A Change of Focus
The following was an article that I originally wrote for the newsletter of the New England Aquarium Dive Club. I was a member there during 1998 and 1999, when I was living and working in Massachusetts.
I present the story here as originally written. I'd like suggestions regarding how it might be improved.
It was 1983. I had been certified for nearly 3 years, and was on my 2nd trip to the Bahamas. Although I had 68 dives under my belt before this trip, few of these were on coral reefs, so I still considered myself something of a novice. My past impressions of tropical diving consisted of remembrances of colors: blue water, purple sea fans, yellow and brown coral. Life consisted of a myriad of fish whose names I did not know, and some that I did know: barracuda, shark, sting ray, angelfish, grouper.
I enjoyed tropical diving. The water was warm, and the sights were rather more exotic than the eastern Ontario lakes and rivers with which I was familiar. I'd read many of the magazines. Bahamas diving was supposed to be spectacular, and yet I didn't find it so. Looking back, I realize now that I didn't feel connected to the coral reef. I was simply a sightseer.
On August 7, 1983, on my second dive of my trip, something happened that irrevocably changed the way I dive.
I had traveled to the Bahamas alone. For this dive, I was buddied up with two people that I really didn't know. We had no real plan as to what we were going to do for the dive, other than looking at fish and trying to find "interesting" things. The dive site was typical of the "second dive" shallow sites in the area: small, low coral heads separated by sandy areas. About halfway through the dive, I noticed another diver hovering motionless above a flat section of one of the coral heads. I recognized her. She was an older woman, probably in her early sixties. She was diving with her husband, who I saw disappearing to the other side of the coral head, out of sight.
She was hovering horizontally a couple of feet above a flat section of coral, unmoving but breathing normally. Because her husband was not in view, I paused about 50 feet away just to watch and make sure that she was OK. Her forearms were up against her chest, and her mask was pointed straight down. I couldn't imagine what she was doing.
After a couple of minutes, she began moving. She extended her hands into a small crevice in the reef below her, and all that I could see was that she was doing something with her fingers. In a few seconds, she lifted her hands from the reef. They were cupped together, as though she had something in her hands. As she raised herself into a vertical position, she began looking around, presumably for her husband. He was still out of view. She saw me and beckoned me over. My curiosity was piqued. When I got to her side, she carefully opened her hands to reveal the smallest creature that I had yet seen on a coral reef. It was a small white brittle star, easily less than half an inch across. I was impressed that this woman had taken the time to study the brittle star and had taken the time to share it with someone.
Because of that event, I began thinking about reefs in a completely different way. Before, a reef was simply a place where exotic fish could be found. Now, I see it as an entire community in and of itself.
Getting to know these communities well is the challenge. In my experience, most divers who travel to the tropics go to see fish, but there is so much more. In addition to the reefs, there are other communities. Sand is usually overlooked, while eelgrass flats and mangrove shallows are generally considered to be far too shallow to be of interest. For me, a complete tropical dive experience now includes all of these environments.
My diving, never fast to begin with, has slowed down even more. I like to take the time to really inspect an area, because the smallest details are the easiest to miss but can be the most interesting as well. I learn the names of the organisms that I observe. I try to see how everything fits together.
My memories are much more complete now: sponges and the organisms that live in them, riotous colors of small sponges that grow in shadows, anemones and shrimp and crabs, the way that a jawfish constructs its burrow, the vibrant colors of tropical nudibranchs. By getting to know the marine environments, I feel vastly more connected than I used to. I wouldn't have it any other way.
I present the story here as originally written. I'd like suggestions regarding how it might be improved.
It was 1983. I had been certified for nearly 3 years, and was on my 2nd trip to the Bahamas. Although I had 68 dives under my belt before this trip, few of these were on coral reefs, so I still considered myself something of a novice. My past impressions of tropical diving consisted of remembrances of colors: blue water, purple sea fans, yellow and brown coral. Life consisted of a myriad of fish whose names I did not know, and some that I did know: barracuda, shark, sting ray, angelfish, grouper.
I enjoyed tropical diving. The water was warm, and the sights were rather more exotic than the eastern Ontario lakes and rivers with which I was familiar. I'd read many of the magazines. Bahamas diving was supposed to be spectacular, and yet I didn't find it so. Looking back, I realize now that I didn't feel connected to the coral reef. I was simply a sightseer.
On August 7, 1983, on my second dive of my trip, something happened that irrevocably changed the way I dive.
I had traveled to the Bahamas alone. For this dive, I was buddied up with two people that I really didn't know. We had no real plan as to what we were going to do for the dive, other than looking at fish and trying to find "interesting" things. The dive site was typical of the "second dive" shallow sites in the area: small, low coral heads separated by sandy areas. About halfway through the dive, I noticed another diver hovering motionless above a flat section of one of the coral heads. I recognized her. She was an older woman, probably in her early sixties. She was diving with her husband, who I saw disappearing to the other side of the coral head, out of sight.
She was hovering horizontally a couple of feet above a flat section of coral, unmoving but breathing normally. Because her husband was not in view, I paused about 50 feet away just to watch and make sure that she was OK. Her forearms were up against her chest, and her mask was pointed straight down. I couldn't imagine what she was doing.
After a couple of minutes, she began moving. She extended her hands into a small crevice in the reef below her, and all that I could see was that she was doing something with her fingers. In a few seconds, she lifted her hands from the reef. They were cupped together, as though she had something in her hands. As she raised herself into a vertical position, she began looking around, presumably for her husband. He was still out of view. She saw me and beckoned me over. My curiosity was piqued. When I got to her side, she carefully opened her hands to reveal the smallest creature that I had yet seen on a coral reef. It was a small white brittle star, easily less than half an inch across. I was impressed that this woman had taken the time to study the brittle star and had taken the time to share it with someone.
 |
| Unidentified brittle star |
Because of that event, I began thinking about reefs in a completely different way. Before, a reef was simply a place where exotic fish could be found. Now, I see it as an entire community in and of itself.
Getting to know these communities well is the challenge. In my experience, most divers who travel to the tropics go to see fish, but there is so much more. In addition to the reefs, there are other communities. Sand is usually overlooked, while eelgrass flats and mangrove shallows are generally considered to be far too shallow to be of interest. For me, a complete tropical dive experience now includes all of these environments.
My diving, never fast to begin with, has slowed down even more. I like to take the time to really inspect an area, because the smallest details are the easiest to miss but can be the most interesting as well. I learn the names of the organisms that I observe. I try to see how everything fits together.
My memories are much more complete now: sponges and the organisms that live in them, riotous colors of small sponges that grow in shadows, anemones and shrimp and crabs, the way that a jawfish constructs its burrow, the vibrant colors of tropical nudibranchs. By getting to know the marine environments, I feel vastly more connected than I used to. I wouldn't have it any other way.
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