach and to get help carrying it back from the two others that were with our group. I wouldn't dive today. I wouldn't complete the SCUBA training. For perhaps the 7th time since I entered my thirties, tears welled up in my eyes and hot splashes of bitter disappointment spilled down my cheeks, cooling in the morning air.

The other members of our group were sleeping in a puddle of blankets in the middle of the tarp. We'd all been up late and gotten up early. I opted to let them sleep and had other divers on the beach help me struggle into the rig. I carried the stuff up to the grass, shrugged it to the ground and stripped free of the clutching wetsuit. I grabbed a towel for a pillow, a towel for a blanket and curled up at the edge of the tarp, hoping not to have to explain why I wasn't down on the beach. I slept, curled on one side for most of the day, occasionally getting up for a bathroom break. I took a walk down to the edge of the jetty to look at my dopplegangers, the giant whiskered sea lions basking in the sun. They aren't my true dopplegangers, I have better oral hygiene.

Ultimately, the instructor made the right decision. Despite the perfect diving conditions, I personally was not fit to dive. I barely had the strength for the brief stroll up and down the pier. If I had opted to dive, I might not have been able to leave the ocean under my own steam. That's not the right spirit of adventure. That's hubris. If I want to dive Monterey Bay I'll need to drop 30 pounds and get a decent strength training and cardio-vascular program underway.

For now though, it's all been just wasted time.








* I have never made out with a mermaid, living or dead. I just suspect that's how it would be.