An Introduction to Scuba Diving

Ahh, the ocean. Is there a more alluring place on earth to which we humans are less adept? Where our physical vulnerabilities and limitations are so painfully obvious? A place so seductive, it lures the fallibly curious with the prospect of a mere glimpse of ethereal beauty? Space, maybe, but space isn't technically 'on earth' so...nope!

Humans have proven themselves to be a rather resilient land-dwelling species. That said, no human being that’s ever lived has ever been more of an underdog than when they decide to take a stroll into the ocean. Because the ocean wins every time. It is has no conscience. It stereotypes and it discriminates and it doesn't care about you.

But like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to the briny deep.

Still, scuba diving was one of those things that seemed completely out of reach. An activity in which I had always had an interest, was curious about, and illogically jealous of its participants, yet I never mustered a proactive bone to check it out. Why? Well, in ashamed honesty, I guess because it didn’t fall out of the sky and land on my lap so it was bypassed for other endeavors that involved less paraphernalia and far less effort.

Then, within the span of one week, I was asked by two different people if I was certified to dive. The first inquiry was from a new and intriguing friend with whom I wanted an excuse to spend more time. The second was from an industry stuntman/propmaster looking for an assistant on a film shooting in Mexico. The first “no” was a major bummer, the second was rather tragic, but provided an all-too-coincidental reason to revisit the first.

I returned to Mr. New & Intriguing with an appetite (a scubatite?) and he was generous in implementing his connections with Hollywood Divers. Before I knew it, I was enrolled in the PADI online open water scuba diving class, which entailed: online testing, classroom testing, pool testing, and a weekend of ocean testing at Catalina Island. Let the anxiety begin.

Cue montage of tedious online scuba PowerPoint studying, writing checks and shedding tears, one in-classroom testing session, the introduction of other newbie divers, the careful selection of start-up scuba gear rentals and purchases, and loads of anxiety peppered throughout. Seriously, on the inside, I was Diane-Keaton-style losing it:

The First Wives Club

I don’t know why I was so nervous. Everyone else seemed to be really enjoying the whole challenge. I was surrounded by living, breathing motivational posters. But not I. Apprehension had taken hold and its apex came when I took an instructor’s advice prior to the pool testing.

It was recommended for us newbies to "practice" breathing through the snorkel, sans mask, in preparation for testing the skill of which I was most nervous. It was the dreaded complete removal of the facemask where the human must blindly use their regulator for a full minute…no sissy-la-la plugging of the nose allowed.

They said we should practice in our kitchen sink. Yes, the kitchen sink…because that’s just like being in the Pacific Ocean… Yes, yes, just fill up your sink with water, submerge your head, and breathe through the snorkel.

Now, common sense might suggest this to be a ridiculous act, however, poisoned by anxiety, common sense takes a backseat to fear. I rationalized, "Well, these people know what they're doing, they do this all the time, they probably even have official looking credentials hanging on a wall somewhere. And since it’s in my best interest to live through this experience, I should probably do what they say. They’re the experts, for God’s sake.”

And so, with my trusty Toy Story 3 beach towel standing by, I made sure the blinds were drawn, filled up my kitchen sink with cold water (to rival the 58 degree ocean), ignored the floating bits of Ramen, held firmly to the white tile counter, placed the snorkel in my mouth, willingly submerged my entire head in my sink, in my kitchen, in my apartment, in North Hollywood, feet firmly planted on the hardwood floor…and didn't drown for over two minutes.

We are speechless. We are without speech.

Emerging from the eight inches of water, I did not feel victorious. Not at all. I felt embarrassed in front of Woody, Buzz, and the gang. It would have been hilarious if it weren’t me, but there I was, standing there, hair soaking wet, water dripping down my face, looking around my otherwise empty studio, in disbelief of the foolish spectacle that was myself.

Had things taken a drastic turn for the worse, I envisioned the headline, "Woman Drowns in NoHo, Apparently Trying to Scuba Dive in Kitchen."

Idiot.

I think it was the idea of being tested on ‘skills’ never before performed that was just daunting enough to turn an otherwise skeptical and mildly intelligent person into a naïve moron.

Of course, I did the kitchen sink thing two more times, just to be safe.

And perhaps thanks to kitchen-sink-scuba-diving, I passed the pool testing. But just because I didn’t lose my cool in the pool, didn’t mean I felt ocean-ready. I was in it deep (unapologetic pun) but still determined to do what was necessary to have fun, damnit. This was, after all, supposed to be fun. I wanted to do this. I was paying to do this. Plus, at this point, people knew what I was planning to do. Casual inquiries were made concerning what I was “up to” and a fascinating truth was revealed. Interests were piqued and follow-ups were promised. People were anxiously awaiting my sure-to-be incredible scuba stories. I couldn't let them down…

All too soon, the day arrived when I was to battle Los Angeles traffic to catch the boat from Long Beach to Catalina Island. I queued up to board and lugged my gear through the labyrinth of walkway barriers. Once aboard, I dumped my 50 lb. tank with no handle/carrier/or anything utilitarian at all, and my 40 lb. scuba bag at the back of the ferry, as directed by people with white polo shirts...just left it there for anyone to steal. Already, at that point, I would have honestly been fine with someone walking off with all of it. No one did. There is no mercy on the Catalina Express.

I made my way up to the top deck because it was a beautiful Friday afternoon and despite everything, I’m not jaded enough to hate a sea breeze. Found a nice little spot in the back corner with a fantastic view and as we motored away from the main land, I felt a tinge of excitement for the first time. As soon as we were out of the harbor, my happy-haven turned into the soak-zone at SeaWorld, so I moved toward the middle of the boat while most others retreated inside. Ten minutes after the upper-deck-mass-exodus, humpback whales were spotted off the port side. Truly majestic. A good sign, indeed.

Seaport Village Inn - Scubapocalypse

Cut to: the check-in counter at our scuba-friendly, Avalon hotel. I did find appealing, the sight of dive gear strewn all over the premises. Wet suits of all sizes were hang-drying outside three stories of staggered railings, dive tanks were layed down by the dozens on the ground, towels, bags, gloves, hoods, fins...all littered in organized-scuba-gear-chaos. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment, just sitting around because screw this, I'm not carrying this junk up any more stairs.

After dinner and back to the hotel, everyone was down for the night by 10pm to be up at 6am the next morning. While all slept peacefully, I awoke in thrashing, panicky, cold sweats at least a half dozen times. I finally fell asleep fantasizing about setting fire to everyone's abandoned scuba gear and BBQing majestic humpback whale meat for breakfast.

Alas, morning arrived. This was it, Judgment Day. Definitely no turning back now, let's just get this over with. I tried not to have that attitude, but it was there. I think mainly because this entire activity is really all about trust: you have to have unwavering trust in your own capacity to not panic, trust in your 'skills,' in your dented rental equipment, in your dive-buddy you met a week ago, etc. You have to believe that everything is going to work as it should. With my innate hatred for everyone (in varying doses) and resolute trust in almost nothing, this was no small undertaking.

But I wanted to explore oceanic crevices and witness amazing exotic sea creatures. I wanted to find Nemo and be a part of Team Zissou. So there I was.

Our gear was taken down to the dive site called Casino Point...not because there's a Native American gambling establishment there, but they said in Italian, 'casino' means 'gathering place,' or something... That didn't sound quite right, but I went along with it because there were more important things to question.

Casino Point - The Marina

The site was pretty amazing, all things considered. There were maybe 150 other divers and snorkelers with their gear lined up along a foot high wall that bordered the ocean. It was a big, open, paved area and we set up camp at the north end, fairly close to the entrance point.

And so began the process of getting scuba-ready.

Reflecting on some of the most difficult things I've ever had to do, somewhere near the top of that list, just after "getting queen sized down-comforter in duvet cover," would have to be, “squeezing body into 7mm wet suit." Fortunately, my wet suit rental was brand new, which meant that no one had used it as a urinal. Unfortunately, that also meant it was unforgivably stiff and with the built in rubber knee pads and shin guards, I looked like Danny DeVito and felt like Randy in A Christmas Story.

Slap on the hood, booties, fins, gloves, mask, snorkel, 12 lb. weight belt, regulator and gauges, the buoyancy control vest with 6 more integrated lbs. of extra weight, and the 50 lb. tank of air. Oh yeah, we're good and scuba-ready now!!

Stairway to watery death

Photo credit: www.pacificwilderness.com

Once geared-up (fins in hand), we walked to the entryway staircase: a very literal stone staircase, carved out of the earth, leading directly into the ocean. Complete with metal railing and assumed normal highway traffic regulations; adventurous souls willingly stepped down to their watery doom on the right and those who somehow evaded aqua-death, emerged on the left.

Dozens of people all around were laughing and having fun. I felt like I was walking the Green Mile.

A step or two away from the end of the staircase is the time to put your fins on. Lacking grace and speed, I managed to pull on and tighten those suckers without toppling down the stairs into the water, the rocks, or other people. Thank God. All that was left to do was take a couple duck-steps to the last concrete platform. It was early morning on the Pacific and therefore high-tide so there wasn't much for me to do but stand there, knee-pad deep, and wait for the ocean to sweep me away, like the large clump of dead seaweed I felt like.

Officially in the water, my small group of scubites and our instructor battled the slimy kelp and swam over to a buoy with a rope-line anchored about 25 feet below planet Earth's available human-life-sustaining conditions.

As this was an open-water certification class, we were primarily out there to prove our competency in scuba diving basics by completing a series of tests over five separate dives in two days. You see, the maniacal plan is to make sure you are completely comfortable in an environment you have absolutely no business being in, that all equipment is in perfect working order and for a fleeting moment, you feel a spark of confidence that you will be just fine and this will be a fun experience. Then, they do everything in their power to put you in nightmarish, more than sufficient cause-for-hysterics, situations (fill your mask with water, take off your mask completely, remove. your. air. supply.). I completely understand why they do this and I have a great appreciation for the patience and skill of all the instructors, but I don't have to like it.

And can you really blame me? Just because you gave me 30 minutes worth of perfectly clear instruction at our basecamp, and I nodded, doesn't mean I think I can do this and live to see the next season of 'House of Cards.' So, apologies to my instructor, Anastasia, while she clearly and perfectly scuba-signed the skill I was to perform and I just stared at her with wide, blank, dead shark eyes. You want me to do what? Wait, WHAT? Everything I read during the hours of online tutorials, the written tests, the pool session, and whatever pearls of wisdom you cast my way at the surface two minutes ago...was gone. It was all gone from my brain and I had, "the scuba dumb."

I love you, too, Kevin Spacey. I'm sorry for my scuba dumb.

But then…

Slowly, slowly, you somehow get used to the feel of the gear, the temperature of the water, the hospital-like sounds of your own heavy breathing, and the fact that your field of vision has almost no peripherals and everything you are doing is proficiently done at a decelerated pace. You breathe. And you focus. And somehow, you manage to kneel on the sea floor, remove your mask completely and breathe calmly through your regulator for one full minute without sucking the entire ocean up your nose. (I still hate you, kitchen sink.) You do it because this is the choice you made. Because you’re curious and adventurous and used the word “briny.” So just shut up and do it. Imagine all the places you'll be able to explore once you clear this hurdle. And remember, people you know are going to ask about this on Monday. What story do you want to tell?

Over the course of two days, my fellow divers and I were able to successfully complete all the skills to receive open water certifications. I did it because it’s a great notch to add to my resume. I did it because my friends were into it. But mostly, I did it because I wanted to, and if you don’t truly want to scuba dive, if you aren’t afraid to feel like a fish out of water…in the water…don’t even bother. You won't last. Prepping and packing (not to mention carrying) the equipment alone is enough to deter anyone who simply thinks the ocean is cool.

Catalina Kelp Forest Photo credit: Anastasia Laity

Because the ocean exceeds cool (and whales, I wouldn’t really BBQ you). My first scuba adventure ended up being pretty amazing. Of course it did. You knew it would, I knew it would, everyone knew it would. And diving gets better with each decent. Easier too, not in a complacent way, but in a comfortable one. Confidence comes with time and repetition. You learn buoyancy control. You get to live those awesome flying dreams, but even better because it’s real. You slowly accumulate your own gear, quality gear that will last a lifetime. You meet crazy people who live for this stuff and have been to the most beautiful places. You do, indeed, get to experience an alien world, a world where you are a guest and you develop a great (dare I use the word, “spiritual”) appreciation and admiration for all things wet and dry.

Cheers to the big blue! Let’s dance again soon.