We just got news that our one-year extended-stay visa for French Polynesia was approved. And a French Polynesian yacht agent, a niece of a friend, will offer her services gratis to arrange in Papeete our immigration and customs affairs. Happy Birthday to me.
We initiated the process to get a 90-day, three-island cruising permit. We don’t plan to be in the Galapagos much longer than 20 days, which, were we to stay on only one island, entry fees would cost about $1350. But Leslie feels that since we’re there, and that it’s not likely we’d get another chance, might as well try to see more of the islands and make the experience as extraordinary as we can. All in, permits and fees for all three islands will probably come in south of $2000. This will perhaps be the most expensive stop in our multi-year journey. Because of the high cost, most cruisers skip it, so Happy Birthday to me.
After some technical reading and some help from Sailmail tech support via email, I figured out how to get our HAM/SSB radio working well. We can now drive the radio remotely through an email/weather fax application. Leslie and I also attended a webinar on marine SSB radios, giving an overview of the equipment and how to take full benefit of having a radio on board. Joseph from Horizon helped me navigate the software on our laptop to drive the radio. He also showed how to use a couple other handy navigational applications, extremely helpful. The radio, Pactor modem, USB GPS, and laptop are all working well together. I was so happy about it that I couldn’t sleep. Happy Birthday to me.
Leslie received all the medical supplies from our list. Germs don’t stand a chance on our boat. Happy Birthday to me.
After a couple of weeks of price adjustments, Leslie sold our 13-year old Toyota minivan. We did a lot of living through that van. Sad and glad to see it go. Now, only the Prius remains. Happy Birthday to me.
Talking with Dr. Dave and the Maritime Institute of San Diego, I’m thinking of taking the two weeks and spending the $1000-$1200 to get my Federal captain’s license before we leave for Mexico next month. Online courses, in-person teaching support, a physical, drug test, background check, a couple of photos, an exam and an application, and I’d have it. We’ll see, but Happy Birthday to me anyway.
Dan and Lydia on Amadora invited us over for a wonderful dinner, while offering us advice on places to moor Kandu and how to get around Puerto Vallarta, a place with which they are very familiar. They even told us which busses, shuttles, and taxis to take to get to Costco and Walmart, our last stops for provisioning before sailing to the Galapagos. Happy Birthday to me.
After having lived aboard Kandu for exactly one year, we leave Ventura West Marina for the Ventura Yacht Club tomorrow. Although we’re not leaving Ventura Harbor for a few days, psychologically it’s feeling like the preparation phase is transitioning into the departure. Of course, our departure is the grandest birthday gift of all (apart from a healthy and happy family of course). Our stay at VWM has been wonderful. The office found us a slip closer to like-minded live-aboards, allowing us to stay as long as we needed. VWM is a clean and well-run facility. If you’re looking for a place to live aboard your boat in Ventura Harbor, we highly recommend you consider it. Best of all, you’ll meet the families, couples, and persons who we’ll forever carry in our hearts, people who have been emotionally and physically constructive in the preparation of our departure. Their advice and encouragement helped our family through many challenges. We leave, sad to know it will be a while, if ever, before we meet them again; a phenomenon that will play out for the next several years as we make and leave friends all around the world. Happy Birthday to them all . . . .
Yesterday, Tuesday, December 16 2014, was my last day of school for a very long time. It was really emotional for my brother, Trent and me. We both attended Cabrillo Middle School in Ventura, California. My main feeling leaving Cabrillo was about not being able to hang out with the kids I enjoy hanging out with at school and knowing that there was a good chance I might not see them ever again. The other predominant concern was about leaving behind a normal school life for five years; because I think education is one of the most important things in life if you want to thrive instead of survive. When I grow up, I hope to go to a good college like UCLA and then become a builder. Saying good-bye yesterday, it was a very hard day for both of us, for many reasons.
Before yesterday, my final day, I hadn’t realized how hard it was actually going to be to say good-bye. Telling the teachers and staff at school that the day was my last, I felt freed and relieved from all the major coursework and homework of six periods a day.
Some of the teachers were hard to say good-bye to and some were a piece of cake. My woodshop teacher, Mr. Lehman, was the hardest above all the teachers to bid my farewell. Woodshop was my favorite class. I loved making projects out of wood and shaping wood into many things. Because of my woodshop experience, when I grow up I think I would like to build houses. The saddest feeling was leaving my friends and the many other great relationships that I’d made these past eighteen months at Cabrillo. As a result of our sailing trip, I am going to miss the experience of going to a school dance or participating in school spirit days, things I will now never get a chance to do. But most of all, I’ll miss creaming my adversaries in daily matches of Kendama!
There are also things that I’m happy about. For instance, I’m glad I won’t have to be so confused, forced to sit in an uncomfortable chair for six hours, excluding the time when I got to hang out with my friends for lunch. One thing I don’t like about the kids in Ventura is that they are a lot more judgmental than my classmates in Los Angeles were. They judge what you wear, act like, how you look, talk, walk, what you do for sports, and almost anything you can think of, including how you do your hair. Back in my hometown of Westchester, the kids didn’t care what you did, what you wore, or how you acted. They just cared about how you flirt with girls and how popular you are. (Just for your information, I was really popular in my LA school.)
My most favorite and least favorite day in Ventura will be the day I left school, the day that I left classrooms behind but the day that my classmates said good-bye. They made me feel appreciated, looked up to, and that I will forever be well remembered. This was a very different experience than that of my last day at El Segundo Middle School, where I left many great friends too. On that day, everyone acted mellow, like my leaving for five years was no big deal. They weren’t as openly selfless as my classmates in Ventura. For this and many other reasons, Cabrillo will always hold a warm place in my heart!!!
Driving home from Cabrillo Middle School in our minivan, Leslie became so overcome with emotion that I asked that I drive. It would be the last day of school for Bryce and Trent. The boys started the mid-December morning somewhat excited by the prospect of bailing on traditional school, at least for awhile. After the office handed Bryce and Trent their sign-off papers, we were off on an administrative scavenger hunt to collect the the required signatures. First stop, the library where the boys had to drop off their text books, affirm they hadn’t any outstanding library books, and capture the first of many approval signatures for the day. Five different teachers would need to assign them their grades, assessing the work they’d completed thus far in the given subject. The last signature would be that of a school councilor.
Throughout the day, the experience was version of a similar story: the teacher in each class announced to the classmates the boys’ departure and wished them safe travels, some read aloud the letter I provided, explaining why the boys were leaving and the voyage we planned to do. One of Trent’s teachers even encouraged the classmates to write a personal farewell note to Trent. By the end of the day, the boys were emotional too, surprised by the number of classmates they had found to be caring friends, and the degree to which those friends expressed sorrow in light of their pending departure. The boys were deeply touched. Even Bryce, who tends to react more stoically and nonchalant about such matters, expressed how much his classmates meant to him.
With the hope of sharing our experience, several Cabrillo Middle School science teachers and a top administrator discussed with us the possibility of connecting their classrooms with us, introducing the Cabrillo students, possibly via Skype or FaceTime, to other classrooms from other countries–a service we’re excited to provide, facilitating a cultural exchange that we feel is important for young people, allowing us to share a part of Bryce and Trent’s experiences with kids their age. We hope to make something wonderful and inspiring happen. Additionally we take with us more than our fond memories as we were given by the school a small token with which to photograph around the world. Fittingly, the symbol of Cabrillo Middle School is that of a mariner.
Ventura’s Cabrillo Middle School was good to Bryce and Trent, as was Pierpont Elementary School and Miss Bird to Trent. The boys are posting the experience of leaving Cabrillo, their last day. Trent is publishing his first, Bryce’s is soon to follow.
I had my last day of school yesterday, Tuesday, December 16, 2014. From now on I will be home schooled or boat schooled. I left on a Tuesday. On Monday, my second to last day, I didn’t feel badly, but at the end of school on my last day, I felt really bad because right when I was leaving, some kids from class gave me notes like, “I will miss you.” Not everybody gave me a note, but everybody said goodbye. Ms. Myers, my English teacher, didn’t get to say goodbye because she was not present on my last day of school. It felt both good and really sad to say goodbye to my teachers and friends. But fortunately I collected a whole bunch of my friends’ phone numbers. I think I’ll miss my music at school because we just got to the good part of learning new music. I already really miss my friends because I might not see them until we are possibly 15 or older. I don’t think I’ll miss the schoolwork. I didn’t like most of the homework.
I have gone to four different schools since starting kindergarten – two schools in Los Angeles and two schools in Ventura. The difference between school in Los Angeles and Ventura is that every one in Ventura talks about the ocean. In LA nobody really talks about surfing or even the water. In Ventura I think the schools are better because in LA, I went to a German school and I had to study extra at Kumon. Maybe it was because the teachers taught in German and I could not understand. In Ventura the lessons were taught in English. I don’t know if LA middle schools are better because I never went to middle school in LA, but I really liked middle school in Ventura. Now I’m going to be boat schooled, and we’ll be in many different cities. I’m excited to be boat schooled by my parents, but I will always remember my days at school, the many things I learned, and especially the teachers and friends I met.
Soon Leslie and the boys will be posting their observations, providing a broader perspective of our family’s journey. But for now, it’s still just me. On Christmas Eve, after hearing my views regarding our upcoming trip, a female family friend asked, “. . . and what does she think?” referring to Leslie of course. A husband puts himself at risk when he dares to speak for his wife, but I’m obviously a bit of a risk-taker. You’ll hear directly from Leslie soon. In the meantime, here’s my take on my better half’s feelings at this, the most difficult stage of the adventure.
“We gave up everything for this trip” was her expression last week. “We left our careers; vacated our house; and stored, lent, sold, or gave away our possessions. We left our family and friends, and pulled our boys from school and their friends. We pulled them from their activities: piano, choir, Rock Stars, soccer, basketball, swim team, and Boy Scouts. We moved into an inconvenient lifestyle: a cramped, low-tech, maintenance hungry environment. We’ve spent more money than expected and are taking more time than planned to get ready for this thing.” She’s concerned that at the spending rate of these past two years, we’ll be out of money in another two or three years; thus ending our trip.
Some people, when they ask us when we’re leaving, say it with a knowing tone, implying that we’re either over-complicating the process, or overly concerned about unimportant things, or too inexperienced to leave. “So, what’s the new departure date? Got one yet?” This embarrasses Leslie and the boys.
Last week, dropping Bryce and Trent off at school for what could be our last time for many years, Leslie succumbed to an overwhelming feeling of having to bear alone the responsibility of their educational futures, “You’ll be working on the boat, leaving the burden of their education to fall on me. You won’t do it, so I’ll have to, and I don’t feel capable of providing that type of education that I had without the help of the school system. It’s overwhelming.”
Leslie makes clear tasks take 40% greater effort to perform on a boat as compared to the same task on land. Doing simple daily chores such the dishes and the laundry require much greater effort. Just flushing the toilet is a workout. The living space so small (250 sq.ft.), anything left out quickly makes the whole space a mess. The family will have to be trained to immediately put their things away, contributing to the 40% boat-burden factor.
Some days, Leslie struggles to hold it together. She wants me to have my dream, but considering the high emotional, financial, and professional costs, wonders whether it’s reasonable.
“This is the hardest part of the process,” I remind her. “We’re paying the lion’s share of the cost upfront, with no appreciable benefit experienced. Once we get going, the daily costs drop and the benefits begin to flow inward. The longer we’re out, the less each year costs as the expense of today becomes amortized over a greater period. If we return in two years, then this was stupid. If we return in 10 years, then this was brilliant.” She thinks about it.
“You are never expected to handle more than you are able. You are not alone. I am here. You need to communicate your concerns, your fears, and we’ll find a solution . . . together. I didn’t know of your concern about the boys’ education until now. First of all, we’re not going to worry about the homeschooling process. We’re going to focus on teaching them how to work, how to problem solve, and how to plan and manage the process of sailing a boat around the world, working within the confines of other cultures. Secondly, we’re going to have them study every country prior to arrival, building their awareness and anticipation. Then we’ll have them report on the reality of what they discover. We’ll help them create a presentation, Power Point and all. And we’ll post it on our website for others to see. We’ll teach them to document in words and in video their experiences: cultural immersions, adventures, and nautical life; which we’ll also share with our audience.” I continue, “You’ll teach them music: to play instruments, to sing, and to understand music theory. And yes, we’ll have them work on their math, science, and English exercises—self-paced. Whatever academic/theoretical skills they’re missing when we return they’ll quickly make up in adult-education or community college. Technology is getting more intuitive, not less; so whatever technological solutions are in fashion at the time, they’ll easily pick up. So let’s not worry about homeschooling. We’re taking it off the table—for now.” She remembered that we were planning to do this all along and after hearing it again, her relief was immediately visible.
“I don’t buy the notion that we ‘gave up everything.’ Except for getting back our exact careers, we could get back just about everything else within a matter of a few weeks; back into our house with a refrigerator, dishwasher, and washing machine; place the kids back in school; sign them up for activities; and find jobs for ourselves. So what then have we really given up? That’s like saying we gave up everything to go to college and grad school, to get married, and to have kids; none of which are economically sound endeavors; but all of which enhanced our lives; just like this trip is going to do.”
I went on to say, “For nearly two years, we’ve paid the price without receiving any of the benefit. The ‘delayed-gratification’ equation is burdensome at this, the most difficult stage—the transition and preparation stage. No one we know who has sailed around the world has mocked us for our wanting to get the boat ready to our personal satisfaction. Only those who have never planned or prepared a five-year voyage have belittled our delay. I reject the criticism of those who talk without knowledge or understanding, treating this venture as if it were a six-month journey. What we’re attempting takes much planning and preparation, with the safety of our family ultimately at stake, and I have enough experience to know what’s needed to support a comfortable and safe experience, with the added ambition of documenting and sharing the adventure.” She relaxed.
Leslie is a hard working, courageous, caring woman. I am blessed beyond words to have her as my life partner, but then I knew this within weeks of meeting her 25 years ago. It’s no accident that we’re doing this together. She loves travel and adventure. She trusts my abilities and knows I’ll do everything within my being to make this a wonderful and safe experience for her and the boys. Their growth, happiness, and well being are paramount. I will not fail. These past couple years have been tough on me too. I’ve devoted all my available time to this goal. I near exhaustion about every fifteen days. But I feel this quest is part of my life’s purpose. Everything I’ve done so far, most every decision made since a teenager, has been in preparation for this trip. I cannot control the circumstances that confront us and I cannot control the attitude of others; but I can navigate toward favorable circumstances and I can shape the attitude of others by providing a positive example.
I don’t truly know what Leslie thinks, but I do know what I think . . . that I’m very lucky to have her in my life. Having two awesome sons is my preverbal ‘icing.’ We’ll leave when we think we’re ready.
Ventura photographer Pascale Landry took nearly a hundred fifty images of our family last weekend. We struck an assortment of poses around Kandu under the melting glow of the ‘golden hour,’ hoping to capture our Christmas photo this year. More than a couple dozen turned out very well, including the one we’re now using as our profile picture on Twitter, Instagram, and this website. Thank you, Pascale.
This morning, Leslie notified Cabrillo Middle School that this coming Tuesday would be Bryce and Trent’s last day in school. We preferred they stay in school until next Friday, the last day before winter break, but the boys chose Tuesday. Maybe by leaving mid-week, the boys show their classmate that they really are leaving on the trip. Before rushing off to school, we provided them letters to give their teachers, explaining what we’re doing, hoping to enlist one or more of them to connect their classrooms with our adventure. We affixed our boat’s postcard to each letter as well. Cabrillo Middle School, Home of the Mariners has been a good experience for the boys, a school for our mariners. Leslie and I are grateful to have had them attend a near-by public school that is safe, clean, caring, and offers terrific extra-circular activities. Bryce particularly enjoyed woodshop and Trent enjoyed band, rare opportunities for a middle-schooler in California these days.
Here’s a copy of the letter:
Last Day of School: Tuesday, December 17, 2014
Bryce and Trent are leaving soon with us aboard our 42-foot sailboat, Kandu, to begin our family’s circumnavigation. More than sailing, we intend to immerse ourselves in the various cultures along the way. Were we to sail non-stop, we’d be done in less than a year. We anticipate being gone for 5 years, plus or minus a couple years, depending on how much fun we’re having and finances.
Our intention is to share the experience through our website blog and video channel, supported by Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. We plan to demonstrate cultural diversity, what other kids do for fun, what they eat after school, what their school and home lives are like; as well as the math and science associated with our self-contained nautical lifestyle. Bryce and Trent are surfers and we intend for them to chronicle their experiences, what they learn from kids of other cultures, what surfing requires of them, obstacles they overcome, posting on the blog and producing videos.
Our family is aligned with a couple studies and a volunteer program: collecting seawater samples to measure micro-plastic levels, measuring plankton densities, and delivering needed supplies to remote communities. For the American Numismatic Association’s educational branch, we will collect coins for their museum and share our traveling experience with their youth charters.
Our website is shaping up, and will include a map that tracks our current location. We will be able to send and receive text via satellite and email via high frequency radio. In ports with WiFi, we will be able to Skype or Facetime live, connecting classrooms of different cultures with each other, to share how they live, what they do at school. Our first destinations include Baja Mexico (fishing villages) and Puerto Vallarta, then Galapagos (Isabela Island), then Easter Island, then Pitcairn, then French Polynesia (Gambier, Marquesas, Tuamotus, Society) where we hope to stay for up to year (if we receive our one-year extended stay visa next month).
For school, we’ve purchased some home-school programs in math, English, and science. The boys will be participating in the process of navigating and maintaining our home afloat, where we must repair nearly everything ourselves, including our watermaker. They will learn how to relate to other cultures and environments, what each demands. Where possible, they will be introduced into classrooms of the regions we visit, attending for weeks or months at a time.
We cannot know what will happen, when, or where we will go until we get there. Circumstances of weather and life will drive much of what happens. If you’re interesting in learning more or ways to incorporate our trip within your classroom, please contact me. And of course, we hope you’ll follow along at: RigneysKandu.Com.
Learning that reverse osmosis (RO) systems require a regular “feeding,” every three to five days, whereby freshwater must either be made or flushed through the system, we would wait nearly a year after installing it before we would commission the unit into service.
Read the blog post titled, RO 101 and see the video to learn more about the RO process itself.
Cruise RO Water and Power, the purveyor of the RO system we selected for Kandu, is owned and operated by dollar-conscious, easily accessible cruisers. They’ve assembled their robust AC solution using off-the-shelf parts and supplies, not the more expensive (either way, it’s expensive) proprietary solutions common within the marine desalinator marketplace. If the cruiser includes the cost of a new gas-powered Honda generator, with the SM-30 model, she winds up with a Cruise RO system that has built-in redundancy and makes four times as much water for the same price as more popular options–30 gallons an hour, “Beast!” as thirteen-year-old Bryce is fond of saying. Cruise RO achieves this by configuring dual 40″ long membrane filters, a size much bigger than the typical compact stand-alone units offer. If one membrane fails, the operator can by-pass it and still get 20 gal/hr from the remaining membrane. For boats lacking space, and they all do, this may not be an option. But for those that do, a full tank of gas (0.95 gal) in a Honda EU2000i is suppose to produce about 150 gal. of water: a fair trade we feel for stinking up the environment. Additionally, Rich and Charlie of Cruise RO, the guys who run it, speak in laymen terms, a service I very much depended on to install and commission our unit.
To commission the unit, I wondered about the quality of seawater I could safely process. I considered anchoring off Santa Cruz Island where the seawater is much cleaner than in the marina where Kandu is moored. Oil can ruin an RO membrane and I would occasionally notice the sheen of oil in the marina’s surface. After discussing my concerns with Rich and with other cruisers with extensive marine RO water-making experience, I was assured that the marina’s water would not be a problem. They had all successfully made water under far worse conditions, explaining that because oil floats and Kandu’s seawater is drawn several feet below the surface, I wouldn’t have a problem–“It is what it’s for,” was the expression I heard time and again.
The commissioning process is clearly laid out in the user manual with color pictures and all. Even though it’s simple, I was nervous. I didn’t want to make a misstep that would cost a lot of time and money to rectify. Plus with all the first-time noises, it was a little nerve-racking. So after reading and re-reading the commissioning process (as technician in the post production world from where I came, I learned early on that the difference between a technician and an end-user is that the technician read the user manual), I called Rich to make sure he’d be available in case I needed his help. With him at the ready, I proceeded with the commissioning process. Under the din of noise generated by the two pumps and the excess brine water pouring into the cockpit drain, I checked all the plumbing and electrical, all the pumps, all the filters, opened and closed the necessary valves, bled the air out of the system, pressed on and off the pumps’ power switches, and carefully turned up the high-pressure knob as bubbles percolated for the first time within the flow meter. I felt every bit like Dr. Frankenstein, bringing my monster to life.
Once commissioned and with Rich’s phoned thumbs-up, I was ready to make water.
Here’s a video of my first water-making experience:
As the first trickles of water poured from the sample spigot and into the sink, I got excited. Using the total dissolved solids (TDS) meter provided, I collected in a clear plastic cup some of the “product” water to measure the parts per million (ppm) of salt and solids in solution. The water coming from the desalinator started off salty but soon came fresh. Less than 500 ppm is considered acceptable quality drinking water, less than 300 ppm is considered normal tap water, and less then 100 is considered soft. When the meter reads <500, you’re suppose to switch the water over to the boat’s tanks as it won’t be long before it’s producing water <300ppm. But being that it was the first time making water, I wanted to taste it. In no time, the meter read 114, so I tossed it and eagerly poured more of the clear manmade life-sustaining nectar into the cup . . . and cautiously tasted it. “Wow,” it was hands down the best tasting water I’d ever had. Like Tom Hanks in “Cast-away” after making fire for the first time, I thumped my chest, proclaiming, “I MADE water! I made that!” It felt especially apropos considering I’m an Aquarian, a water bearer bearing water. “I, Aquarian skipper of Kandu, bring you water!” It wasn’t long before I was able to pour a taste for Leslie and the boys. All gave a thumbs-up. Making water for the first time, although nerve racking at first, ended up very gratifying.
Thanks again to Rich and Charlie of Cruise RO Water and Power.
Late one afternoon in Ventura, Bryce called to me, upset. I was below deck. He was on the dock. He had dropped Trent’s Penny Board, an old-school skateboard into the water adjacent to our neighbor’s boat. Trent recently bought it from a friend and really liked it. Bryce knew the cost to replace the board would be about $100, money he didn’t want to spend. Head in hands, fighting back tears, Bryce was lamenting his circumstance. I suggested he dive for it. I made up a weighted line to sound the depth; fifteen feet we determined and Bryce rushed to get his wetsuit. Together we deployed Kandu’s stern anchor and chain over the spot he remembered splashing the board. The sun was low on the horizon. It was warm above surface and below wasn’t terribly cold. We knew he wouldn’t see much and would have to rely on touch. Passer-bys encouraged Bryce to give it try, warning how difficult the task would be. It took a couple of dives before Bryce got his rhythm and technique down. Soon after, Bryce pulled up his brother’s skateboard. Many of the other live-aboards were amazed at Bryce’s success. He was very pleased with himself. I told him to wash the board off in fresh water and spray it with WD-40, which did immediately. The board survived with little damage until a couple of weeks when one of the wheel’s bearings froze. Trent’s Uncle Nick bought and replaced all of Trent’s bearings. Trent was satisfied with the repair.
A week after the salvaged skateboard episode, Uncle Nick bought for Bryce’s birthday a new Penny Board with a stars and stipes motif, just as Bryce had dreamed.
As mentioned in Part 1, initial efforts to retrieve the prescription sunglass my father-in-law, Ron, dropped from his shirt pocket and into the drink over our neighboring mooring slip failed. The mishap provided an excellent opportunity to try out some cool gear; 1) our Spare Air (mini-SCUBA tank) device, and 2) Jim’s, a neighbor’s, pony tank (small SCUBA tank). I learned about how long each allowed me to stay underwater at around 15′ below the surface and to not panic as I cautiously ascended without air in my lungs, to meet head-first the barnacled underside of the floating dock. I experienced what it is to dive in near zero visibility as my movements stirred the silty marina bottom, clouding my view like thick smoke from a slow motion house fire. And I received instruction from Jim on how to proceed in the manner taught to search and rescue divers.
Ron’s glasses fell in the water on a Saturday afternoon. Later that day, Bryce and I made our first attempts to retrieve them, as described Part 1. It wouldn’t be until Tuesday afternoon before I would be able to make another attempt, this time with our tethered compressed-air solution. Some call it SNUBA, a cross between snorkeling and SCUBA diving. Others call it a hookah system (if you try looking it up on the Internet, be sure to include “diving” in the search perimeters to avoid getting pages of links to marijuana devices) because of how it provides compressed air via a long hose tethered to your waist. It took days before I dove again because I wanted to find time to read the instructions and make sure I properly commissioned the unit into service. It’s an expensive piece of machinery that if improperly used, could kill a diver–no exaggeration.
SCUBA 101 (skip the next two paragraphs if you’re not interested in learning how compressed air can kill or maim one of us): Breathing compressed air is serious business. As a diver descends, the combined weight of of the air and the water above put into play physical forces that require serious consideration and respect. Ignorance is no shield against improper practice. Having had SCUBA instruction, I knew some basic practices: 1) at fifteen feet of depth, I could safely stay underwater for a long time, more than an hour, 2) to always be in a state of breathing, either exhaling or inhaling, slowly and deliberately–never hold your breath, especially ascending, 3) if you lose your regulator (the mouth piece from which your air is drawn), blow small bubbles, 4) do not ascend faster than your bubbles; 5) make a safety stop 10 feet below the surface for a few minutes before finishing the ascent (unless you’re out of air, then ascend blowing bubbles), allowing your body to release excess air stored in the recesses of your body and giving your ears an opportunity to acclimate to the lower pressure (I get dizzy the last 8 ft.). If a diver fails to adhere to safe practices, the physical laws of gas and fluids can work against the diver, releasing gases stored within their body tissues and blood stream (Henry’s law), creating painful air pockets between their lungs and chest, or sending air bubbles to the brain, like bubbles released from a freshly opened soft drink (Boyle’s law), killing or paralyzing them. Why does this happen? At depth, a diver needs higher air pressure to counter act the increased atmospheric pressures of the water surrounding the diver. At 33 feet below the water’s surface, the atmospheric pressure is double that of the surface which is about 15 pounds per square inch (psi), so 30 psi at 33 feet. At that depth, an air-filled basketball would be half its size. If you wanted the basketball expanded to full size at that depth, you’d need to fill it with twice as much air as with what it was filled at surface, which is the same thing as filling it with air that was compressed to twice its surface pressure. That’s why you can’t just take a long piece of hose and breath from it from the surface like a long snorkel. The air at surface is not pressurized (heavy) enough to expand a diver’s lungs at depth. With a long snorkel, you might be able to dive 2 feet underwater, but not much more. At the same time, if you don’t release the air from the basketball that’s now filled with twice the air at 33 feet, as it approaches the surface, the heavier air inside will expand to match the lower air pressure of the approaching surface, causing the ball to ascend faster and eventually explode. Okay for a basketball, not okay for lungs. By the way, without a lot of weight strapped to his or her body, it would be nearly impossible for a diver to swim a basketball down a few feet. A dolphin might be able to (basketballs underwater), but not many humans. Although, the deeper you get the ball, the smaller it gets, the easier it will be to push it down.
Another key factor surrounding diving with compressed air is the quality of the air compressed. When compressing air, the air compressor siphons air from around its intake, the very air we breath at the surface, and squeezes it into higher pressures. If the air it captures is polluted, the diver will breath concentrated pollution. This can easily happen if the compressor breathes the exhaust of a gasoline or diesel engine, which puts out carbon monoxide, a toxic gas. In our case, our compressor works off AC electricity. To create AC electricity, the kind of electricity that comes from the outlet of your walls, we use a gas-powered generator. If the generator’s exhaust is sucked into the air-compressor, the diver could be poisoned. When we want to dive at a location other than directly under Kandu, we may take our dinghy out to a better diving location. The interior space of the dinghy is small, so the generator and the compressor will be near each other. We will need to be extra cautious, separating the two as much as possible and making sure the compressor only breathes fresh air. We must place it up wind from the generator with its own snorkel and carbon air filter. So avoiding engine exhaust and other pollutants is crucial. And there’s one more thing that breathing in will kill you: oil, any oil, even food grade oil. In the harsh marine environment, metals rust. To help prevent rusting, we coat our metals with a light oil spray (CorrosionX or Boeshields T9) to minimize contact from the oxygen and salts that cause corrosion. The air compressor is no exception, so we must be extra careful to spray only its metal parts and not the air filter. We must spray the compressor after each use, allowing time for the solvents in the oil to evaporate and for the oil to “dry” on the metal surfaces. In this way, we insure the diver doesn’t breath compressed oil. If a diver breaths compressed oil, his or her lung walls will be coated with the oil, preventing the lungs from absorbing air, causing the diver’s lungs to fill with fluid. Even surfacing won’t save the diver. So you can see how important it was for me to read the instructions describing the proper use of our new air compressor, and why it took awhile before I was able to dive for Ron’s expensive sunglasses.
End of lesson. Back to the story.
With the knowledge of the air compressor’s proper use firmly saturating my brain, I gather up a few more items previously not incorporated in my earlier recovery attempts: a multi-colored spring wetsuit (short sleeves and legs) à la early nineties to keep me a little warmer in the cooler water for an extended period, a weight belt to make it easier for me to remain at depth underwater, a large underwater light lent by Jim, and an 8-foot tether tied to the top of the anchor shank that will help me create my search-zone. We deploy the aluminum anchor just as we had the previous attempt, directly over the recalled drop zone. Once suited up, I start the compressor. The manual clearly states that to prevent deadly electrical shock, a wet diver should not turn on or off the compressor. Someone who is dry, wearing rubber soled shoes, and not standing in water should. I am dry for the start, but Ron, in his smart and dry street clothes, will turn it off and on from this point forward.
The new weight belt provided with the air compressor system has six little pockets within which to place weights of various size. The pocket technology allows the diver to easily adjust weights, readily adding or removing as necessary. It also allows a diver in trouble and needing to surface quickly the ability to loose a portion of the weights, making for a more controlled emergency ascent than were they to release the entire weight belt, which is the standard protocol. So, with marker anchor deployed, marking the focal point of my intended search area, I slip into the water; face mask covering my eyes and nose, regulator in mouth, fins on feet, anchor chain in hand.
First order of business, determine the proper amount of weights needed to attain neutral buoyancy (Archimedes’ principle): having the top of my head float at surface, breaking the surface as I inhale, and sinking as I exhale. Wet suits float, so I find I need 12 lbs of lead weights (2 x 5-pounder and 1 x 2-pounder) placed evenly around my weight belt to properly float (and sink) me.
Jim’s large light strapped to my right wrist, I slowly begin my descent in to darkness. The regulator underwater amplifies each tin-can sound inhale, like that of Darth Vader’s. Each time the compressor’s ridged yellow hose touches my mask, I hear the rapid-fire thump of the compressor’s motor in my head, as if the compressor were on my shoulder. I push it away as I can. Although it is a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I can’t see much past arms lengths–just a dim light from the large lamp. I can see the anchor chain, but little more. The murky dark cotton-textured bottom behaves like the top of a cloud, the closer I get to it, the more it envelops me. Jim’s idea of using the light to visually inspect the bottom before resorting to touch is proving fruitless. At bottom, I can’t see the light beam through the water, let alone anything resembling the sea floor. If I’m unable to use it, then I don’t want to lug it around, stirring up the silty bottom. I consider ascending so that I may remove the cumbersome light from my wrist and leave it on the small concrete dock that separates Kandu from the neighboring boat. Just before I direct myself up, I feel an inanimate flat object under my righthand. It’s the 18″x30″ outdoor carpet mat that Trent had dropped many months ago, that I discovered during my previous attempt to find the glasses. I decide to take it with me. As I ascend, the light fades up and I can see what’s in my hand. Black silt streams off the small carpet like coal exhaust from the stack of an old fashioned steam-powered locomotive.
Ron, hoping I had been lucky, is disappointed I hadn’t found the glasses so quickly. To better feel the bottom and better plant myself in one spot, I remove my flippers and leave them on the dock too. Now I will be able to feel the bottom with both hands and feet. I dive again, my left hand sliding down the anchor chain, guiding me to my starting point. No longer encumbered by the spotlight, I am ready to feel my way over the silky bottom, determined not to quit until I recover the lost sunglasses.
Arriving at the upright anchor, its squarish crown sides are planted straight down in the silt, its erect shank pointing skyward. I untwist from the top of the shank the small white nylon lanyard that I tied earlier that day. I can barely make it out, but somehow I’m able to see it. It takes me awhile to get oriented. I’m a little lost at first, but calm down and begin implementing the plan: while holding the end of the lanyard in my left hand as far from the anchor as possible, I extend the reach of my right hand and both feet. In a leg-spread push-up position, I first move my right leg as far to the right as possible and gently poke my toes into the silt, moving my leg up and down, side to side. The bottom is soft. My toes easily sink into the fine, saturated silt. I cannot see but the dark grey-brown cloud that encircles my head. Were there somewhere else near me, I could not know. Just as in life, I know the immediate circumstance that surrounds my senses. The focus of my task is here, not elsewhere. If conditions are better someplace else, I don’t know, and don’t care to know. Once the right leg is done, I stretch the left leg as far left and away from the anchor as I can and begin carefully examining the bottom, first moving my foot up a couple inches at a time until my knee is to my chest, then a little to the right and back down again, a couple inches at a time, hoping to feel something rigid, not super soft mud. The water temperature is cool, probably in the upper 60’s. With my wetsuit, I know I can stay for about an hour before I begin to get hypothermic (cold enough where I’d have to consider surfacing), and that with the compressor supplying me with air, I can easily stay an hour or much more if needed. At a depth of fifteen feet, one hour of compressed air will not cause any physiological problems. So long as I ascend slowly and take a minute break at 10 feet, I’ll be fine. At the same time that my feet are working, my hands are performing a similar, but opposite pattern. It’s a bit like rubbing your head and patting your tummy. With an eight foot lanyard wrapped around my left hand and my body outstretched, I figure my toes are about fourteen feet from the anchor, creating a search diameter of about 32-ft., plenty large enough to capture my prize. Once one piece of the pie has been carefully felt up and down, maintaining my push-up position, I crab walk to the right a couple steps, past the area I think I’ve examined, and start exploring another piece of the dark black-brown cotton-ball pie, looking for the cherry pit in the pie. In New Orleans, they bake a pie with a little baby Jesus figurine mixed inside the almond paste filling. No one knows which slice will contain the prize, so you very carefully bite into your slice until you or someone else discovers it. Well, that’s a bit like what I’m doing. I’m carefully feeling my way through each piece of pie, first from the outer edge, then I’ll move closer to center and feel my way around the inner circle, looking for my prize.
I find and collect objects as I sift through the muck, clothes pins and a roll of tape. Each time, a little disappointed it isn’t the “little baby Jesus.” So I continue my pattern, hopeful that this systematic slice-of-the-pie approach will bear the intended fruit. I am determined to find it. Before descending, the dockside pundits, other live-aboard sailors, mocked my determination, sighting how they were not able to find objects ten times larger than the one I was seeking, figuring that the current had taken it far away. It’s taken me about 30 minutes, as best I can sense time, to complete the outer circle. Knowing my air hose and lanyard are now wrapped around counter-clockwise around the anchor chain, after moving up close to the anchor, I begin my search routine again but this time I move left, clockwise around the anchor, to slowly unwind my tethers. Fifteen minutes later, about halfway around the anchor, I am a little discouraged. I’m starting to get cold. Being careful not to stir up the bottom, I’m not moving around enough to elevate my body heat. I don’t want to start doing underwater burpee exercises for fear it will stir up the contents of the sea floor, possibly dislodging the sunglasses to drift away in the mild current. I tell myself I’ll stay down as long as it takes. Police search and rescue divers don’t give up, and neither will I. Maybe the anchor set on top of the glasses. I check, but they are not there. I continue with my search pattern.
At first I hesitate to believe it. The object that brushes against the outside of my right hand doesn’t feel like a clothespin and it doesn’t swim away. My numb hand feels something a little larger. I carefully examined what I’ve touched. They are the glasses, my “little baby Jesus.” I found them! Yippie for me. Kenny from New Jersey isn’t going to believe it! With the anchor chain in my left hand, and the sunglasses in my right, I carefully stand up from the bottom, gently moving the glasses through the water to wash away the silt. Standing there, I exhaust some of the compressed air from my body, not really a necessary step for the shallow depth I’ve been working, but it’s my practice. Still unable to see, I take time to swish the glasses underwater before placing them on my head, above my black mask. As I slowly ascend so as not to disturb the glasses from my head (I really don’t want to loose them now!), I begin to see what’s around me and I can see the air hose above me. I move around the anchor chain to complete my circle and unwind the hose from around the chain. The whole time I was down there, about 50 minutes, Ron had been monitoring the compressor and the air hose, taking up the slack and letting it out as I needed. As I break the surface and remove the regulator from my mouth, I declare that looking any further for the glasses is fruitless. Not seeing the dark glasses above my dark mask, Ron agrees and thanks me for the effort. He said he’d just have to drive to Mexico and get another pair. Unable to hold back any longer, I lift the glasses from my head and ask, “Like these?” He bursts out with a laugh of disbelief, and says, “If nothing else, you’re one persistent guy.”
While I rush up to take a hot shower, Ron works to rinse off the equipment with fresh water from the dock hose. Although some may say sunglasses didn’t warrant such an effort, I am pleased that I got the opportunity to try out our Spare Air and our hookah diving systems. I appreciated the education Jim gave me regarding search techniques. The overall experience was valuable and will help me in the future. And, the glasses provided me the excuse I needed to take a break from working on the boat, time away that was greatly appreciated. Plus I saved my father-in-law a drive to Mexico and back, and he got to experience first hand just how stubborn I can be when I’m determined to achieve an outcome. Although there was no guarantee of success, the value of persistance paid off . . . this time.
Another underwater salvaging event just occurred. Look forward to “A Tale of Two Skateboards.”
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