Diving with Paul - Cave Training

Suwannee River, Florida

1-3-09 Afterward While sitting together on one of the handful of picnic tables at Peacock Springs State Park my instructor, John Orlowski, extends his hand. With a warm smile he offers congratulations and I brim with pleasure as full recognition of my accomplishment dawns. I had just qualified as a licensed cave diver by successfully completing his highly challenging and decidedly arduous Full Cave training program. Membership into an elite cadre of the apparently psychotic Cave Diving Section of the National Speleological Society serves as my reward. An adjunct certification with the International Association of Nitrox Technical Divers accompanies the process. A mouthful, I know.

Realization that I completed the full course ‘From zero to hero’ (a phrase I heard often repeated) with first time use of double tanks mounted to a back plate while also enduring the rigors of the entire cave course quickly fills me. And now I enjoy certification in this extreme fraternity of scuba divers, daredevils one and all.

Negotiating deep and enclosed environments with an unfamiliar and exotically practical gear configuration where adepts employ canister lights, staging bottles, side tanks, re-breathers, Trimix or scooters other members of my new club consistently display similar not-quite-maniacal smiles on their faces. Upon joining this cadre of divers honed with profound skills for multi-tasking within seriously demanding environments, I have new friends.

Other variants of extreme scuba might branch toward deep wrecks, ice canopies and all else imaginably dangerous underwater. And yet, caves seem to do it all. Been there, done that and I write this journal with fingertips worn completely smooth. They complain with abraded sensitivity after serving me well through uncounted pull & glides along narrow, submerged passages filled with chilly water adjoining innumerable chambers of varying sizes. Been there, done that and my fingertips will heal.

From my perch on the picnic table I observe a fixed sign cautioning “No Open Water Divers Allowed” as it guards the opening to the Peacock Springs portion of this underwater cave system. That warning symbolizes my joining with an extremist cult harboring mild disdain for the average open water diver. The concentration required to simultaneously control buoyancy, aim a light, manage a reel and monitor buddies while tracking your course. These qualities heighten skills through necessity. One must manage it all or else go back to the open waters. Harboring an erstwhile goal to simply improve my diver skills with no further impulse or glory imagined I now feel possessed of much more.

I also feel triumphant, although somewhat drained and, yes, relieved. A special tribute to this process goes to my instructor, John Orlowski, who casually acknowledges that my next cave dive will be more enjoyable. I should feel more relaxed without him there to scrupulously supervise my emergence from technically awkward to more accomplished. With successive smiles or, perhaps, a continuation of the one smile I join the club. And yet, I had already shared with John my awareness that, whether or not I do anything further in caves, I now enjoy a profound improvement in basic diver skills.

12-27-08 Journey From Texas Arising at 4 am I quickly depart for an early morning rendezvous at the home of Sheila Shelton. An instructor with my local shop, Sheila and I have shared many fine dive trips and her invitation to join her recreational outing warms me as a direct blessing of friendship and my existing skills. We begin loading gear as soon as our other companion, Robbie Osborne, arrives and by 6 am we set out together for the long haul to Florida.

A solid, low-drama divemaster, Robbie and I know each other casually after a week spent together near Akumal, Mexico. There we enjoyed a side excursion into a pair of exquisite cenotes and, with his cave card already earned, Robbie could divert deeper into the Mayan recesses while the rest of us were led safely through a sedate route designated for uninitiated divers.

As I reminisce our cenote experience with wistful thoughts underlying my impending challenge we depart Sheila’s home eastward bound. Our journey covers more than 900 miles and requires 15 hours to reach our destination, a cozy chalet at the River Rendezvous campsite situated on the Suwannee River. Here I use the term ‘chalet’ loosely if only because the sign adjacent to our front door claims that moniker. With prefabricated textures and floor plan our rented dwelling proves comfortable, dry and warm against the mild winter chill of north-central Florida.

This slice of Florida appears to exist on an opposite spectrum far from fabled Miami, a complete paradigm shift from the glamour of string bikini beaches and glitzy nightlife. Too easily can I imagine the faint strumming of Deliverance banjos amid backwater shanties as we unload our gear and supplies for the duration of a planned weeklong stay.

Once unpacked I curiously explore our grounds while drawn irresistibly toward the broad, quiet Suwannee River. Where the Suwannee brushes the banks of the River Rendezvous compound I find Convict Springs slowly percolating like a murky portal into the Florida underworld boding suggestive portents of the cave diving about to commence.

12-28-08 Initiation Arising early we each gather our gear for the twenty minute drive over seven or eight miles of curving country roads. We pass verdant pastures, pine needle farms, numerous shanties and even more prefabricated homes toward Luraville, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spot on the road just across the Suwannee River. We eventually arrive at Cave Excursions, a dive shop, notable hangout and tank filling station founded by Bill Rennaker, dive enthusiast and early cave explorer. There we await John’s arrival amid much caving banter and I soon realize that my 9:00 am appointment might mean any time between 8:00 and 10:00.

While waiting for John I assimilate conversations between experienced cave divers with particular emphasis on those anecdotal tales involving the number of fellow divers a particular student had killed. These tales might suggest morbid peculiarity until the novice grudgingly embraces cave diving culture.

When John eventually pulls up in his green Toyota truck I introduce myself to a wiry, rough-hewn man toughened by many years spent lugging double tank rigs to remote caving outposts. On this, the first day of my instruction, John provides me with a file containing numerous forms that I complete and return. Told to keep the written test comprised of 100 questions plus essays and chart-related problems I carefully stow this with my gear. When I ask whether any study materials exist, he suggests that I buy a copy of The Cavern Diving Manual inside Bill’s shop.

Still a novice with the specialized gear… most of it, anyway… I advise John that I know nothing about specialized configuration. My experiences support a continuing adaptation to open water adventures, a healthy interest in photography and little else beyond recreational pursuits. He instructs me to connect my borrowed wings and steel backplate to rented double tanks and I offer an intrepid attempt to comply. After yet another stimulating round of shop banter he reviews my gear configuration, stops cold and simply says, “You really don’t know anything about gear, do you?” Reversing the wings, a technical version of an open water diver’s buoyancy vest, I quickly put the configuration aright.

Once ready and loaded we drive the short distance to Orange Grove Sink for my inaugural foray as a cave diving student. Here John guides me to perform simple reel & line tasks amid the forest of stately trees fringing a placid pond.

A fine layer of duckweed atop the undisturbed pond conceals a submerged opening to a series of raw, serpentine passages below. We do not enter the water, I later learn, due to our fifteen-hour drive from Texas on the previous day. Tiredness bordering on fatigue yields an unfortunate companion to the mental rigors of this specialized activity, a lesson that will repeat during my training.

Relying on land-bound tasks, John instructs me to run my first reel by connecting one oak to another while showing me the proper method for wrapping and securing line to imagined subterranean projections. Next, I must walk the spread line while John times my progress at about three minutes and then he has me follow the same line with eyes closed. Using no more than the encircling touch of my forefinger and thumb forming the universal diver OK sign around the line I manage this blind exercise in about twice the time required with sight.

Last, I must again walk the line blindly while John deliberately creates obstacles. Unseen by me he changes the previous configuration by moving my line through bushes, a barbeque pit and several other land-based obstructions. This new challenge slows me further and serves as a precautionary insight to the course awaiting me.

12-29-08 Training After meeting John the next morning amid requisite tank refills and the usual banter, now covering any topic ranging from NFL playoffs to who has been diving where, we return to Orange Grove Sink and suit up.

I don my 7-5 ml semi-dry wetsuit and we enter the pond to repeat my drills using reel and line, wet yet cautious and within easy reach of the surrounding banks. He shows me where to run and wrap my line across a broad circumference rimming the inside perimeter of the pool just above the beckoning cave system. Here I perform tasks learned during the previous day, though now submerged. After he instructs me to close my eyes John drops a demonstrably errant line across my legs or changes its position to force me into a sightless grope along its length.

The concluding task in this pool of embryonic challenges demands that I remove my mask while following the line, swimming with eyes open yet naturally blurred by the abnormal contours of human sight underwater. I experience no difficulty with this assignment and enjoy my swim as from early childhood summers frequently spent in both fresh and saltwater environments.

With initiate tasks completed John guides me into the gaping cavern, that finite space between open pond and recessing cave where an underwater sign offers mute warning to the untrained. The repetitive message offered by this sign conveys a common theme, “There is nothing beyond this point worth risking your life” and, after only a few moments, we return to the outside world of air and sunshine.

The distinction between cave and cavern lies in that discernable boundary between ambient light and total darkness, a distinction John clearly chose for me to experience as a likely test of my resolve.

After surfacing we shed our suits, depart Orange Grove Sink and relocate a short distance away to Peacock Springs. Here my primary focus shifts toward learning the correct frog kick appropriate for undisturbed cave penetration. After following John through dreamlike portals and networking passages connecting convoluted chambers revealed only by the reflected beam of my canister light we eventually surface. “Congratulations,” he casually offers, “you’ve just performed your first legal cave dive.”

Introduced to a mysterious realm freshly revealed, though otherwise wholly hidden to the realities of normal folk, lessons that follow blend into a temporal daze. The exacting art of proper frog kicks, deployment of reels and expanded awareness demanded for continuing survival while maneuvering within water-filled cavities fills our time with repetitive constancy.

After my first true cave dive John urges me to continue practicing my finning technique. My homework involves laying flat, stomach down on the floor in front of the television while ankle-kicking for five minutes.

“That will provide your body with a cellular memory that should improve as you repeatedly do it.” Clearly, I needed the work.

Later that evening I perform as requested and frog kick in front of the television inside our happy Chalet. I suggest the notion ‘happy,’ because my flailing on the floor provides vast amusement for my roommates. Since the television receives only one channel of dubious clarity, no viable distraction to my plight readily avails and they enjoy my remedial exercises with unabashed pleasure.

Amid good-natured heckling I decide to jam my fins onto the toes of my tennis shoes for added resistance and resolve to go for broke. After about 3 ½ minutes I manage to kick both fins completely off, pausing only to reinstall them before finishing this exercise in the midst of growing laughter.

12-30-08 More Training Convening at Cave Excursions for tank refills and the ritual morning repartee, caver stories continue as a dialogue on all topics ranging from diving conditions to personal experiences. The Super Bowl countdown grows into an especially hot topic. An unwavering Pittsburgh fan, John happily enjoys the banter while garbed in a vintage Steelers sweatshirt. Sheila fits in nicely with her unabashed love for the Cowboys. For that matter, Sheila invariably creates her own center of gravity by possessing an innately charming ability to fit in virtually anywhere.

I tune in and out of the conversation while attempting to focus on my lessons while mentally anticipating what new training expectations will follow. Unruffled by anything and amiably talking to everyone with particular emphasis on the might of the Steelers, John eventually directs his gaze toward me. He asks whether I performed the kicking exercises during the previous evening and I confirm with a “Yep.” He nods and advises, “Then let’s head out.”

Returning to Peacock Springs we slowly suit up, a methodical process of donning and arranging gear for minimal drag. Construing this pre-dive ritual as ‘methodical’ underscores numerous interruptions while John freely wanders the parking lot in a social orbit around other available divers.

The cadre of his student alumni we encounter and greet impresses me and I learn to appreciate his take-your-time approach toward entering the water. Far better to feel relaxed and ready over rushing headlong into an extreme environment. As I’m usually the first equipped he simply asks me to enter the water and wait until he arrives.

I learn to value this technique as a calming exercise forcing me to relax and breathe prior to penetrating the cave system and begin to suspect his approach to be, well… deliberate.

Moreover, I enjoy his pre-dive cave diagrams always drawn by finger in the sand of the Peacock Springs parking lot, useful for highlighting or emphasizing aspects of our intended profile. As part of our daily exchange John also tells many stories of rescues, recoveries, failures and solutions applicable to real world cave situations. I also discover during my nightly studies that portions of his written exam come exclusively from paying attention to the situations and solutions he describes. John clearly embodies a wealth of practical experiences in the art as, perhaps, among the most resilient practitioners alive. The Cave Excursions shop also offers complimentary twin computers with internet service in which one can view a YouTube episode featuring demand for his skills and prowess.

Emerging from my reverie while floating on the surface of Peacock Springs I observe John approach and enter the water. After checking each other for leaking bubbles we commence another round of repetitive exercises with use of the reel and proper finning technique.

Our second dive involves my first traverse, a passage from one cave opening to another through a small slice of the labyrinthine system permeating this region of rural Florida. Though not an excessive distance, the crossing to Olsen Sink begins to feel quite distant when those previously-unused muscles in my calves begin to complain about the specialized propulsion technique. And yet, I maintain my point position and soldier on despite no apparent end to our traverse. We glide through long, convoluted passages and numerous connecting rooms with darkness constantly pressing the periphery of our canister lights until I eventually see the faint glow of outside ambient light directly ahead.

Plodding steadily toward the light we arrive and surface within Olsen Sink. An otherwise unremarkable pond, Olsen Sink marks one of many portals into a vast subterranean river system. For now, it provides me with a welcome respite as we casually float on the languid surface recessed within its basin some 15 or 20 ft below quietly tranquil woodlands.

After a short-lived pause John leads the return path and I enjoy following. I feel somewhat relaxed while finning behind him with a better sense of our distance and, out of sight of the teacher’s scrutiny, I surreptitiously stretch my legs to relieve the strain of a freshly-adopted finning skill.

12-31-08 Still More Training With our tanks refilled and after another dose of the morning wit we return again to Peacock Springs for my second Olsen Sink traverse. Here I practice the use of a reel again and again during continuing lessons. With each effort I become slightly more comfortable in the mechanics of wrapping and spooling line while applying a dab of finger pressure to prevent excessive uncoiling. I manage all this while employing the frog kick and maintaining positional buoyancy over a rock or outcropping targeted for connecting my reel to a primary guideline.

Surfacing after repetitive rounds of caving exercises I ascend the steps leading out of the pool and trudge with my 80 lbs of gear up the long wooden walkway to the parking area. Here I discover that my vehicle has disappeared. Quickly surveying the benches where it was parked I locate my clothes, dry and warmly inviting, as they rest in a carefully-laid pile upon the top of a nearby picnic table.

With relief over finding something to wear other than a cold wetsuit, I rummage the pile and discover a note from my friends. In a fine hand it reads, “Twiddle D & Twiddle Dumb left lights at house. We have your wallet, but thought you may want clothes.” I show the note to John and with mock drama exclaim, “They took my truck and my wallet, but at least left me some clothes.” John only grins with amusement.

Later that evening I comply with instructions and perform another five-minute finning exercise on the living room floor. Naturally, this provides yet another round of nightly entertainment for my good-natured roommates. When Sheila unceremoniously rises to guide my ankles into a more proper motion I endure it with good-natured recognition of her earnest desire for my success. In fact, she’s also been fixing our lunches every morning, preparing meals every evening and disdaining any help throughout. And so I graciously accept her efforts to assist my finning technique in complete trust of her generous heart.

Tonight I flail for slightly more than four minutes before tossing my fins from the ends of my shoes and then reattaching them to conclude the exercise. I feel the burning stress in that part of my calves where, as John had explained, those outside muscles aren’t normally accustomed to this or other types of strenuous motion.

In celebration of New Year’s Eve we relax inside our Chalet while enjoying each other’s company far into those wee hours that abide well beyond midnight. Because our lone television station deigns not to show us the traditional drop of the Times Square ball, we chat and laugh until reason guides me toward bed and rest. Eventually recognizing the need to sleep I retire for a short, intense respite before my inner clock will stir me to rise, start the prepared pot of coffee and ready myself for a new day in another year.

1-1-09 The Crash and Burn We arrive at the Cave Excursions shop an hour later than usual and, for the first time, John awaits us. Unruffled and apparently sated with conversation he simply asks whether I performed the dry-finning exercise during the previous evening. Again my reply, “Yep,” and with a dreary smile I add, “We stayed up a bit late last night…” followed by a quiet afterthought of truth, “…until early this morning.”

Alert as ever, my admission cues John to rigorously push me as a further check of my resolve during our ongoing training. Tired divers seldom function as safe divers when stamina and judgment become impaired. This detail I fully understand and, of all times for me to drift from a responsible regimen, I regret my late hours during a demanding full cave program. I would pay.

While laboriously finning behind him I push through a seemingly long track amid watery catacombs and follow as John casually swims away from the guideline. He deliberately veers off course to test whether I will blindly follow and, because I’ve grown tired and significantly less alert, I simply trail along.

My primary focus had revolved purely around finishing the dive while maintaining my best possible finning technique despite the burning ache in my calves. No matter… by straying off course and away from the guideline we both die.

My correct response should have been to recognize my buddy’s errant course and then strobe a rapidly flashing alert using the beam of my light. John would later explain that when my buddy resolutely refuses to respond and return then it becomes time to choose another buddy.

The first lesson he assiduously demonstrated reveals the ill effect of tiredness on reason and awareness. Second, he emphasized the need to think for myself rather than rely on the direction of anyone else, instructors included. And last, though likely foremost, he conveyed the need to be aware at all times.

After surfacing we meet Robbie and Sheila topside and learn that Sheila had called off their own buddy dive. Undoubtedly due to our exceptionally late night and lack of proper rest she suffered the debilitating effects of anxiety and apprehension. She then shares with me the tellingly succinct message written to Robbie as conveyed on her dive slate: “Cave monster fucked me up – Sorry.”

During a previous experience on a guided dive within a Yucatan cenote I was advised of the cave monster lesson. Whenever a fellow diver uses the thumbs-up sign to discontinue a dive …for any reason… that dive ends unquestioned and without recrimination. Cave diving demands an unwavering awareness of self and surroundings and any compromise to that awareness dictates that no dive should be attempted or continued.

With Robbie adrift and absent a buddy John invites him to join my next exercise, the double whammy out-of-air during a silt-out drill. Cave divers clearly spend much time imagining every ‘what if’ that might occur and this exercise epitomizes the correct process for assessment, response and survival. Thinking about it afterwards, I suspect that a confiding wink of the eye may have passed between them before we entered the water to penetrate a longitudinal passage known as ‘Peanut’.

Because my gauge shows the least volume of remaining gas, I become the diver simulating an out-of-air condition and must signal Robbie my need for sharing his. As I guide Robbie while breathing from his long hose, his hand on my upper arm for guidance in total darkness, we proceed with ease until reaching a turn bent by a sharp, rocky projection. There I remain too buoyant and lodge against the low-hanging ceiling unable to negotiate my way past the obstacle. Exercise failed and we both die.

Feeling a bit dejected and somewhat tired upon surfacing I trudge up the steps leading away from the pool and see John standing alone at the top, grimacing in my direction. As I approach and sense his impending recrimination I simply say, “I’m just killing everyone today, aren’t I?”

John’s entire face displays a complete portrait of his feelings. Whether pleased or showing displeasure, eyes alight or downcast in emphatic harmony with smile or frown, no mystery shrouds his expression. After my self-recrimination he grins readily through a lit cigarette and replies, “Then we don’t have to talk about it, do we?” I shake my head with acknowledgement but, for the briefest moment inside that cave had wondered, ‘What the hell am I doing here, anyway? I could be home relaxing right now rather than actively participating in this highly demanding metaphorical killing spree.’

No more than a fleeting reaction to the rigors of a full cave course, my self-pity stems from the foul taste of failure and yields nothing to seriously dissuade me from continuing this challenge. And yet I wonder… why had I agreed to do this? What had I intended to accomplish? Simple. I sought to improve my skills as a diver and, in the process, learn better buoyancy control. This was the basic goal that I conveyed to John during our first telephone conversation when he had observed that diving in caves compares to precision diving or underwater ballet. That was the moment when I said, “Yes”!

After my emphatic failures during the New Year’s Day exercises John reveals that my late night reverie led him to deliberately push me into the crash-and-burn portion of my training. I had not previously considered the need to fail, yet shedding open water habits proves essential to successful cave diving. Analogous to a chrysalis following its pattern of growth one must slough away the husk of former training and habits in order to emerge with heightened skills and requisite awareness.

Most divers assuredly experience the crash-and-burn phase during cave training. The tiredness with which I performed those failed drills corroborates John’s previous decision to keep me out of the water during my first day in Florida following our fourteen hour road trip. Feeling neither panicky nor put out, stressed or otherwise excessive with my actions, I simply recognize the need to pay meticulous attention and execute according to form, function and instruction.

When I good-naturedly propose that, as an accomplished mass murderer I manage to retain a pleasant attitude, Robbie counters with his own observation. He politely suggests that, “Even a serial psychopath… probably also had a good attitude.” Cave divers enjoy an interesting approach toward failed lessons, otherwise known as killing your friends.

After returning to the shop for replenishing our tanks I meet another instructor, Tammy, who asks me how my training goes. When I causally tell her that I had systematically killed everyone she smiles broadly and replies, “Good, that’s how we all learn. Better now while in training than when you’re on your own and it really counts.” Better in practice than in reality, these words would quietly surface within my thoughts during our remaining time in Florida.

Tonight, during my third session with finning air from the living room floor, I earn a small victory by retaining tennis shoe possession of my fins for the entire five minute drill. This seems a brief duration for such a mundane exercise until one actually attempts it and fully appreciates the challenge. Through practice I develop a more settled rhythm of movement using shallower, more fluid strokes. Growing beyond the flailing of a first-time frogger I learn and acquire ease of motion.

Completing the physical portion of my homework I continue work on the written exam by studying The Cavern Diving Manual while answering most of the hundred questions. When it eventually becomes apparent that many of the questions are not discussed in the manual I realize that John purposely provided me with the test beforehand to elicit my direct inquiries. Those rogue questions clearly evolve from actual experiences or real life applications and prove far more valuable than learning by rote.

1-2-03 Resurrection Before we depart from our morning rendezvous at the Cave Excursions shop I approach John and ask, “Would I be embarrassing myself by asking for help with the tables?” The exam concludes with decompression problems for which John had graciously attached authentic navy tables. When I explain, “It all looks like Chinese to me,” he simply smiles and tells me that he had been wondering whether to continue including those or not.

Perhaps for a change of scenery John leads me to a different site known as Little River Springs, which emanate near the banks of the Suwannee River. Within a large lagoon that feeds directly into the much broader Suwannee lay submerged rocks tinged tropical blue atop a silted bottom. These rocks mark the opening to Little River.

A concrete walkway served by descending stone and wooden stairways rings the lagoon beneath tree-covered slopes interspersed with protruding limestone rocks and soft green grass. As a handful of divers methodically assemble their gear around the lagoon, a particular pair catches my eye. They each don two side tanks to supplement their back plate doubles before mounting underwater scooters to the tunes of Led Zeppelin piped through aquatic IPODS. Though it might also have been Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, they were clearly in for a wild ride and I observe them with fascination over their anticipated sensory experience. Watching them prepare tanks, scooters and tunes I find myself considering the theoretical outer limits of stimuli.

John’s Little River pre-dive briefing describes our entry and ingress directly into an underground current. Because I have neither questions nor misgivings he suggests we gear up and I comply, quietly hovering and waiting near the mouth of the submerged river. By directing me to enter the water first John consistently employs his technique for providing a few preliminary moments to relax. This strategy effectively imparts student calm before entering the unknown. After a bubble check we soon submerge and, per his prior instruction, I lead us through long, narrowly twisting passages.

Drawing against a relatively mild current by using the hand-over-hand pull & glide method, I feel like Spiderman hand-hopping from one smooth wall to the other and thoroughly enjoy the sensation. When I detect John flashing his light from behind me I turn and immediately attend to his signal beckoning me to slow down.

Rounding a curving horseshoe configuration at the midway point of our dive we turn and now fly with the outflowing current. Soaring through the narrow passages I smile freely into my mouthpiece until we encounter another group moving much more slowly ahead.

I recall John previously offering encouragement to take one’s time and enjoy the ride, but I cannot resist a speedy flight until forced to go more slowly by others blocking our passage. Told that the Little River

flow can be much more vigorous than what we experience today, I greatly enjoy my first ‘fun dive’ all the same. When we eventually exit, however, John informs me that he had turned off his light for a full five minutes and that I had failed to notice. I earn another demerit for not paying attention. While riding with John back to Peacock for our next dive I privately consider the need to pay better attention to all aspects and conditions of the environment.

At Peacock Springs John advises me that we’ll perform a traverse through a new passage requiring a small jump from one chamber to the next. Though a different traverse, Olsen Sink marks our repeat destination and I must retrieve a reel I had deployed during our last excursion. Because the jump requires moving from one guideline to another I ask John whether we should lay a reel between the two. “Good question”, he says with a ready smile. It turns out that our jump should be brief and, with ample visibility, we’ll see the target guideline.

During topside preparations we’re joined by another couple. Bob and Lorie had shared our New Year’s Day dinner featuring Sheila’s traditional black-eyed peas within our homey chalet. John instructs me to lead the dive and specifically tells me, “Don’t worry about them” as Bob and Lorie prepare to follow behind.

Following the profile required by our traverse we make the short jump and I spot my waiting reel. Before retrieving the reel I perform a complete turn in order to scan behind and verify whether our new friends linger in our wake. One never retrieves a jump line when others who may depend upon it follow at the rear. After the Little River episode I frequently peer back and under, between my fins to detect the presence of other lights, but I feel uncertain about the whereabouts of Bob and Lorie. After my turn and visual assurance that they were no longer following us I attach the reclaimed reel to my rig and soon emerge with John at Olsen’s Sink.

While floating on the surface John seems agitated and then snaps a criticism over my need to turn in order to retrieve the reel. Without emotion I offer a simple, unflustered reply, “No, I wasn’t sure whether the other two were still behind us.” He quickly tells me they turned midway and that he handled the acknowledging signals.

After having been tricked into errors during earlier exercises and, despite John’s pre-dive instructions not to worry about them, I was unwilling to take any chances over pulling a reel in the event other divers yet followed us. With a deepening frown John offers further criticism over my handling of reels and I honestly agree. “Yeah, I still feel a bit fumbly. And my fingers are getting cold.” Visibly relaxing with a mild nod of his head he concurs, “My fingers are cold, too.”

I suspect that our exchange at Olsen’s Sink may have clinched my good favor with John. Specifically, I demonstrated an awareness to verify the status of other divers at a time when testing me appears not to have been part of the current plan. For him, I showed the willingness to think things through with situational clarity and a consistently composed demeanor. After our exchange in Olsen’s Sink I begin to imagine I will pass this course regardless of my test scores.

1-3-09 Finale John asks whether I mind that another student accompanies us today and I readily accept his newest student, Patrick, about to commence his first day of the Introduction to Cave course. Typically a two-day offering, Intro to Cave normally provides limited penetration training in the cave environment and serves as a bridge between Cavern and Full Cave Courses.

With his plan for the day determined, John announces that I’ve performed enough drills with the reel, thirteen overall, and I muster nothing more than an impassive response to this assessment. During our whirl of training I could have done half that number or thirty without affecting my mindset, though it appears clear that Patrick will now experience that particular chore.

Before entering the water at Peacock, John instructs me to follow behind Patrick’s lead while John brings up the rear. I quickly realize just how harshly self-critical I had become over my own handling of the reel as I watch with silent amusement while this poor fellow contends with slack lines and numerous tangles. With his line eventually secured to a designated rock we advance in single file toward Peanut and, from my position behind him, I observe Patrick’s wild and ungainly finning technique with shamefully growing pleasure.

Turning near the entrance to Peanut we perform the lost fin exercise for which John had already advised us to simply pretend both fins remain attached and to kick as usual. On John’s signal I remove my left fin and, despite feeling unbalanced, quickly discover that I can propel myself nearly as fast with one fin as with two.

After we conclude our respective exercises and return to the cave entrance I watch again as Patrick struggles mightily with his reel. He spools his line into a wild tangle that he must self-consciously wrap into a ball of unruly twine for later rewinding topside.

After completing my safety stop within the rocky fissure I observe Patrick below. He finally stows his misused reel while I hover in shimmering water above the point where he commences his own safety stop. Because he lingers within clear sight of the surface and appears quiescent, I ascend to the steps where John asks with a hint of challenge, “Where’s your dive buddy?”

“Oh, he’s just safety stopping …right there,” I gesture a point directly below and, while trudging up the steps, notice John grinning hugely toward me. My return smile conveys an unspoken and appreciative understanding of how I must have looked at the beginning of the week and how very far I’ve progressed through training. By deliberately positioning me behind Patrick, John provided me with a first-hand look at the form typical of a brand new student. Signifying the depth of his teaching skills by offering me a contrasting viewpoint, John also gifted me with a sense of profound accomplishment.

During our final dive together Patrick and I prepare for the out-of-air during a silt-out double whammy exercise that I had previously failed with Robbie. Because I hold the least volume of gas due to a low initial fill I must again take the lead during this rescue exercise. After Patrick manages to secure his entry line we proceed to the designated position within the cave where I offer the out-of-air signal, take his long hose and smoothly lead us to safety. I heed John’s prior guidance to take note of all cave features in the event an exit in pitch blackness must be executed and I perform flawlessly. We both survive the hypothetical challenge.

Next, Patrick and I take turns performing the lost-line-in-a-silt-out drill. In this exercise we must tie off the line of our safety reel to a likely rock found purely by touch. With the line secured we must each grope along the floor of the cave until the primary guideline can be located. From there we should proceed along that guideline until confirming the direction to the nearest exit as indicated by feeling the shape of one of many regularly-spaced triangular markers pointing the way.

John signals me to stand by and wait near a grouping of rocks where I douse my light until Patrick accomplishes the task. Despite his relentless grappling with the unruly reel he finally succeeds while I calmly hover and watch. When my turn comes I feel confident and efficiently perform the exercise until John grabs my fin to signal the task satisfactorily done. As we depart the Peacock Springs system I feel good despite awaiting Patrick’s retrieval of his messy line. Once he reaches the proper position I assist him by holding his line taut while he spools in most of it before surfacing.

Topside, Robbie and Sheila expectantly hover near the picnic table where I prepare to read the answers to my written test. Patrick also attends and gains a preview of

the full cave exam as I read the hundred questions and answers one by one.

Though I miss perhaps eight or nine questions, John sits unfazed and simply relates those correct answers before urging me to the next. With a perfunctory glance at the somewhat lengthy essay answers to that portion of my exam he surprises me by waving them off and then ignoring all but one of the navy table problems.

That lone exception to the challenging tables involves two divers whose names, John says with a smile, “Are changed to protect the innocent”. He tells me to disregard the residual nitrogen and partial pressure issues and I allow an unspoken ‘thank you’. He instructs me to focus on the fact that these divers have blown their decompression times before surfacing at Little River where they have no waiting oxygen bottles and no spare water. “What should they do?” he grins the question and then quickly answers it. “It’s a fresh water spring, right? So they drink as much water as they can possibly hold over the next two hours, experience no symptoms of decompression sickness and go home.” A perfect use of the available resource.

John extends his hand in congratulations and, with that acknowledging gesture, I’ve completed the full cave course over six rigorous days. Abundant stories, new challenges, many defeats, self examination, occasional thrills and recognition of the boundary between ultimate success and abject failure each serve as sympathetic companions during my qualification as a certified cave diver.

When Sheila and Robbie offer me a celebratory beverage I gaze once again upon the sign proclaiming ‘Open Water Divers Prohibited’ and realize that message no longer applies to me. I’ve just gained membership into a fraternity of extreme divers and I feel good.

1-4-09 Epilogue With my attentiveness suitably ripened for our return trip to Texas I commandeer sole possession of the wheel and drive with focused attention. Alert with senses honed and immeasurably expanded I feel possessed of extraordinary awareness as I anticipate miniscule details of the traffic flowing with and around us. I seem to know in advance the intentions and actions of every other driver sharing our road over the many miles of our homeward journey. The demand and intensity of cave training has imbued me with much more than initially bargained, a stimulant of sensation bordering on virtual omniscience.

After delivering my companions and their gear I drive another hour more and eventually return home into the arms of my lovely wife. Her relief over my arrival contains overtones of dread, however, an absolute cue of something amiss. Conflicting emotions play anxiously across her face, eyes wide with unease. During my absence she had attended a New Year’s Eve party solo where mutual friends naturally inquired about me. “Oh, he’s cave diving in Florida,” she had informed. “What?” they incredulously exclaimed, “Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

Recognizing they were interrogating a probable widow and harboring no desire to inflict further grief they simply stopped speaking to her. As a recipient of looks caste with sympathetic pain, premature mourning and poor-thing solace my wife was also aware of their nervous comments mostly hushed by clamor and distance within that party of friends. And so her foreboding grew. And grew.

“Yes,” I responded honestly to her most pressing question, one now sheened with tears ready to flow, “Divers do die in caves… usually because they’ve exceeded their training. I completed the training and I’m here with you now. More here now than ever before.”