Introduction
Back in 2006, Sheri and I spent five weeks in Lagos, Portugal learning to scuba dive. Diving along Portugal’s sun-drenched Algarve coast was addictive. Get up, dive, laze on a quiet beach, spend the night partying, sleep, and repeat. We were immediately hooked. Diving, we quickly discovered, was a perfect complement to our lifestyle — an ideal blend of relaxation and adventure, which paired well with our travels.
Our experience getting dive certified in Portugal by a German-run PADI dive center was top notch. Our training, a well-organized combination of classroom, pool, and open water instruction, was relaxed and fun.
But the Algarve coast wasn’t the first time we went diving. For that, we have to go back to a little island in the South Pacific several years earlier. What follows is the story of that first dive in French Polynesia. It’s a story about something of a misadventure where an introductory dive had us in over our heads.
Just Married
Our trip to French Polynesia was meant to be a relaxed and romantic honeymoon. Some much-needed calm after a year of hectic planning and a frenetic wedding weekend.
Moorea was everything we dreamed our honeymoon would be. A lush tropical island of towering green mountains ringed by shallow turquoise lagoons rising out of a deep blue ocean.
An overwater bungalow perched atop a crystal-clear lagoon, our accommodation was as idyllic as its' island backdrop. With a giant glass coffee table in our living room, which doubled as a window into the underwater world below, and a sun deck that offered ready access to swim and snorkel in the lagoon, it was perfect.
But not long after arriving, we found ourselves restless. Snorkeling in our little fish-filled lagoon gave us an idea. With a week on the island, why not try scuba diving? After all, what better place to dive than a picturesque island in the middle of the South Pacific.
Suiting Up
When we arrived the next day, it was mid-afternoon, and the dive center was empty. Inside, we met with the owner – a no-non-sense Frenchman who bypassed the pleasantries and went straight into introducing us to Louis, our instructor.
Louis was a young and charismatic Frenchman with good English. With dark wavy hair and an island tan, he was fit and strong. Exactly what one imagines a dive instructor to be.
After making introductions, Louis got straight to work gathering gear, which Sheri and I shuttled to a dock jutting into Cook’s Bay. Standing on the dock, I couldn’t help but marvel at the placid bay and towering green mountains in front of us. What an amazing place to dive, I thought.
I liken our introductory dive to tandem skydiving. You know, skydiving for first-timers where a hotshot instructor dresses you in a jumpsuit and goggles before strapping you into an adult Baby Bjorn and shoving you out the open door of a plane while whispering in your ear to spread your arms and legs so he can ensure your free fall doesn’t end with a 120 mph face plant into some shit-strewn cow pasture.
When Louis joined us on the dock, he went into his pre-dive briefing. And I say briefing, with emphasis on the word 'brief'. No mucking around with the ‘how-to’ of it all. Louis’ focus was less about teaching us to dive and more about getting us in the water as quickly as possible.
“OK guys, today we’re going to do an introductory dive in Cook’s Bay. It’s nice. Calm. Lots of pretty fish. Once we’re on the bottom, I’ll teach you something about diving. Since you’re ass-backward American’s, I’ll talk feet and PSI. We’ll be diving to about 20’ and, assuming your PSI doesn’t hit zero and you drown, we’ll be down for around 45 minutes. Now let’s get you suited up.”
Suiting up involved Louis dressing us like one of those dummies a dive shop uses to display gear. It’s been over 20 years, so I don’t remember all the details, but the gist of it was something like this:
Louis: “Stand still while I dress you. Here, put on this belt…”
Sheri: “Whoa, that’s heavy. Are those lead weights?”
Louis: “Yeah, they’re to ensure that you sink to the bottom. Without them, you’ll bob around like a cork on the surface. Now be still.”
Sheri: “This belt isn’t tight enough.”
Louis: “This isn’t a tailor’s shop. You’re small, and it’s probably not going to fit perfectly. As long as it doesn’t fall off in the middle of your dive, don’t worry about it.”
Jim: “What’s that gauge do? Does it tell you how much air is in your tank?”
Louis: “Yeah. But don’t worry about that right now. I’ll explain after our dive.”
Jim: “After the dive? Isn’t that the sort of thing we need to know before getting in the water? When I learned to drive a car, my instructor didn’t wait to explain the gas gauge until after I ran out of gas.”
Louis: “You worry too much. I’m not going to let you drown. Now put your arm through this hole so I can finish dressing you.”
A short time later, we were all suited up. Only one thing left to do. Eager to get us in the water, Louis pressed a button on each of our BCD’s filling them with a blast of air. Poof! The final accessory was in place. Our puffed-up dive vests adding a certain blowfish aesthetic to complement our clown shoe flippers, baggy swim trunks, mask, and snorkel.
Ready to go, our preparations had been alarmingly fast. To be honest, there are times in life when it feels like it should take longer. It’s a bit like the time we ordered fresh seafood summer rolls at a Vietnamese restaurant in Fargo, and they arrived before we finished placing our order.
“OK” Louis said. “We’re ready to dive.”
I have to admit; I didn’t feel ready. Before jumping in, I remember thinking: ‘How can we be ready? I literally have no idea what I’m doing.’ But unready as we were, Louis gave the order: “Walk to the end of the dock and when you get there, keep walking until you hear a splash.”
Adventures in Waterboarding
Once in the water, Louis instructed us to put our faces underwater and breath. With my face submerged, I took a deep breath. Breathing underwater felt strange. Imagine Darth Vader blowing bubbles. I liked it straight away. It was exciting breathing in a world where we’re usually forced to hold our breath.
Sheri was having a harder time. Breathing too quickly, she started to hyperventilate. Unnerved, she promptly lifted her head out of the water. “No. No," Louis said. “Put your face back in the water,” pushing her head under with one hand.
I could see Sheri flailing as Louis held her down. 'Waterboarding' seems like a bad idea. As soon as he let go, she lifted her head out again, now a little frantic. Louis pushed her face back into the water. “No. No. Relax. Don’t lift your head. Keep your face in the water and keep breathing.”
“Ugh, This isn’t going to work,’ I thought. By this point, Sheri and I had been together for nine years, and we’d spent a lot of time learning new sports. I knew this wasn’t the best approach.
Once, back in 1991, I took Sheri skiing at a southern fried ski hill in the heart of Appalachia. Her lesson was on a mountain mother nature never intended for skiing, which proved a poor choice of locations to teach someone you love to ski.
It was Sheri’s first time, and the conditions were a predictably shitty mix of icy slopes, light sleet, and pea-soup fog. Conditions that all but guaranteed she would never put on skis again. But I persisted, pushing her to continue long after she was cold, wet, and tired.
The consequences of my misguided approach were soon apparent. “I told you I’m not having fun. This is awful! Why are we even here? I’m sure God never envisioned skiing in a state better known for moonshine and NASCAR than snow. Does it even snow here? I know what’s on the ground didn’t come from the sky! It’s some sort of manufactured vanilla ice supplement they’re firing from those godawful canons positioned alongside every slope. I wish they’d shut those things off. I can’t ski 10 feet without getting blasted in the face. I think my ski hat’s frozen to my head. I can’t see through my ice-covered goggles. I taste frozen snot in my mouth. I’m cold, miserable, and oh, yeah, I’m missing a glove and a ski pole!
And with that, she took off down the mountain, not bothering to stop until halfway across the parking lot where her skis finally skidded to a halt in a half-frozen mud puddle. Ditching her skis, she hoofed-it the rest of the way to the car on foot, shedding equipment en route to expedite her departure. Chasing behind her, I wasn’t sure whether to be proud of her progress or terrified of what she might do next.
But Louis was committed to break Sheri like a wild horse, shoving her back underwater every time she came up. A game that continued for several minutes as Sheri and Louis duked it out.
Eventually, Louis' persistence prevailed, and Sheri grew comfortable breathing underwater. Comfortable enough at least to stop coming up for air.
Underwater Charades
Louis continued, “OK, now let’s dive. Push this button to go down and that button to go up. Got it? OK. Good.” And with a thumps-down signal, we began our descent.
Below the surface, we began a crash course in self-preservation. It was a baptism by fire approach to learning skills I would have preferred to learn before jumping in.
My descent felt like an out-of-control free fall. It was like jumping off a two-story building in slow motion and trying to figure out how to stop before hitting the ground. I looked over, and Sheri seemed to be struggling too. Together we were bobbing up and down like a slow-motion pinball machine as we struggled between crashing into coral and resurfacing.
Eventually, we came to a rest on a coral-free patch at the bottom of the bay. What I remember most about the bottom of Cook’s Bay was the unexpected cold. Wearing only swim trunks, I was shivering. But as cold as it was, I couldn’t help but marvel at the abundance of life around us. Teaming with fish and other marine life, it was like resting at the bottom of a tropical aquarium.
But there was no time for an underwater safari. Resting on the bottom, Louis began his instruction using a technique I can only think to describe as underwater charades. A game we learned on the fly where Louis communicated with hand signals we hadn’t yet learned. The objective, we figured out, was simple: watch Louis demonstrate a skill we’d never seen before and replicate it without drowning.
“Why’s he got a closed fist over his chest? Heart attack?”
“Why’s he putting his hand to his mouth? Is he blowing Sheri a kiss?”
“Sounds like… Four words…Begins with… No bloody idea!”
At one point, I recall Louis filling his mask with water before tilting his head back, one finger placed at the brow of his mask, and watching, amazed as the water disappeared. It was like watching a magic trick from the audience and then being asked to go up on stage to perform it yourself. Without knowing the secret to the trick, I had no idea what he’d just done. Empty a mask full of water, while underwater. What?? That’s some sort of juju witchcraft!
Without knowing his secret, I tried to mimic his technique. The result was painful. Rather than emptying my half-full mask, I managed to completely fill it with water before snorting every last salty drop up my nose and then coughing it out through my regulator.
According to my dive log, it’s a game we played for 40 minutes as we sat on the bottom shivering uncontrollably while our butt cracks filled with sand and our goggles filled with water. At one point, I looked over at Sheri and noticed her mask was one fish short of a fish tank. Had I not been so preoccupied with drowning, I’m sure it’s a scene that would have made me laugh.
47 minutes after starting our dive, we resurfaced. With bloodshot eyes, lungs filled with water, and shorts full of sand, we were a little worse for wear but alive. We didn’t drown, damage or kill anything, get bitten or stung and somehow, against all odds, Sheri’s contacts were still in her eyes.
We had completed our first dive, and it was a (qualified) success!
No Wetsuit for You
We scheduled a follow-up dive in a shallow lagoon in the next couple of days. As Louis explained, diving the lagoon is like swimming in a pool. Shallow, warm, clear, and calm. A perfect spot to learn a little more about diving while enjoying a beautiful underwater world filled with colorful fish.
But the night before our dive, Sheri voiced some reservations. She was conflicted. On the one hand, she enjoyed our first dive. Despite all its challenges, it was an amazing experience. But on the other hand, diving without advanced training had been uncomfortable. As Sheri noted, safety, it seemed, wasn’t the top priority.
“I’m sure diving in a shallow lagoon will be safe enough, but, honestly, I don’t feel comfortable. I’d rather wait and take a PADI class taught in a pool.”
“No problem," I said. “If you’re OK with it, I’ll dive tomorrow at the lagoon, and then we can take PADI lessons together when we get home.”
The next day, the dive center’s driver picked us up at our hotel. When we got in the car, I told him Sheri wanted to cancel. “Tell the owner when you get to the dive shop.” He said.
When we arrived at the dive center, the place was a beehive of activity — nothing like the peace and calm we found when we arrived for our previous dive. Amongst the bustle, I found Louis and let him know Sheri canceled. “OK. Tell the owner when you pay him for today’s dive.”
Inside, I found the owner and told him I was there to pay for my dive and needed to rent a wetsuit. “Alright.” he said. Does your wife need a wetsuit as well?” “Oh, sorry. I almost forgot to tell you. My wife decided to cancel today’s dive.”
“Your wife is canceling?” “Yes, I’m sorry. She enjoyed her dive the other day, but she’s not comfortable. She’s going to get certified when we get home.” I said.
Merde! The owner was furious. Shouting at me in French, I could only imagine what was coming out of his mouth. “Fucking American! I’m trying to run a business here. I reserve an instructor for the two of you, and now one of you backs out! Total shit!”
“Oh, and I forgot to say when you asked earlier. I’m all out of wetsuits. You’ll have to dive in your shorts!” And with that, he walked off.
I walked away embarrassed and angry. A reasonable person might have left. But I had already paid, and I didn’t want to cause more drama. Plus, If I’m honest, I really wanted to go diving at the lagoon.
This Isn’t a Lagoon!
On the dock, Louis pointed me to my gear and I quickly boarded the boat. Onboard, it was hectic and crowded as divers stowed gear in preparation for departure. When it was time to depart, the dive center’s owner boarded and after stowing his gear, took the helm and we were off.
As we pulled away from the dock and motored across Cook’s Bay’s tranquil waters, I began to calm down and take notice of my surroundings. I was on a large metal hulled dive boat filled with divers and gear. As I looked around, I noticed everyone seemed experienced and competent. Even to my untrained eye, I could see their gear was nicer than my faded rental equipment. More observant now, I started to wonder why I was on a boat filled with experienced divers. Was everyone going to the lagoon? Something didn’t feel right. We were headed for open water.
As the island slipped away behind us, I started to grow a little nervous. Louis was on the other side of a rack filled with air tanks – too far away for me to ask questions. Beside me was a family from the US and we started to chat. They were experienced divers, who spent most holidays diving the world. “Where are we headed?" I asked. “To the Canyon.” One of them replied. “As shark dives go, it’s supposed to be pretty amazing.”
“Wait. What? A shark dive?” I felt mild panic. No, this can’t be right. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I hardly made it out of Cook’s Bay alive!
When we reached the dive site, the dive center’s owner shut down the boat’s motor and dropped anchor. Looking around I had no idea where we were, but it was clear we weren’t anywhere near the crystal-clear lagoon I was looking forward to diving.
With our boat anchored, the dive center’s owner stood in the center and began suiting up in a chainmail suit like the ones I’d seen on Shark Week. This was disconcerting. While suiting up, he gave his briefing:
“OK. We’ll be diving a site called The Canyon. This is a shark dive so you’ll need to take care. Stick with your buddy and keep your arms by your side at all times. Descend to the bottom and stay in place until I get there. We should see a lot of sharks today. Stay calm and don’t try to touch them. We’ll stay down for around 40-45 minutes. Everybody suit up. Let’s go.”
To say I was out of my depth would be an understatement. As I looked around, I noticed everyone was busy readying themselves to dive. The family beside me was pulling on wetsuits, strapping knives to their ankles, resetting dive computers, and doing safety checks.
Meanwhile, standing amongst the swirl of preparations underway, I was unsure what to do. Louis was somewhere inside a ball of divers on the other side of the boat, so I was alone.
I’m sure I was a sight to behold. Standing in a pair of forest green Nautica swim trunks and holding a white beach towel from our hotel, I looked like I was waiting to be dropped off by my mom at a pool.
With everyone busy suiting up, I felt compelled to be doing something. But what? I had no wetsuit to slip on, no knife to strap to my bare ankle, no computer to reset, and no buddy to check. Perhaps I could put an extra knot in my swim trucks to make sure they didn’t fall off?
Unsure what to do, I quietly watched as, one-by-one, divers finished readying themselves and disappeared into the water. Eventually, I was the only one left. With everyone gone, I heard a voice call out from the water. It was Louis. He was already suited up and waiting. “Grab your tank and put some air in your BCD. Then toss it in the water. Put on your fins and mask and jump in. I’ll help you suit up once you’re in the water.”
I asked Louis what was going on. “I thought we were going to a lagoon today. This seems crazy. How are we going to do lessons on a shark dive? How deep is it anyway?”
Louis replied nonchalantly, “Change of plans. The owner wants us to dive here. Don’t worry. First, I’ve hung a metal bar 15’ below the boat. We’ll descend there first for a quick lesson, and if all goes well, we’ll join the others on the bottom. It’s at about 50’ down. Put on your mask. Let’s go.”
Diving is a funny thing. From the surface, the ocean’s a mysterious blue abyss. But put your face in the water and a whole world opens up. After putting on my mask, I peered into the water before descending. The water was crystal clear and I could see a shark swimming below me. This was real. There were sharks. No diving in the shallow, warm, crystal-clear lagoon today.
When we reached the metal bar dangling beneath the boat, Louis began a new round of charades. But this time, I knew what to expect. Things went smoothly as I worked through a series of skills. I removed my regulator, purged the value, filled and emptied my mask several times, and practiced buddy breathing.
At the end of our brief lesson, Louis was satisfied and signaled for me to descend. All around us was a deep blue abyss teeming with marine life. Large lemon and blacktip sharks were everywhere. On the descent, I could see sharks below and a 5’ blacktip cruised past my left shoulder – unmoved by my presence.
Still inexperienced at controlling my buoyancy, I was struggling to smooth out my descent – bobbing up and down like a child’s balloon on a windy day as I tried to keep pace with Louis' ‘tour de sharks.’
At the bottom, I was instructed to sit and watch. Resting on my knees in the sand, wearing nothing but swim trunks, I thought I was headed for hypothermia. Shivering uncontrollably, I could hardly hear my breathing over the sound of my chattering teeth.
To be honest, I felt like the ripe idiot – an inexperienced diver on a shark dive. It was both embarrassing and exhilarating all at once. Regardless, I was having the time of my life.
On the boat ride back to Cook’s Bay, I was riding on high. My dive was nothing like I’d expected. Probably not safe. Likely a bad idea. More likely a terrible idea. But I was alive and I loved it. Diving was simply brilliant!
Long Walk Home
When we arrived back at the dive center, I found Sheri on the dock soaking up the warm tropical sun and enjoying the view. She was relaxed and happy. Lazing away a perfect morning on one of the world’s most picturesque bays.
As soon as I put away my dive gear, I joined her, eager to tell her about my experience. But before I could even start, Louis walked up to us and interjected. “Great dive today. I hope you had a nice time. Unfortunately, I just spoke with the owner, and he said he isn’t giving you a ride back to your hotel. He’s still pissed Sheri canceled. You’ll have to find your own way back.”
So that’s how our dive story ends. In a pair of flip flops and wet swim trunks, with a towel over my shoulder and no cash for a taxi in my pocket, Sheri and I set off on a long walk back to our resort. We must have looked somewhat pathetic. I know because about halfway into our walk, a bus stopped to give us a ride. “You guys look lost.” The driver said. “Jump in and I’ll give you a ride.”
During our walk back, I told Sheri about my experience diving with sharks. To say she was relieved would be an understatement. She was ecstatic - happy to have canceled and relieved that I was OK. As I recall her saying, “What type of dive operator takes a total beginner on a shark dive anyway? I’m so glad I listened to my gut.”
Want to read more about our travel misadventures? Click the links below for more travel tales:
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