A Night Remembered 50 Years

We drove north to Edmonds at dusk. The ferry pulled in and out, heavy and patient. We parked by the dock. The park felt half built and half wild. Kelp mats. Old pilings. Salt and diesel on the air.

I was sixteen. I had my card. Day dives behind me. The night would be the test. We spoke little while we laid out gear. Wetsuit. Hood. Gloves. Weight belt. BC. Regulator. Two lights. One backup clipped high on my chest. I checked the SPG. Two thousand eight hundred psi. I made the same check again.

We walked the sand and rocks. We watched the water. Green light on black water. The instructor gave the plan one more time. Follow the line to the wreck. Keep the bottom at forty-five feet. Turn the dive at fifteen hundred. Three minutes at fifteen feet on the way up. Hand signals with light cones. Touch contact if it goes bad.

Buddy checks. Air on. Breathe. No leaks. Octo clear. Inflator works. Weight secure. Lights bright. Compass set. We fist-bumped our gloves and stepped in.

Cold took my cheeks first. Then the flood up the sleeves. I took slow breaths to make the chest open. I let the air out of the BC and sank. Silt rose and fell like smoke around my knees. We settled on the sand at fifteen feet and moved. Kick. Kick. Pause. Check the gauge. The beam found the guideline, white and worn. I clipped a finger and let it run under the glove.

We slid down the slope. Twenty feet. Thirty. The green thickened. Thirty-five. At forty-five feet, the world held steady. Kelp leaned one way and then the other. Plumose anemones rose like tall ghosts on the old hull. Rockfish hung in place. The steel had gone soft with growth. It looked tired and alive.

That evening we swam the bottom toward the wreck. My light found a spotted ratfish. We called it Ratfink. It had a fawn’s face and wide fins that rowed the water. The beam hit and it froze. Did it know me? No. It held still in the cone, eyes glassy and green. I laughed into my regulator. Small bubbles slid from my mask and climbed.

We kept on. I swept the beam left and right. The light flickered. Then it held. Then it flickered again. I felt heat in my face and the suit did not help. I tapped the light head once. Nothing. I kept still. I unclipped the backup. Click. The small beam came on, hard and narrow. I pointed it at my hand and gave a slow circle in the water. My buddy moved in. We touched forearms. We kept the wreck on our right and moved.

Silt lifted from a fin touch and turned the water to milk. The beam reached only a few feet. My heart sped once, then slowed by count. In for four. Out for six. I held a rock and let the surge pass. The sand settled grain by grain. My buddy’s light found mine and crossed. We held position and checked numbers. Nineteen minutes gone. Eighteen hundred psi. We were fine.

We pushed past the bow and found a wolf eel in a pipe. It watched with the same flat regard as the ratfish. The park felt older than all of us. We turned on plan at fifteen hundred. I marked the compass, and we traced the line back. I checked the beam on the backup again. Still tight and clean.

We rose slow to thirty feet. I kept the bubbles in sight and the needle steady. We reached fifteen and held there. Three minutes. Hands loose. Breaths slow. The ferry horn carried through the water as a deep knock. Kelp brushed my shoulder and slid away. My fingers ached from the cold. I counted the seconds in groups of ten.

We surfaced in a field of small waves. The air felt warmer than it was. The dock lights shook on the water. I inflated the BC and laid back. The sky was the color of slate and streetlight. We finned in and crawled up the rocks like seals.

On shore, we stripped our hoods and grinned like fools. I could not stop. We stood by the truck and steamed. The instructor asked for the facts. Max depth forty-six feet. Twenty-eight minutes bottom time. Turn at fifteen hundred. Three-minute stop at fifteen. One light failed. Backup worked. Silt-out managed. We nodded through the list and shook our hands to bring the feeling back.

He asked if we learned anything. I said yes. Trust the drill. Keep the breath slow. Clip the backup where your hand finds it in the dark. He laughed and clapped my shoulder. The ferry sounded again. The smell of salt and rubber filled the lot.

The form was unreal. The funny face pinned it in my head. Fifty years on, it stays.