Cousteau coasted to a stop. He exhaled until his lungs were nearly empty to find out what that did to his buoyancy. As expected, he sank slowly until he inhaled and began to rise toward the surface. Taking a single breath from his tanks turned him from a negatively buoyant object into a positive one. His lungs, he realized, were a sensitive ballast system. He steadied himself with his arms and swam smoothly down to about 30 feet. Cousteau felt a squeeze in his ears and sinuses, but no other effects of the pressure and no change that he could sense in the flow of air. The regulator was operating efficiently at 2 atmospheres of pressure.
Cousteau smiled into his mouthpiece as he reached the bottom ofthe little canyon, greeted by a flashing school of bream, round and flat as saucers. He hung on to one of the rough, limestone walls and did a quick check of his equipment, patting his harness and weight belt, shrugging his shoulders to be sure the tanks were riding well, and adjusting his mouthpiece. Cousteau looked up at the surface, which was shining like a rippled mirror. Directly above him, Simone was a small, silhouetted doll against the dazzling sheet of light. The doll waved at him. He waved back.
Cousteau held on to his rocky anchor and studied his bubbles on their way to the surface. They swelled and flattened into mushroom shapes identical to jellyfish as they rose through the water. Since the bubbles flowed from the regulator behind his head, the water in front of him was clear, which gave him a moment of elation as he thought about diving with his camera.
“I thought of the helmet diver arriving where I was on his ponderous boots and struggling to walk a few yards, obsessed with his umbilici and his head imprisoned in copper,” Cousteau remembered about that moment. “On skin dives I had seen a helmet diver leaning dangerously forward to make a step, clamped in heavier pressure at the ankles than the head, a cripple in an alien land. From that day forward, we would swim across miles of country no man had known, free and level, with our flesh feeling what the fish scales know.”
He looked again at the bream nosing curiously around him. They always return to the horizontal from a burst up or down, Cousteau concluded, because the horizontal must be the ideal attitude for moving in a medium eight hundred times more dense than air. Any other attitude required an expenditure of energy. Cousteau kicked and rolled through several revolutions on an axis from his head to his feet, turned a somersault, and did a barrel roll he remembered from flight school. He exhaled, sank headfirst to the bottom, balanced upside down on one finger, and laughed so hard he lost his mouthpiece. Taking a breath was slightly more difficult with his head straight down than in any other attitude, and Cousteau made a mental note to report that to Gagnan. He flipped upright, kicked hard, and soared upward through his own bubbles until he was just 10 feet below the surface. He swam out into deeper water and dove to 60 feet. Nothing he did changed the steady whistle, gurgle, and snap of his breathing. The regulator worked perfectly with his body in any attitude.
Three full tanks of air gave him sixty minutes at 60 feet. Cousteau had used up fifteen minutes. Despite the chill of the deeper water he was going to stay as long as he could. He swam over familiar limestone chasms that narrowed and turned into tunnels that had terrified him as a free diver afraid of being trapped inside with no air. Now he coasted fearlessly into one of them. The brilliant light from the surface dimmed as though it were being peeled away in layers, his tanks scraped against the rocks above him, and he felt the first twinge of claustrophobia. Cousteau’s instinct for self-preservation overcame his passion to explore. He’d done enough on his first test dive. Before heading for the surface he rolled on his back to take a look at the roof of the tunnel, and saw that it was
Cousteau smiled into his mouthpiece as he reached the bottom ofthe little canyon, greeted by a flashing school of bream, round and flat as saucers. He hung on to one of the rough, limestone walls and did a quick check of his equipment, patting his harness and weight belt, shrugging his shoulders to be sure the tanks were riding well, and adjusting his mouthpiece. Cousteau looked up at the surface, which was shining like a rippled mirror. Directly above him, Simone was a small, silhouetted doll against the dazzling sheet of light. The doll waved at him. He waved back.
Cousteau held on to his rocky anchor and studied his bubbles on their way to the surface. They swelled and flattened into mushroom shapes identical to jellyfish as they rose through the water. Since the bubbles flowed from the regulator behind his head, the water in front of him was clear, which gave him a moment of elation as he thought about diving with his camera.
“I thought of the helmet diver arriving where I was on his ponderous boots and struggling to walk a few yards, obsessed with his umbilici and his head imprisoned in copper,” Cousteau remembered about that moment. “On skin dives I had seen a helmet diver leaning dangerously forward to make a step, clamped in heavier pressure at the ankles than the head, a cripple in an alien land. From that day forward, we would swim across miles of country no man had known, free and level, with our flesh feeling what the fish scales know.”
He looked again at the bream nosing curiously around him. They always return to the horizontal from a burst up or down, Cousteau concluded, because the horizontal must be the ideal attitude for moving in a medium eight hundred times more dense than air. Any other attitude required an expenditure of energy. Cousteau kicked and rolled through several revolutions on an axis from his head to his feet, turned a somersault, and did a barrel roll he remembered from flight school. He exhaled, sank headfirst to the bottom, balanced upside down on one finger, and laughed so hard he lost his mouthpiece. Taking a breath was slightly more difficult with his head straight down than in any other attitude, and Cousteau made a mental note to report that to Gagnan. He flipped upright, kicked hard, and soared upward through his own bubbles until he was just 10 feet below the surface. He swam out into deeper water and dove to 60 feet. Nothing he did changed the steady whistle, gurgle, and snap of his breathing. The regulator worked perfectly with his body in any attitude.
Three full tanks of air gave him sixty minutes at 60 feet. Cousteau had used up fifteen minutes. Despite the chill of the deeper water he was going to stay as long as he could. He swam over familiar limestone chasms that narrowed and turned into tunnels that had terrified him as a free diver afraid of being trapped inside with no air. Now he coasted fearlessly into one of them. The brilliant light from the surface dimmed as though it were being peeled away in layers, his tanks scraped against the rocks above him, and he felt the first twinge of claustrophobia. Cousteau’s instinct for self-preservation overcame his passion to explore. He’d done enough on his first test dive. Before heading for the surface he rolled on his back to take a look at the roof of the tunnel, and saw that it was
Similar Books
