Advertisement
Published: January 18th 2015
Edit Blog Post
Feed Me!
Iguanas are abundant and bold on Bonaire Bonaire
The Caribbean Sea is bordered by Central America on the south and a long chain of islands on the north: Cuba, Hispaniola (Haiti + Dominican Republic), Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, the Lesser Antilles, and finally, curving back on itself like the tail of a beaten dog, the Netherlands Antilles: Aruba, Curacao, and Bonaire. Although Bonaire is only 50 miles from Venezuela, it is technically a Dutch municipality. Large white Dutch people mingle with descendants of African slaves and a smattering of American expats. The most widely spoken language is Papiamento, a weird mixture of Spanish, Dutch, and English. (Bon Dia is good morning, Dank
i is thank you.)
Bonaire is not what I would imagine to be a typical Caribbean island. It's actually a desert island: flat and with cacti instead of trees. In fact it seems like the sort of island more discerning settlers would've passed over in favor of something a bit lusher, even if their canoe was leaking. Bonaire's claim to fame isn't the island itself, but rather the surrounding coral reef, considered one of the world's top scuba diving sites.
Debra and I are here visiting her hacker-mathematician
Rats with Hooves
After trucks reached Bonaire there was no more work for the donkeys. They turned wild and inbred. brother, Roger. Twelve years ago Roger moved to Bonaire for the diving and never left. Now, in a more reclusive phase, he lives in a dark house at the edge of the sea, waiting for the world to end.
Another World
The drive to today's dive spot is over rough dirt roads. Our little truck bumps and rocks through forests of cacti. I spot wild donkeys, lost goats, and iguanas hoping a tourist will toss them some food. I dread the transition from the world of warm dry land where I have mastered basic skills like breathing and moving to the world below the cold dark sea. I hope the drive will last forever, but just beyond the large oil tanks where Venezuela stores its black gold we pull off the road next to a pile of asses' jaw bones. They mark the entry point for Candy Land, this afternoon's dive location.
Without words we pull our equipment out of the back of the truck and start assembling. An inflatable vest that controls buoyancy is strapped to the tank. An octopus of tubes is bolted to the top of the tank. Its tentacles slither through straps on
the vest and attach to critical valves and gauges. While I strap straps my internal radio announcer informs his audience that these were probably among my last actions before tragedy struck. "All that remained behind were his hat and sunglasses."
We wade into rough surf weaving between sharp stumps of dead coral. If a wave knocks me over I will be a turtle on its back. A hoist will be required to get me upright. Meanwhile, wave after wave will crash into my gasping mouth.
Beyond the surf I float, panting frantically. The idea of sucking breath through a hose makes me feel claustrophobic, suffocating in a tightly wrapped rubber suit at the bottom of the sea.
Steven, our dive master, allows all of us (i.e., mostly me) to catch our breath before giving the thumbs down signal. I let the air out of my vest. Slowly I sink. I think I'm cold, but it's abstract, as if the cause of the tingling sensation on my bare legs might be open to debate. I have bigger worries. The air in my sinuses expands. The pain is piercing. I pinch my nose and blow hard. A satisfying hiss
in my ears brings temporary relief. I will have to repeat this procedure a dozen more times before inside and outside pressure equalize.
I fin over the sandy bottom until I reach a steep cliff. I briefly experience vertigo as I fly over the edge and slowly sink to depth.
Gliding along the wall two fantasies from my childhood are simultaneously realized: visiting an alien world and being able to fly. It would be hard to imagine a stranger world. Orange tubes, purple fans, and pink brains pulse in the current. Spiders, cigars, plates, and feather dusters swim by. Everything is in the process of eating or being eaten.
Now begins my litany of nervous tics. As Debra glides effortlessly along the wall I yo-yo up and down. As I sink precipitously toward the delicate coral like an environmental depth charge I inflate my vest. As I rocket toward the surface like a Sea World porpoise I deflate my vest. The cycle repeats. Meanwhile I feel beads of saltwater make their way under my mask. They follow the contours of my face eventually joining friends in the pool at the bottom of my mask. Every 30 seconds,
when the pool reaches the midpoint of my burning eyeballs, I have to lift the bottom of the mask off of my face and blow hard through my nose, replacing the water with snot.
Soon the routine of obsessively checking my air gauge begins. I worry that I will use my air too quickly forcing an early end to the group's dive. Of course checking my gauge and worrying about using air too quickly causes me to use air too quickly. Flailing my arms and legs to maintain buoyancy (called the "running man" by experienced divers) also contributes to the fast burn.
When my air gauge reaches the red zone I give Steven a panicky signal: 500 PSI, 80% of my air gone! He gives me a mellow OK sign. With my eyes I signal back: OK? OK? WTF? Meanwhile, Debra peacefully drifts alongside the coral, followed by a cloud of bright purple fish.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.095s; Tpl: 0.011s; cc: 13; qc: 29; dbt: 0.0491s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
Stephanie and Andras
Stephanie
Under the Cold Dark Sea
Finally, a diving blog I can relate to! I can only imagine I'd fair similarly, or worse, condemned to breathe until the murky depths below the surface, but I haven't had the courage yet to put this to the test. You left us with quite the cliff-hanger, but I'm assuming you survived. Glad to hear of it.