Technically Within Standards: A Good Strong Current

“The original plan survived for approximately eight minutes.”

Diving with new people is always an experience.

Sometimes memorable for the wildlife.

More often memorable for the people.

This was one of those dives.

Six divers. All Rescue certified or above.

The sort of group where everyone is friendly, relaxed, and quietly assessing whether everybody else's buoyancy deserves that confidence.

Some had never dived together before.

Either way, nobody was about to be the first person to admit they were nervous.

The plan seemed straightforward enough.

Gear up early.

Current check.

Longer bottom time than the students on the boat.

Nothing unusual.

Then I noticed the surge.

Not close enough to be a problem.

Far enough away to be concerning.

One of those patches of water that looks unnecessarily energetic.

A guide from the boat surfaced from the check dive, climbed aboard, smiled, and delivered the sort of sentence that should probably come with additional paperwork.

"A good strong current."

Then he grinned.

Not a reassuring grin.

The kind of grin that suggested he was about to enjoy himself considerably more than the rest of us.

Still, confidence was high.

Or at least, publicly high.

Checks complete, we rolled in.

No negative entry.

Just a mild sense of urgency and six divers pretending everything was entirely normal.

Eventually, we descended.

We were heading for a wreck.

A wreck we'd visited before.

If conditions allowed, we'd even planned to enter it.

Conditions, however, had other plans.

Swimming down towards the wreck with considerably more enthusiasm than progress, we finally spotted it below us.

Moving.

Quite quickly.

This was the first clue that our guide's definition of "a good strong current" and my definition of "a good strong current" were perhaps not perfectly aligned.

Fun?

Debatable.

This was becoming the sort of dive where a handrail would have been appreciated.

Eventually, we reached the side of the wreck and attempted to shelter from Mother Nature's latest practical joke.

For a brief moment, it worked.

Then I felt it.

A firm but polite suggestion from the ocean that my current location was no longer appropriate.

Unfortunately, the direction suggested happened to contain a large metal ship.

Naturally, I attempted to swim away from the wreck.

The ocean disagreed.

This is when I spotted our guide.

Hovering calmly in the chaos.

Looking around with the expression of someone mentally reconstructing the original guest list.

We look around.

One diver with a large camera is alarmingly close to the seabed.

Another is alarmingly far away from it.

Both have been located, which, under the circumstances, felt like meaningful progress.

Ideally, however, they'd be slightly closer together.

With everyone reunited and the ocean continuing its aggressive interpretation of hospitality, we decided it was probably time to leave.

As we turned away from the wreck, we noticed movement inside.

Movement which was definitely not aquatic.

And considerably more bubbly than the average fish.

Tech divers.

Comfortably tucked inside the wreck, apparently having the time of their lives.

One of them looked out.

We looked in.

A brief exchange took place.

Theirs said:

"Lovely day for it."

Ours said:

"Please help."

Neither side acknowledged this.

Off we drifted.

By this point we'd been underwater for about eight minutes.

An impressive achievement considering half of those minutes felt like active negotiation with the ocean.

We checked our air.

As it turns out, arguing with the ocean burns through air at a remarkable rate.

A quarter of the tank had quietly disappeared.

With a sudden enthusiasm for extending the dive beyond twenty minutes, we headed shallower.

Possibly the best decision we'd made all morning.

Soon we were greeted by a turtle.

Always welcome.

Usually unbothered.

Then another.

And another.

Shortly afterwards, one of the group began furiously pointing into the blue with the urgency normally reserved for minor emergencies.

A blacktip shark cruised past.

Calm.

Effortless.

Entirely unconcerned by the nonsense taking place around it.

After our brief celebrity encounter, we continued shallower.

Then we found another turtle.

Four turtles.

Which was beginning to feel statistically unnecessary.

By now, the current had calmed considerably.

Better yet, it had decided to flow back in the direction we'd originally come from.

A welcome change.

The person leading the dive had relaxed too.

Perhaps a little too much.

So much so that she became blissfully unaware of the rather substantial rock approaching from behind.

Conveniently, an eel was hiding inside it.

An excellent opportunity to combine marine life interpretation with accident prevention.

The sort of efficiency every dive professional dreams of.

Two jobs.

One finger point.

After a brief look of alarm, she adjusted course and continued on her way.

Crisis averted.

Professionalism maintained.

We began our safety stop, exchanged the usual bubble rings, purged equipment for no reason other than entertainment, and slowly made our way back to the surface.

A happy group of divers.

Present.

Accounted for.

Roughly where we expected them to be.

Which, given how the dive had started, felt like an achievement in itself.

What began as a mildly intimidating battle against current ended with turtles, sharks, and considerably more fun than seemed likely during those first few minutes.

The wreck was abandoned.

The original plan survived for approximately eight minutes.

And somehow, that made the dive better.

Which, now I think about it, is a fairly accurate summary of diving in general.