tried to stay calm. In scuba diving, if you stop thinking, youâre in trouble.
I knew I had two problems. One problem, of course, was needing air. There was lots of it above the water. But Iâd have to swim that ninety-three feet straight up to get to it.
If you didnât know much about diving, youâd think that shouldnât be a problem. Just kick upward. A person should be ableto hold his breath for a minute or two if he or she was in good shape.
A person could swim ninety-three feet in that time, right? Thatâs only the distance from home plate to first base.
Except, like a lot of things in diving, itâs more complicated that that.
If I didnât do it right, my lungs would explode. There was a simple reason for that. Absolute pressure. The combined total of atmospheric pressure and water pressure. The deeper you go, the more the weight of both squeezed things. Including air.
Once, out at sea, my Uncle Gordon had shown me exactly how it worked. He grabbed an empty plastic milk jug and took it with us to thirty-three feet underwater. He held the jug upside down, filled it with air from his scuba tank and capped the jug. He tied a rope around the handle of the jug and let it float up, like a balloon on a string.
I followed him as we slowly swam deeper and deeper. The pressure of the water squeezed the jug. It looked like aninvisible hand was crushing it. At sixty-six feet, absolute pressure squeezed the jug to half the size it had been.
Because it was important that I understand, on the same day with the same milk jug, Uncle Gord had shown me how it worked in reverse. Iâd never forgotten the lesson and what happened next.
At sixty-six feet, he added air to the crushed jug from his scuba tank. The pressurized air filled it until it was normal- sized again.
Uncle Gordon and I then swam back up, following the jug as it got closer and closer to the surface. As we got higher, the air in the jug pushed out because there was less water pressure squeezing it. It was like watching someone blow up a balloon. At thirty-three feet, the air inside expanded so much that the plastic jug ripped wide open.
My lungs were made of soft flesh. Not tough plastic like a milk jug. My lungs would become a mess of blood and pulp if I swam up too quickly. Fifty feet above me, with less pressure on me than at ninetyfeet, the air now inside my lungs would take up double the space. My lungs would explode.
Worse, when my lungs ripped inside me, air bubbles would get into my blood. And once those bubbles reached my brain, Iâd be dead.
Ninety-three feet from the top and running out of air, there was only one thing to do. A thousand to one shot. Or even less of a chance than that.
I unsnapped myself from the guideline. I dropped the weights from my belt and kicked upward. Already I wanted to suck for air. But I forced myself to breathe out instead. I had to keep bleeding air out of my lungs so that they wouldnât explode like the plastic milk jug.
I kicked more. It got easier once I left the ship. Without the weights, I was like a cork. There was air in my diving vest too. That buoyant air was taking me higher and faster.
I kept pushing air out of my lungs. My body screamed for me to suck somethingin, not force it out. My body wanted to keep all the air. But if I held my breath, my lungs would rip.
Higher and higher. Second after second. I kept breathing out, kept pushing air out of my starving lungs.
Bam!
I felt something punch my chest. It was an air pocket in the vest, blowing apart as the air inside it expanded. It reminded me to keep pushing air out of my lungs, no matter what.
My sight became fuzzy and black around the edges. I needed air so badly I was about to pass out. But if I did, my body would try to breathe. My lungs would suck in water, not air.
The water grew brighter and brighter. But would I make the surface in time?
Then I remembered.
The boat!
If I was going straight up, I
I knew I had two problems. One problem, of course, was needing air. There was lots of it above the water. But Iâd have to swim that ninety-three feet straight up to get to it.
If you didnât know much about diving, youâd think that shouldnât be a problem. Just kick upward. A person should be ableto hold his breath for a minute or two if he or she was in good shape.
A person could swim ninety-three feet in that time, right? Thatâs only the distance from home plate to first base.
Except, like a lot of things in diving, itâs more complicated that that.
If I didnât do it right, my lungs would explode. There was a simple reason for that. Absolute pressure. The combined total of atmospheric pressure and water pressure. The deeper you go, the more the weight of both squeezed things. Including air.
Once, out at sea, my Uncle Gordon had shown me exactly how it worked. He grabbed an empty plastic milk jug and took it with us to thirty-three feet underwater. He held the jug upside down, filled it with air from his scuba tank and capped the jug. He tied a rope around the handle of the jug and let it float up, like a balloon on a string.
I followed him as we slowly swam deeper and deeper. The pressure of the water squeezed the jug. It looked like aninvisible hand was crushing it. At sixty-six feet, absolute pressure squeezed the jug to half the size it had been.
Because it was important that I understand, on the same day with the same milk jug, Uncle Gord had shown me how it worked in reverse. Iâd never forgotten the lesson and what happened next.
At sixty-six feet, he added air to the crushed jug from his scuba tank. The pressurized air filled it until it was normal- sized again.
Uncle Gordon and I then swam back up, following the jug as it got closer and closer to the surface. As we got higher, the air in the jug pushed out because there was less water pressure squeezing it. It was like watching someone blow up a balloon. At thirty-three feet, the air inside expanded so much that the plastic jug ripped wide open.
My lungs were made of soft flesh. Not tough plastic like a milk jug. My lungs would become a mess of blood and pulp if I swam up too quickly. Fifty feet above me, with less pressure on me than at ninetyfeet, the air now inside my lungs would take up double the space. My lungs would explode.
Worse, when my lungs ripped inside me, air bubbles would get into my blood. And once those bubbles reached my brain, Iâd be dead.
Ninety-three feet from the top and running out of air, there was only one thing to do. A thousand to one shot. Or even less of a chance than that.
I unsnapped myself from the guideline. I dropped the weights from my belt and kicked upward. Already I wanted to suck for air. But I forced myself to breathe out instead. I had to keep bleeding air out of my lungs so that they wouldnât explode like the plastic milk jug.
I kicked more. It got easier once I left the ship. Without the weights, I was like a cork. There was air in my diving vest too. That buoyant air was taking me higher and faster.
I kept pushing air out of my lungs. My body screamed for me to suck somethingin, not force it out. My body wanted to keep all the air. But if I held my breath, my lungs would rip.
Higher and higher. Second after second. I kept breathing out, kept pushing air out of my starving lungs.
Bam!
I felt something punch my chest. It was an air pocket in the vest, blowing apart as the air inside it expanded. It reminded me to keep pushing air out of my lungs, no matter what.
My sight became fuzzy and black around the edges. I needed air so badly I was about to pass out. But if I did, my body would try to breathe. My lungs would suck in water, not air.
The water grew brighter and brighter. But would I make the surface in time?
Then I remembered.
The boat!
If I was going straight up, I
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