It’s 11 AM. We have spent the morning walking the soft sandy shores of Floreana Island watching the day old sea lion pups playing in the surf and snorkeling with marine turtles and schools of hundreds of Yellowtail Surgeonfish. I feel relaxed and up-beat even though a good night sleep has been hard to come by the last 4 nights as the boat pitches hard enough to lift us out of our bed at night.
I’m sitting at one of the three linoleum tables that make up the dinning room of the Guantanamera. As is always the case in South America, music is playing in the background. Washington, a 30 something wildlife guide and dive master, is going over our dive plan. Washington is perfectly cast for this role. His short thick jet black hair is always windblown and his loose fitting boat-collar shirt, baggy shorts and bear feet make him look every bit a sailor. His barrel chest and fit build mark him as a man who spends his days snorkeling, diving, and walking island beaches. And his dark skin and strong nose make him look typically Ecuadorian. Geoff, a Dutch girl I’ll call Holly, and I look on as Washington draws out a diagram of Devil’s Rock; which sits about a mile of the shore of Floreana. The dingy will drop us off on the South West side of the rock. We will swim against the current along a reef that drops off like a cliff. At the end of the reef we will swim with the current along the shallower North East side of Devil’s Rock. Twenty bars is our stopping point. The first person to get down to 20 pounds of air pressure is to signal Washington by raising two fingers (one for each ten bars) and we will all surface.
Instruction received, we are about to wrap-up the briefing and head for our equipment when Holly asks "Do you need to see my dive certificate?" Holly just got her PADI certification a few weeks ago and has interrupted Washington a few times by interjecting some of her new found knowledge. Geoff and I flinch. Officially everyone who dives off a tourism boat in the Galapagos is supposed to have at least their Open Water certification from PADI. I’ve never been certified. I took a short resort course in Mexico that was just a few hours, then I did a few dives, but that’s it. If you dive with a dive master, I reasoned, they control your rate of decent and ascent as well as how long you are down. All I have to do is to breath and not panic. This I can do. Washington has asked us how many dives we had each done, I said three. He pegged me right away as completely green, but he never asked about a PADI certifications. Geoff and I had predicted that no one would ask to see my dive certification. There are no rampant cases of lawsuits here. People are responsible for their own actions. If you choose to take the risk of diving without certification that is unofficially your business. Besides, people are much more comfortable with physical risk here. But although almost every rule in Ecuador is considered more of a guideline, there is still a different between bending a rule and breaking a rule. Bending the rule is letting me diving without asking for my certification. Breaking the rule is diving with me and knowing that I am uncertified. I’m worried that Holly is going to press the point. Washington knowingly dismisses the question by saying that he will ask for them later. I doubt strongly that he will.
Briefing terminated we move up to the open-air second deck to be fitted with wetsuits. The equipment is first rate. We are giving full body 2 piece 1/4" wetsuits, gloves and fins. We all look like women trying to get into pantyhose that are much, much to small. It takes about 20 minutes of tugging, walking like a penguin while tugging, and tugging some more before we return to the first deck to get our tanks. Washington hands me a BCD and an intimidating octopus of tubes and regulators, then he pushes an air tank in my direction. Shit! Now what. I need to keep up the charade, but I have no idea how to put this together. If Washington had any doubt about whether I am certified he is about to find out for sure. I’m not about the guess at how to put together what’s going to be my only source of oxygen. I try to quietly get Geoff’s attention for a little help, but Washington sees me. He walks over and assembles my equipment without making eye contact. Excellent! I guess that he doesn’t want to loose the $60 dollars he will earn for my dive.
I watch as we all struggle to the dingy. The wet suits are tight and we all have to put a little extra effort to move our arms and legs. We don’t have enough hands to bring the tanks, fins, and masks in one trip, but we try awkwardly anyhow. Its overcast, but the wetsuits are thick so we are all getting hot. We take turns absent mindedly tugging at the collar of our wetsuits.
My mind wanders on the way to the dive spot. "There is no reason to need a dive certificate if there is a dive master running the dive. It’s just a racket. It’s PADI’s way of guarantying business. There can’t really be anything to the certification course. I’ve gone on dives already without being certified. I know how to clear my mask and regulator if something goes wrong. What else is there to know? Breathe deeply and slowly and you will be fine. Ya, breathe slowly. Don’t screw this up for everyone else by being the newbie that wastes all her air in the first few minutes and forces everyone to surface early. Relax. Breathe and don’t panic - easy. Test your regulator. It sounds funny when I breathe in. Don’t be stupid. It’s fine. You’re just being antsy. Better check with Geoff, just in case. Geoff says it’s fine. It must be fine. But this thing is making a funny sound." Finally I’m rescued from my thoughts when Washington signals that it’s time to get into the water.
After struggling with my BCD to get the air out I start to descend. I feel the pores of my wetsuit slowly filling with sea water. It’s slightly cool and wonderfully refreshing. My suit moves easily against my skin now. I continue to descend. All feeling of weight and constriction are gone. My body softens as my muscles relax. I feel more agile than I ever could on land. The ocean has a sound that is much more quite than silence. Complete silence can make my ears ring. It’s a deprivation. But the ocean has a very distant sound. A perfect sound made up of the subtle noises made over millions miles by voiceless inhabitants. The water is the palest possible shade of green, saturated with miniscule particles to give it depth and a soft twinkling texture. The light is soft but clear. Not assaulting like the sun or depriving like the dark. This density of the particles converge on one point in my horizon to let me judge the distance from where I am to the absolute darkness ahead. There are no physical discomforts here. Just neutrality and my mind feels more focused and clear when I dive then when I am doing anything else.
I’ve descended to 60ft when we level off. The reef before me is almost an absolute cliff and continues passed me at a 20 degree angle into the darkness. The coral is white but is almost totally obscured with life: sea anemone, start fish, fans, and more plants than I could ever hope to identify. I look up and my vision is completely filled with the black silhouette of thousands of back light tropical fish, but I can’t see the surface. It’s a breath taking sight.
Washington makes his way along the reef. I follow closely. None of my other dives have been against the current, and this requires a lot more effort. I’m also a little too heavy. I added some air to my BCD, but I’m afraid of adding too much and floating up before I can get the air out again because I had some trouble with that at the beginning of the dive. The rhythmic sound from my regulator is constant and reminds me always to breathe deeply and slowly.
Washington grabs my arm and pulls me to a crevasse in the coral. At first I can’t see what’s inside because of the vines flowing back and forth across the opening like small green feather boas, so I think he is kidding himself when he motions for me to stick my hand inside. Then he brushes aside the vines and I see the three big clams on the coral wall. Their rough undulating white shells are about 1 1/2 feet across and are open to reveal their soft fleshy interior. Washington sticks his hand inside one of the clams and it closes. I do the same. I’m surprised at how tough the muscular flesh is.
Holly is on her way over to see the clams, but she stops short and motions for us to look
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