Ninety feet beneath the surface of the Coral Sea, in the inky dark of night, hovering just above a reef on the sandy ocean floor, I realized that he was gone.
Where is my dive buddy?
I pumped the tiniest blast of air into my vest—my buoyancy control device, or BCD—to rise just above the section of barrier reef we had been instructed to explore. I put my hand above my bald head as I ascended. I’d already dinged my dome in a cave—and that was in broad daylight with unlimited visibility. My eyes struggled to see beyond that which I could illuminate with my puny, rented flashlight. There was danger in what I could not see.
I turned off my light and held it down at my side. With my crown pointed up toward the surface and my heels aimed at the sandy ocean floor, I did a nautical pirouette, spinning 360 degrees, searching for a sign—any sign; a flashlight beam, a glow stick—some clue about where my buddy might be. But there was no sign of him. He was nowhere.
My breathing quickened with my pulse. I felt disoriented. Weightless underwater, I couldn’t tell—even with the full moon penetrating the water line far above me—if I was rising or falling. A sickening feeling radiated out from my gut. I knew big gulps of air would affect my buoyancy, so I tried to calm myself. I allowed my tongue to press against my regulator and sipped my air, as I’d been taught. But my nerves refused to calm, and—still no sign of him—the panic persisted.
I turned on my flashlight to get my bearings. That was when I saw it.
About 30 feet away, two green eyes stared back at me, reflecting in my flashlight beam like shards of broken glass on asphalt. The shark was about six feet long and gray. I noticed its wide snout and white-tipped dorsal fins. I froze.
The shark stared at me, as if I were a curiosity it needed to satisfy. It carved through the water, moving closer to me with an effortless, casual confidence. I could discern five slits on each side of its long body. My heart pounded in my chest. My molars clamped the salty rubber mouthpiece. I thought back to my training and remembered to exhale forcefully to make my presence look larger to the shark. I opened my lungs and inhaled fully, gulping oxygen in greedy gasps, expelling blasts of carbon dioxide in its direction. I felt vulnerable—outmatched—in enemy territory. As the shark drew closer, my mind traveled to a dark place.
Is this the way it will end for me? Quick, quiet, and in the dark of night?
For a moment, I had to marvel. I had spent the previous nine months traveling through Europe, North Africa, and Southeast Asia. Not only had I discovered the world, but I was also becoming comfortable in my own skin as a gay man. As my trip progressed, I had begun to reveal more about myself to others. Just the day before—over freshly caught swordfish in the mess—I’d disclosed my sexual orientation to another diver with nonchalance, as if I were telling him I was American or right-handed. I had started to find my voice. Now, would the survival instincts of a predator deprive me of—relieve me from—the difficult conversations awaiting me back home?
That’s when it dawned on me. If I could see one shark with my tiny flashlight in this vast ocean, what else was out there, lurking in the dark, drawn by my light?
*
Our liveaboard had pushed off from Cairns toward Papua New Guinea four days earlier. We were more than halfway through a weeklong trip exploring the Ribbon Reefs off Australia’s northeast coast. Most excursions are day trips. Divers bring their gear—and not much else—on the watercraft, while the crew brings drinks and fruit to prevent dehydration. But a trip on a liveaboard is a much bigger commitment for everyone involved. With about two-dozen divers and a crew of six, there were a lot of mouths to feed. Luckily, several of the crew were fishermen who busily angled for our lunch and supper while we explored beneath the surface. Except for breakfast, fresh-caught seafood was available for every meal.
This boat was one of the cheaper options. Rather than enjoy the privacy of individual staterooms, this cast of budget travelers crammed into tiny, below-deck dormitories with wall-mounted berths reminiscent of navy ships. Each morning would start with a sunrise dip, followed by a stout breakfast of coffee, bacon, eggs, and beans. Then, we’d lift anchor and travel north to find fresh sites for mid-day underwater exploration sandwiched around lunches of fresh, grilled fish and mango. Later, we’d lift anchor again and venture further up. Some would retreat to their darkened berths to sleep off the residual nitrogen lingering in their bloodstreams. Others might tan themselves on deck. I was always up for cards. Then we’d stop again a few hours later for dinner and, when conditions permitted, a night dive.
It can be Russian roulette diving solo because you can be paired with any other singleton on the boat. On previous day trips, when I was the lone solo, I’d often get paired with an experienced diver from the crew. Like a front-row seat to a play, those were the best experiences. Most aboard this liveaboard were couples who made for natural buddies. Though I had felt some anxiety about my pairing, I had gotten very lucky. Not only had I found another solo novice—a 6 ‘2” Texan named Tom—but our nearly identical height meant our large lungs would consume oxygen at roughly the same clip. I had always felt guilty when I ran low on air and cut short a buddy’s experience. But Tom and I were well matched.
It was the first night of the trip where the conditions were calm enough to go under. In the distance, a full moon cast a glimmering spell upon lapping waves that shimmered and rippled infinitely into the dark horizon. We were back in our gear, and we had all gathered around the dive master’s whiteboard as he sketched out our plan in red dry-erase marker. I was dipping my mask in a bucket of de-fogging solution when I noticed Tom wasn’t in his wetsuit.
“What’s up?” I asked. “You’re not going in?”
I had already gotten used to Tom. The thought of going down without him filled me with a sudden queasiness.
“Hell no. I’m not into night dives.”
Shit. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure whether I liked them myself. Don’t get me wrong—I liked the idea of them. But I had only been scuba diving for a few months, and I had already learned that exploring beneath the sea at night is akin to walking through a dark forest. There’s no sun to light the way. Shadows can be spooky. And very different creatures come out in the dark. It’s far different to diving in the sunlight, when healthy coral reefs and schools of colorful fish paint the ocean’s canvas in bright, vivid hues.
My only other nocturnal foray had been in Thailand. It was a shore entry. We’d waded in from the beach. I planted an exposed heel on a sea urchin—one of those underwater creatures that only come out at night. Its venom-filled pincers felt like stepping on a hornet’s nest. After hobbling around for a week, I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. But my gear was on, people seemed excited, and the crew had already attached my oxygen tank to my BCD, which meant I’d already paid for it.
What could go wrong?
*
The buddy system is everything.
Each diver is responsible for the other, should anything go awry. Buddies do an equipment safety check on deck, communicate through hand signals underwater, and never leave one another in case there’s a crisis or someone runs low on air. Instructors drill safety precautions during the open-water course. Even though I’d only been diving a short time, I’d already experienced an underwater separation. And, though it was not intentional, it had been entirely my fault.
I had gone on a shipwreck day trip in the Andaman Sea off the coast of Phuket. I had just completed my beginner’s course in the Gulf of Thailand. I had—maybe—20 dives under my belt. I had learned about the amount of lead weights I’d wear on a belt strapped around my waist to help keep me submerged. But it had never occurred to me that the saline levels between the Andaman and the Gulf might be different—or why that might be an important thing to know. No one from the crew had asked me if I’d dived in the Andaman before, and I wasn’t smart enough to volunteer that I hadn’t. I figured salt water was salt water. I hadn’t realized I would need additional weight on my belt to make up the difference. Blissfully ignorant, I went under with the same weights I’d used in the Gulf. Big mistake.
Ships, as it turns out, usually sink for a reason. Wrecks are often found in locations with wicked currents—and these conditions were unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The outing had started off okay. We lowered ourselves using a rope line that led to the shipwreck. Everything felt manageable when we were inside the sunken boat; its rusted hull acted as a windbreak. But once out in the open water, those currents felt like a gusting wind in a box canyon. Worse—unbeknownst to me—my oxygen tank had become lighter with every breath, and I now lacked the appropriate weight to keep me submerged. I struggled to maintain others’ depth, kicking deeper with as much force as I could muster. Unfortunately, I had been at the back of the pack. No longer heavy enough to remain down where they were, and blasted by the powerful current, I floated up and away, like a child’s relinquished balloon drifting toward a power line. I watched the woman with whom I’d been randomly paired that morning—and the rest of the group—swim on, oblivious that I was no longer behind them. I pounded my oxygen tank with my air gauge, but no one heard my clanging. Those below me became smaller as I rose. It felt as if the undulating surface above was sucking me up through a straw. After having the buddy system drilled into my head, it was a terrifying feeling to be floating all alone in the ocean. Luckily, the captain of the boat spotted me and picked me up. But—freaked out—I skipped the second dive that day. I was a mess.
Now, on this liveaboard, the boat rocking back and forth with the low, full moon clamped on the horizon, I found myself paired with someone new. I had been wedging my feet into my fins when a crew member paired me with the skinny, curly-haired Dutch Guy. It felt off from the start. He and his blond girlfriend had mainly kept to themselves, but I got the sense that—based on their expensive gear and her complex photography equipment—they were advanced. The girlfriend, like Tom, had decided to sit this one out. But Dutch Guy was champing at the bit. About seven inches shorter, and probably less than half my weight, his expression betrayed the resigned disappointment of a star athlete who got paired with the fat kid for a pick-up game. Still, I fastened a pink, fluorescent glow stick to his oxygen tank, and he did the same for me.
Before entering the water, buddies should walk each other through a five-step process to make sure all equipment is safe and functional: the BCD should inflate; a properly weighted belt should be tightly fastened with its release unobstructed, the oxygen tank should be securely fastened to the BCD, the air valve should be open, and oxygen should flow from both regulators. The theory goes that if buddies do this together—one step at a time—they check each other’s work and have greater confidence.
“Safety check?” I asked, looking into Dutch Guy’s eyes.
But he didn’t say anything, and he never returned my gaze. I had been holding out my inflator to check my BCD when he flipped backwards over the edge of the boat in a blur of fins and neoprene. If he said anything, I didn’t hear him. Already spooked by the dark conditions, I felt hurried, disarmed, and rushed. I quickly went through the rest of my checklist alone: my weights, my releases, and my air. And even though everything was in order, I hesitated. This didn’t feel right.
“Go, go, go, mate!” the captain shouted from across the boat in a thick Kiwi accent. “Get with your buddy.”
I probably should have said something to the crew. Maybe I didn’t want to be a tattletale. Maybe I wanted to look braver than I felt. When I shone my flashlight over the boat’s edge to find Dutch Guy, I saw only his bubbles rising from beneath. He had already begun his descent without me. Another no-no. Not cool.
But, as nervous as I was, I felt it was too late to change course. I was committed. I was in my gear. And I had a buddy in the water. So, I sat on the boat’s edge and flipped over backwards. My oxygen tank broke my fall through the water’s surface. I completed the backward flip in the water and sank face-down into the dark abyss, like a skydiver, falling as fast as I could to catch up to the tiny pink glow stick sinking beneath me.
*
Only two days before, I had seen my first shark feeding. Sarcasm and gallows humor masked the nerves and anxiety on deck as we slipped into our gear.
“I had an extra spoonful of jam on my biscuit this morning,” said one half of the couple from Liverpool. “I’ll taste sweeter to the sharks.”
“And I had no jam on my biscuit for the opposite reason,” joked her husband.
About two dozen of us plummeted upon a sandy patch framed by coral formations. From above, it looked like an amphitheater with the open ocean its stage. As we dropped, I saw a lone reef shark patrolling the distant azure void. Like a state trooper on a barren interstate, it appeared to be policing our depth about 100 feet away. Now, arranged in a semicircle between a break in the barrier reefs, we awaited the show on our knees, our fins tucked safely behind us to prevent kicking up any sand or residue that might obstruct our view. We had fully deflated our BCDs, as instructed, to keep still on the ocean floor. Then, we waited. Up above and just beyond us, our boat gently rocked on the glistening surface. The clear cerulean water, like the cloudless sky above, seemed endless. The sun’s powerful rays pierced through the water, backlighting the bubbles that rose from our group. Its heat—absorbed by my dark wetsuit, which suddenly felt too thick—caused sweat to drip down the small of my back.
We watched the underside of the dinghy push away from the liveaboard and motor out into the sparkling waves. A crew member dropped a thick metal chain ringed with scores of severed ahi tuna heads into the water. Then, it darted back to the boat, its propeller creating a blast of bubbles in its wake. Wispy ribbons of blood diffused from the fish heads.
Within seconds, white-tip reef sharks, black-tip reef sharks, hammerhead sharks, leopard sharks, and nurse sharks charged into view from seemingly nowhere. Teeth gnashed and jaws whipped as hammerheads and leopard sharks collided in the chum. They ripped heads from the chain and fought over the largest pieces. Bottom-feeding nurse sharks stayed out of the fray, lingering beneath on the sandy ocean floor, grateful for whatever bits sank to the bottom.
If my mouth wasn’t stuffed with a regulator, if my teeth weren’t clenched to the rubber mouthpiece, I would have been slack jawed with wonder.
Where did they all come from? And how did they get here so fast?
*
The shark was only ten feet away now and snaking closer. Its vertical, slit-like pupils opened like black gashes through twin emeralds.
I turned off my flashlight and crossed my arms over my chest to make myself look thicker. I voided my lungs, blowing out as much air as I could muster. Amidst a cauldron of bubbles, I awaited the worst. I closed my eyes.
Then, something solid bumped my shoulder. It was as if I had been body-checked by a bully in a crowded school hallway. But there was no gravity—no floor—to regain my footing. Like an astronaut on a moonwalk gone awry, my body drifted away from the predator in the pitch-black void. I opened my eyes. But I was too terrified to turn on the light.
As my eyes adjusted, I looked up and used the bright moon as a reference point. Eventually, I located the bottom of the boat. It was farther away than I’d expected. I took a final look for Dutch Guy. Not finding him, I made my way back toward the boat. But a new fear—fleeting air supply—washed over me. I shone the flashlight on my oxygen gauge. The needle was dangerously close to the red. Between my large lungs, my depth, and the stressed, labored breathing of losing my buddy and encountering the shark, I’d already burned through nearly all my oxygen.
Not far from the boat, about 15 feet below the water’s surface, I spotted five pink, fluorescent dots lined up in a straight row. I figured other divers were hanging on the line doing their safety stop—that three-minute precaution before surfacing from dips below 30 feet to prevent decompression sickness. Like a moth to a flame, I moved toward them.
I agonized. Should I kick harder, move faster, and burn more of my precious air? Or take my time and sip my short supply as I make slow, steady progress? How long had they already been there, I wondered. What if they went up before I’d reached them, and I ran out of air? Alarmed, I powered my way toward them with forceful scissor kicks, drawing attention to myself by making extreme slashing movements with my flashlight. As I got close enough to illuminate them with my beam, I saw two couples and the dive master in his tell-tale red bandana. They were indeed hugging that rope line, doing their three-minute safety stop to ward off the bends.
The master immediately gave me his attention. He extended both his index fingers and touched his fists together. Where’s your buddy?
I made a similar gesture, but I pulled my fists and fingers apart. We’re not together.
I wriggled my wrist to him. Something’s wrong.
He made an okay sign. Are you okay?
I shook my head from side to side and wriggled my wrist again. No, something’s wrong. I showed him my air gauge and shone the flashlight on it.
He made an okay sign. He turned to face the two couples and pointed at them before giving a thumbs up sign. Go up to the boat.
Then he pointed to himself and gave me the signal with the index fingers again. We’re buddies now.
The relief I felt in that moment was palpable—as real and tangible as the bubbles escaping from my regulator. I edged closer to him, and he showed me his air gauge. Plenty of air. Every diver is equipped with both a primary and a secondary regulator, and he handed me his yellow emergency mouthpiece. I took a final deep breath from my own regulator and removed it. I slowly exhaled underwater, allowing bubbles to escape my open mouth, while I inserted his regulator. I bit down on the mouthpiece, tasting the salty ocean brine. Then, I coughed into his mouthpiece, forcing out any residual salt water with the blast of my breath. Finally, I inhaled. I could breathe from his supply.
The master put three fingers in the palm of his hand. He wanted me to do a safety stop for three minutes. I made the okay sign. I gripped the rope with my left hand, and for what felt like the first time since I’d been up on deck, permitted my body to unclench. The stress I’d carried oozed from me with every exhale. As we hung on the line, fifteen feet from freedom, my emotions pulled me apart: on the one hand, I felt profound relief, grateful I would surface unscathed. Not only would I be able to have those difficult coming-out conversations stateside, but they seemed far less scary than what I’d just experienced. And, yet I also felt enraged for having endured such an ordeal at all. I thought about grabbing Dutch Guy by the throat, wringing his skinny little neck, or pushing him overboard.
The master gave me the thumbs up sign and we climbed up the rope in tandem, both breathing from the twin lines connected to his tank. When we emerged, I removed his regulator from my mouth and inflated my BCD manually with my own breath. We floated on the surface while the boat came to collect us.
“Where is Hans?” the master asked. “Where is your buddy?”
“I have no idea. He was there one minute. And then he was gone.”
We had been on deck for about ten minutes—I’d already gotten out of my wetsuit and into a soft, warm fleece—when Dutch Guy finally surfaced. He came up last, all alone. After hauling himself up the ladder, the crew berated him.
“What were you thinking? Why did you leave your buddy?!”
But Dutch Guy offered no defense. He neither said anything, nor acknowledged that he’d done anything wrong. It was as if he were impenetrable to reason—or wanted to make us think he didn’t understand English.
“What the bloody hell happened down there?’’ the captain asked me, once we’d finally stowed our tanks and the rest of our equipment.
“I don’t know. It was like we were never really together,” I said. “I never even got his name.”
I explained how he’d entered without a safety check and started without me. We had several more days of diving ahead of us, and I didn’t want any drama. But I also wanted to ensure no chances of a repeat performance.
“He’s a lone ranger,” I said to the captain, signifying the most dangerous person on a boat. “Please—don’t ever pair me with the Dutch guy again.”
I dove with Tom for the rest of the trip. Our vivid daytime excursions were as delightful as they were uneventful. But in the 20 years since—in the South Pacific, the Caribbean, or points in between—I’ve not attempted to explore at night again.
Buddy or not, they’re just not for me.
*
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(Photo: – Adam Reeder –/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
- Down Under by Jon Pyatt - August 24, 2023