Joan Groves: The Last Island

At first the daily vertical migration of the Aurelia had kindled the burning of my imagination. Box jellyfish have eyes and are sensitive to light. Box jellyfish, like all sight predators modern or ancient, are active in light and indolent in the dark. While the Box jellyfish were lethargic, I would fool their ten-neuron brain and simply dive past them. I would find the densest mass of harmless Moon jellyfish and, while using them as a jelly coat of armor, go into the Deep.

I thought to myself, Genius.

My dad used to say, “If I have one more dollar than I need, I am rich.” After all, I had at least one more neuron than a jellyfish.

This was going to be a technical dive and all technical dives are baptisms of intellect.

The algorithms of the partial pressure gas laws had been calculated and the gas mixtures combined and supplied to the tanks. The gases of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide had all been calibrated and mixed to very precise volumes. I would in the first portion of the dive depend on my comprehension but the back half of the dive would all be muscle memory. Such things as nitrogen narcosis, oxygen poisoning, or carbon dioxide elevations were not good ways to dive but they were sure ways to die.

I knew that positive bio-feedback and the thrill of being face down in the water would power my first kicks. I also knew that the governor of negative bio-feedback had better not be overcome by the thrill for surely it would be the negative bio-feedback that would save my life —if my life could be saved at all.

The extra salvation tanks were resting on the bottom, bow, and, stern. Suspended in four atmospheres at the last link of the steel chain were the tanks that I would use for my first safety stop and above those, suspended in one atmosphere, were the second and last of the tanks that I would utilize as another safety stop.

I knew that these were the last tanks I would ever use, but, I did not say so out loud. My mother had taught me to never say never.

If I rechecked the equipment any more, it would show wear. The last tugs, the last pulls, the last shifts, slaps, and stamps were performed. The final recheck of air was drawn in and the last glance taken at the numbers on the submersible wrist dive computer. The final shift of the mask and pull upon the strap were completed.

There was inside of me a hope of a component failure. There was the hope that something would break, fail, or ill-perform—something that would allow me to discontinue and halt this dive. Something that would allow me to fail, but at the same time allow me to keep my manhood. So often, on so many other dives, there had been something. There were times in a few feet at the pool, there were times in the shallow waters of Looe Key, and there were the times over the coral-heads that one thing or another happened. But when your life is in the balance the gods just grab some popcorn and a soda and watch the drama unfold. It must be some Greek mythological thing.

At this moment, I knew it was not harmless Greek gods or precision-engineered dive gear or perfectly calculated formulas that held the balance of my life. My life rested simply in my actions. Turn around and go home. Just float here. Start the dive but do not complete the dive. Start the dive and complete the dive. At the end of each option was the same outcome: death. But, life and death was not it at all.

It was it. The Deep, Box jellyfish, sunken ships, uncaring, and everything else from dead Nazis to savage slavers and ancient prophets ; they were all trying to define me. All were trying to limit me. From those back in Cleveland, Ohio, to now, all were trying. And now it— it —was not trying to limit. It was tempting me.

I knew that I was not yielding to temptation. I was overcoming temptation.

“Yes, I will dive for it. I will not die for it!”

This is what I said as I sat backwards on the rail readying myself for the somersault into the water, my entrance into the Deep.

“This has got to be right!”

A second in a backward free fall and a splash put me into the sea. The fall made a hole in the water and for another second or two there was no motion. I looked up and the water stopped supporting my weight and rushed into the hole that my splash had created. The natural sounds of the sea gurgling upon me mixed with the technological sounds of my breathing regulator and other devices. Looking up from a reversed fetal position, I saw the underside of the boat through the film of my baptismal waves.

There was nobody on ship to give the okay sign but dive protocol had to be observed. I righted myself and kicked to the surface, anyway. It did allow me another final and last check of my equipment. Head up in the black South Sea there was no sky, there was no land, and really there was no universal ocean. There was just the swell coming to rest upon my mask. At this point in time, I was the most alone person on Earth

I couldn’t help thinking , I am Homo stupidcanas.

This caused me to laugh. Just as I was about to submerge, a Moon jellyfish glued itself to my mask. I pulled it off but it, in a moment, had deposited a plop of goo on the face-plate.

What the—Not a good sign .

The water had now filled the space between the wet suit and my skin. The rush of water seemed very chilly and I rested to become acclimated to the chill. I turned the glow of the flashlight upon the thermometer on my wrist. The water temperature was higher than normal water temperature. It was not the water that had chilled my spine. The thrill was what had chilled my spine.

Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

I repeated the formula as I began my descent. The beam from my flashlight produced a safe-passage cone as it reflected off the ascending plankton arising and the feeding fish that followed lazily behind, grazing on the aquatic manna. They ignored me and I ignored them.

An old Carole King song came to mind at that moment: Doesn’t Anybody Stay In One Place Anymore ? I could not help but laugh.

Stop it. Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instruments. Go over the dive plan in your mind again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

There they were, the one-atmosphere safety-stop tanks that I would need on my return to the surface.

Better check them. Looks good. Why am I talking to myself?

Because I am homo stupidcanas.

You are too tense and too worked up. You have got to get into a flow or you are not going to make it boss. There is only so much fire on a match and you are burning yourself out too quickly.

What the—Why is Wooly Bully playing in my head?

Stop it. Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan in your mind again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

These were the thoughts I had at the stop.

I readied myself and descended and with each kick the cone of safety became ever smaller and smaller.

Push down on the high beam button, you idiot. Get more light.

Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan in your mind again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus .

Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

Down, down, down—always down. At neutral buoyancy and in the dark, there is not a down. I only knew that I was going down because I was pulling upon the dive rope and my bubbles were not going in the same direction as I was diving.