Day 1 Dive

The first team entered the water at 1320. After they set the Pelican buoys that mark the middle and two ends of the 100-meter transect, the boat begins to anchor, a signal that other teams need very soon to enter the water to start the fish count. Surface conditions are great for diving: flat seas, and a warm and sunny day with just a wisp of a cooling breeze. While the advance team sets up the site, the other divers begin to gear up to enter the water.

The first operation of a trip is always tentative. In many cases, the crew is a "boat of strangers" in that each person has idiosyncrasies in gearing up and diving that are initially unknown to the others. I dive quite a bit with the CINP, so my dive competency is not questioned. However, I "suck air like a Hoover" using a 95 cubic foot tank while my partners find the standard 72 cubic foot tank provides sufficient air to accomplish whatever task has been assigned. The additional weight of the larger, heavier tank combined with the buoyancy of a new wetsuit means that my weight packs needs to be fine-tuned.

Head down, I utter silent pleas to the sea sprites "please don't let me screw up, make sure all my gear is here." Leaving a crucial piece of dive gear on the mainland creates a case of terminal embarrassment that may negate any contribution one makes to the effort. I personally know that sinking feeling of near panic that comes from the realization that something crucial was left behind.

On my first trip to do shipwreck surveys with CINP more than a decade ago, I failed to pack my wetsuit bottoms. Unwilling to admit that I could make such an error, I checked and rechecked my dive bag, somehow hoping that divine intervention would make the missing garment mysteriously appear where none had been just a short time before. If meteorological conditions had not forced operations to an early termination, I wonder if I would have been asked back. For want of a nail....the battle was lost.

For want of a nail .... And if we remembered to bring it all, we hope all equipment works. As gear is hooked up for the initial dive, everything is checked and double-checked, then checked again. While hooking up gear, someone discovers that the connector from one of the hoses is not compatible with the fitting on the b.c., necessitating a swap of hoses or fittings. As tank valves are opened, the regulator and power inflation hoses jump and become rigid as we hear the familiar-and- reassuring-but-tinny psssst of air rushing in to fill the hoses.

The bare essentials, dive computer, depth gage and pressure gage (compass not shown).

The divers turn on their personal dive computers which keep track of depth and time, functions vital to planning and executing safe, multiple dives over several days. Many divers on board carry a primary and backup computer. This redundancy will allow them to continue to dive in the event of a rare malfunction or the more common problem--depletion of one of the computer’s battery before the end of the cruise. I have a single computer.

If a computer malfunctions, according to the manufacturer’s instructions and safe diving practices, I must stay out of the water for at least 24 hours at which time my dive profile should be clear. Sure, I can try to reconstruct my repetitive group on the Navy dive tables using the techniques learned so long ago in basic scuba and relied upon by all divers until the advent of reliable and inexpensive dive computers. If not by the end of the first day then surely at some point during the second day, divers will often be "off the tables" using the manual computations. This manual computation method assumes that the entire dive was made at the deepest depth encountered from beginning of descent to end of ascent. Since most dives occur over a range of depths, the dive computer figures no decompression limits in real time. At the beginning of the next dive, the computer-derived safe diving time is invariably longer than that determined by manual computation.

The staccato clanking of the anchor chain paying out announces that it is time to saddle up and get in the water. The water at Yellowbanks this find June day is a pleasant 62 degrees, warm enough to wear my jumpsuit without the step-in outer suit. This two-piece arrangement gives the suit a lot of versatility over a wide range of conditions that one can encounter in year around diving in California. Many instructors tell students that if you can dive in California, you can dive anywhere. I agree. California conditions vary from diving in a surf suit with tropic-like visibility to cold water and surge with five feet of visibility. On the first dive we encounter the latter. Visibility on the bottom ranges from five to 10 feet. This fish census will be confined to the area of limited vision. Twenty feet away dolphin could be playing tag with seal lions and bat rays and we would be oblivious to it for if it is not in our field of vision, it does not exist. This is not to say we are unaware of something out there. Low visibility creates ephemeral shadows that take form in the mind long before we encounter whatever is there. In an environment that lacks many of the familiar cues by which we subconsciously order and define reality, the mind works overtime to bring some definition to what our senses tell it.

I recently attended a lecture by diver and writer Carlos Eyles. He advocates learning to take the many cues the ocean provides which are otherwise overlooked when our minds, operating with a terrestrial frame of reference, discount any stimuli that does not square with its constructed reality. Undoing the hardwiring of many eons of evolution requires time and a willingness to look at things as they are, not as they appear. Of course, Eyles would contend that the scuba diver is at a disadvantage to do this compared to a free diver because of the noise-generating mechanics of the aqualung which creates a bubble curtain which further masks some stimuli. Yet, many on this expedition are very aware of the marine environment, and find species that a casual diver might overlook. Knowing the connections between the parts allow these observers to see critters that hide in plain sight. Humann’s guidebook warns that many species of reef fish are wary of divers. Plowing into the area with the undersea equivalent of a bag pipe corps means that the critters will be long gone before they are within the range of our senses.

The roving diver fish count is uneventful. The area here is devoid of kelp, a far changed seascape from when I first dived in this area nearly 20 years ago. Then, kelp was thick and the area supported a number of pink abalone. No more. Besides a few common reef fish and what seems like armies of black-eyed gobies, the area seems to be overpopulated by white, purple, and red urchins.

The intervening years have turned this formerly kelp rich section of the rock reef into an urchin barren. The cause of the demise is not entirely understood. Many theories are proffered, including a succession of extremely harsh El Nino events which can be especially devastating to kelp forests, much like an out-of-control wildfire to pine forests onshore. Yet, attributing the decline of a patch of healthy ecosystem to a single cause oversimplifies the complexity of the ocean. Other El Nino events have been equally devastating to resources and the people who depend on them. Some anthropologists theorize that the scarcity of food following an El Nino drove many of the natives living on Santa Cruz and dependent on coastal resources into the California Mission system. Still others assert that human hunting of the California sea otter that so devastated their populations allowed the abalone populations to explode because it removed the shellfish’s chief predator.

When we return to the boat and shed our gear. The sun feels great. We compile the results of the count for later entry into the database. Several of the observers consult the fish guides, not sure of what lesser common variant of rockfish they observed. Soon a small discussion ensues in which others offer suggestions as to the identification of the critter. All fish have two names referred to as the scientific name, usually with a faux-Latin and Greek style (hence the term Latin name). The family name comes first and the species name second. It would be like us writing our names last name first. For all rockfish, the genus name is sebastes, followed by a second name that identifies the particular species.

Scientific names are important for they simplify communication between scientists and remove uncertainty that results from the use of common names which are the human equivalent of nick names. For example, paralabrax clathratus goes by four common names: bull bass (the really big ones), calico bass, kelp bass, and cabrilla (in Spanish), whereas paralabrax nebulifer is a.k.a. the barred sand bass, sand bass or cabrilla, (in Spanish).

Between dives I surface swim to attach floats made of a clip and empty orange Tide laundry bottles to the Pelican buoys. This extra marker serves two purposes. The larger size and brighter color of the Tide float makes locating the Pelican buoy easier. Furthermore, the extra buoyancy provided by the bottle makes it more difficult for the Pelican buoys to be pulled under in a strong current. Bottles work great, the boxes not so good.

On the second dive, I swim around area getting familiar with the lay of the bottom while my partner finishes collecting data from a previous protocol, the random point contact, that remained unfinished at the end of a previous dive. The RPC describes the organisms that encrust the bottom, with bare sand or bare rock reported when no organisms are present. When the last few points of the RPC are completed, my team does 5-meter quadrats. This protocol requires the diver to count and record all adult and sub adult kelp plants at least one meter high and knobby stars within one meter of the 100-meter transect line and record the results in five-meter segments. Divers actually carry a meter stick on this exercise. Red tabs mark the five-meter tics on the tape measure secured along the transect line. Since this area is pretty much devoid of kelp, the dive becomes a census of knobby star residing in the 100 square meter area on either side of the line. A preprinted tally table carried on slates by the divers make for easy compilation. Use of these preprinted sheets by all divers helps reduce recording and reporting errors.

At the end of the day, we head for the anchorage at Scorpion. Depth and the lateness of arrival on site combine to limit the number of dives that can be done on the first day. Yet, we are soon in the shadows of the sun setting behind the island as we secure the boat for the evening. One of the expedition members decides to kayak back to the anchorage from Yellowbanks. The kayak, stored out of the way on the top of the cabin, is deployed and the diver- turned-paddler sent on his way. By the time he arrives at the anchorage, dinner preparation is well underway. All on board seem to be involved in one way or another in the effort to put dinner on the table. Woe to the person who comes on board thinking that they have won a five-day respite from such domestic duties. I stay out of the way, as my culinary skills, limited largely to peeling and chopping, are not as well developed as my appetite. I am the voyage’s dishwashing specialist. While the small galley is the domain of the chef de jure, it is my realm after the meal. Anacapa to the east is a prominent gray silhouette when I start the dishes and is faintly outlined when I am done.

As the last light flees the anchorage, the salon tables cleared of dinner dishes become workstations. Data is recorded and checked. The day’s data collection sheets, which have been drying in the boat’s wheelhouse, are assembled, checked, and filed. Once the official data is compiled, personal logbooks appear. We pass around the dive log so each person can enter the information on dive depth, time, and activity. Personal observations are scribbled in these field journals.

The collective private effort and data record is euphemistically called "the gray literature" ostensibly because it is not published in black and white in scientific journals. Actually, I think the real meaning comes from the time the data is recorded, in the gray of the evening just before people retire for the night and the lights on the ship go out, save for the white mast light which marks our location.

Just before going below, the radio crackles with an appeal for any vessel in the vicinity of Cojo anchorage to render assistance to a vessel in some unspecified distress. I wonder what the problem might be. Cojo anchorage, near Point Conception is an anchorage a refuge, a place where vessels can put in and anchor after coming through the maelstrom of rock, coastline, fog, current and wind between Point Conception and Point Sal. Called the "Graveyard of the Pacific" by mariners and chroniclers alike, its reputation is well deserved. And Cojo is the last chance waiting room before entering hell or a haven after existing from it, depending on the direction of travel. Still, Cojo can be a dangerous place if the number of ships that have wrecked there is any indication. A few years back, one of the Truth Aquatics boats out of Santa Barbara was in the anchorage to let divers explore the wreck of an offshore drilling vessel, HM1, that had come to grief in the area 40 years earlier. The dive master took a down line to attach to the wreck, obscured by a plankton bloom. As the diver came out of the murk at about 40 feet, he found himself nose-to-nose with a great white shark. The diver hit the surface, shedding dive gear that all of a sudden seemed like a very expensive encumbrance as he swam to the boat. The gear was not recovered, but a memorial fund established by friends and family of Nejat Ezal, who had died while free diving at Catalina in 1994, helped the diver replace the gear. I fall asleep hoping all will be right for the mariner needing assistance on this dark night.