in civilian life; and Holbreque’s wife. Together, they rented Villa Barry, a sprawling turn-of-the-century home with a vegetable patch and a garden of pines, in the seaside village of Bandol, two miles from Sanary-sur-Mer. Wartime shortages and the other hardships of the occupation were growing steadily worse on the Riviera, but sharing food-gathering chores, meals, and companionship at Villa Barry made life a little more bearable. Cousteau and Tailliez had orders to report for muster in the morning at the navy base and to keep their eyes open for unusual activity among the occupation troops. Otherwise, their days were their own.
In early June 1943, Gagnan charged the three tanks of the improved Aqua-Lung with compressed air, crated it up, and put it on a southbound freight train as part of an Air Liquide shipment. The crate, marked as scientific equipment, arrived in Toulon ten days later and was transferred to a local train for the brief trip to Bandol. When a messenger brought the word of its arrival to Villa Barry late on a warm afternoon, Cousteau drove to the station alone to avoid attention from the Italian troops in the rail yard. He was back home at dusk, and unloaded the crate into the workroom at the back of the villa. After a dinner of beans, bread, butter, and agonizing anticipation, the household gathered to look at the invention that Cousteau had told them was the stuff of wild dreams.
For weeks, they had talked about it whenever the topic of conversation turned to diving. Cousteau had explained the simple mechanism of the regulator, the strength of the new steel tanks that allowed the air inside to be compressed to many atmospheres, and the intricacies of the intake and exhaust valves that would allow a diver to breathe easily in any attitude underwater. Together, they speculated that hunting fish and lobsters was going to be as easy as plucking vegetables from a stall table in the market. Most of all, Cousteau insisted, the Aqua-Lung meant the end of experiments with dangerous gases and holding their breath to shoot film underwater.
Early the following morning, before the sunbathers were out, the household trooped in pairs through the pine garden to a quiet inlet with a gently sloping beach out of sight of the sentries in the city center. Dumas carried the Aqua-Lung, but when they reached the water, he helped Cousteau into its harness and followed his instructions for double-checking that the air was turned on, the tanks were secure, and the two hoses were firmly attached to the regulator. As the best free diver in France, Dumas would stay on shore to be ready if something went wrong. Simone, in mask, fins, and snorkel, would swim out to watch over her husband from above and signal to Dumas if he got into trouble. Cousteau spat into his mask and rinsed it in the sea, a trick
Les Mousquemers
had learned for keeping it clear of mist. He fitted the mask tightly to his face, covering his nose and eyes to his brow, clamped the mouthpiece between his teeth, looked around for a moment at his friends, and waddled into the water. When Cousteau was chest deep he stopped and lay facedown to gauge his buoyancy with the tanks of air on his back. He and Gagnan had designed the Aqua-Lung to be slightly buoyant in seawater because adding weight was simple and subtracting it was impossible. Dumas waded out and cinched a belt around Cousteau with 5 pounds of lead, but it wasn’t enough. He added two pounds more, stepped back, and watched his friend sink slowly into the crystal clear water.
Cousteau breathed effortlessly, delighted by the distinctive whistle of air when he inhaled, the rippling of the bubbles over his head when he exhaled, and the snap of the regulator as it released each breath. He let his arms stream along his sides, fluttered his legs, and glided slowly over the sloping sand. The light danced down from the surface and flashed off the bottom until it gave way to a canyon full of dark green sea grass.
In early June 1943, Gagnan charged the three tanks of the improved Aqua-Lung with compressed air, crated it up, and put it on a southbound freight train as part of an Air Liquide shipment. The crate, marked as scientific equipment, arrived in Toulon ten days later and was transferred to a local train for the brief trip to Bandol. When a messenger brought the word of its arrival to Villa Barry late on a warm afternoon, Cousteau drove to the station alone to avoid attention from the Italian troops in the rail yard. He was back home at dusk, and unloaded the crate into the workroom at the back of the villa. After a dinner of beans, bread, butter, and agonizing anticipation, the household gathered to look at the invention that Cousteau had told them was the stuff of wild dreams.
For weeks, they had talked about it whenever the topic of conversation turned to diving. Cousteau had explained the simple mechanism of the regulator, the strength of the new steel tanks that allowed the air inside to be compressed to many atmospheres, and the intricacies of the intake and exhaust valves that would allow a diver to breathe easily in any attitude underwater. Together, they speculated that hunting fish and lobsters was going to be as easy as plucking vegetables from a stall table in the market. Most of all, Cousteau insisted, the Aqua-Lung meant the end of experiments with dangerous gases and holding their breath to shoot film underwater.
Early the following morning, before the sunbathers were out, the household trooped in pairs through the pine garden to a quiet inlet with a gently sloping beach out of sight of the sentries in the city center. Dumas carried the Aqua-Lung, but when they reached the water, he helped Cousteau into its harness and followed his instructions for double-checking that the air was turned on, the tanks were secure, and the two hoses were firmly attached to the regulator. As the best free diver in France, Dumas would stay on shore to be ready if something went wrong. Simone, in mask, fins, and snorkel, would swim out to watch over her husband from above and signal to Dumas if he got into trouble. Cousteau spat into his mask and rinsed it in the sea, a trick
Les Mousquemers
had learned for keeping it clear of mist. He fitted the mask tightly to his face, covering his nose and eyes to his brow, clamped the mouthpiece between his teeth, looked around for a moment at his friends, and waddled into the water. When Cousteau was chest deep he stopped and lay facedown to gauge his buoyancy with the tanks of air on his back. He and Gagnan had designed the Aqua-Lung to be slightly buoyant in seawater because adding weight was simple and subtracting it was impossible. Dumas waded out and cinched a belt around Cousteau with 5 pounds of lead, but it wasn’t enough. He added two pounds more, stepped back, and watched his friend sink slowly into the crystal clear water.
Cousteau breathed effortlessly, delighted by the distinctive whistle of air when he inhaled, the rippling of the bubbles over his head when he exhaled, and the snap of the regulator as it released each breath. He let his arms stream along his sides, fluttered his legs, and glided slowly over the sloping sand. The light danced down from the surface and flashed off the bottom until it gave way to a canyon full of dark green sea grass.
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