Ron Samul

July 2012 — Off Montauk — The Wreck of the U.S.S. Bass (Depth 160 feet)

I checked the valve in my dry suit and looked down into the milky green. One hundred and sixty feet below me was the wreck of the U.S.S. Bass, a Barracuda-class submarine that was decommissioned and sank as part of a weapons test. Adjusting to the pressure is something you just a do.

Back in your first scuba course (in my case 1994) it is the most important thing on your mind. Now, spiraling down the line, it was just another step to get there. The two biggest things I noticed as I moved down into deep water is the darkness and the cold. Those two elements are always pronounced. Adding some air to my dry suit gave me a little warmth and alleviated the squeeze that pressure put on your suit. On the surface, the sun was beaming, now at seventy, eighty, ninety feet — ambient light was fading fast. Typical of a deep dive, I paused and set up my light so it was on and ready as I continued down into the dark. Slowly, I worked down the line, waiting for the rope to meet the chain. That is an indicator that you are close to the bottom. But before I see the chain, I see a wide shadow in front of me. I saw the outline of a massive submarine. Although there was little ambient light making it down the decks of the sub, you could see. The water was clear and cold. I moved down to the location where I tied in a few hours ago, I positioned myself near the anchor and began the process of untying the gear. For a moment I looked down the hull and saw the railing and the shadow of the conning tower. It is a shadowy reminder of the past, s shadow of military power and engineering. As I turned back to the gear — I felt a sense of thoughtfulness, a sense of vision. The anchor was already clipped in the up position and ready to go. I took my time, careful with the last few wraps. It is then that I remembered something, like that great idea, that great vision — it flashed through me and woke me up. It was enlightenment. I get it, I thought. It makes sense to me — that is what I was missing for so long.

I did my job, positioned myself away from the tines of the grapple hook, and cut it loose, and I was disconnected from the wreck, still holding the chain. And the anchor was free. I moved up the anchor line and watch the hook drop away from the wreck and below me. Above me, the bright sun was beaming into the murk. Just go to the light. And I moved up. It is important to moderate your ascent, not only for decompression, but to release air from your dry suit, stow gear, and think about your safety stop plan. This dive is technical because the decompression stops aren’t recommended, they are mandatory. A misstep could find you injured, in a hypobaric chamber, or dead. The ascent plan was important. Watching my computer and my depth, I stopped for a few minutes at sixty feet. I had plenty of gas, my times were good — all was well.

Slowly, a strange endorphin rush came to me. I felt like I should high five someone. In that rush, I pumped my arm and yahooed through my regulator. I’m alive! I felt invincible. As spent the rest of my deco-stop singing Teenage Wasteland by the Who through my regulator. At thirty feet, I was calming down, checking my gear. I felt like things were in place and I was right on schedule. My computer was clearing me — and my fifteen-foot stop was a mere formality. Yet, I had plunged to one hundred and fifty feet, and this was my plan. At fifteen feet, the sun was beaming down. Above me the hull of the boat was shifting over my head gently. There I was on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean just off gassing — the act of breathing at depth to get rid of excess nitrogen. As the last few minutes ticked off my computer I relaxed. I swung in the current and watched the waves moving over my head. And that is when I realized, that whatever idea, whatever vision came to me at the bottom — if that was enlightenment, then it was gone. All that was left was the knowing that it happened with no meaning to it at all — like a seashell with nothing inside.

Later, I read an account about people diving to extreme depths and having a similar feeling. Some say this feeling is the sea calming you down, pulling you away like a spell. We were born from liquid, and perhaps there is some transient beauty in leaving the world in the same state. And it’s been from these ideas and experiences that I’ve been able to understand and respect fear. It is those dark waters of the soul that I wanted to tread. Technical diving is meant to challenge every aspect of who you think you are. It is a sport and a way of life. Training, safety, and practice could save your life. But more importantly, the sea will reveal so much about what you want and what you didn’t know you needed.