Unit 9:

In deep water
Reading
Caving is a madness. Any sensible person can see this. The idea of squeezing
through cracks and fissures, abseiling into deep, dark holes, pulling yourself
through 12-centimetre crawl spaces by your fingers and toes because you can't get
enough of an angle to use your knees and elbows is all horrifyingly claustrophobic
enough. But getting stuck halfway through, rock above pressing down on your back,
rock below pressing up on your chest? It's the geological equivalent of at
anaconda's embrace. Panic only makes things worse.
Deep-water diving is equally insane. Humans just aren't designed to survive under
the immense weight of water. At any significant depth, the oxygen in air becomes
poisonous and the nitrogen becomes narcotic. To adapt, divers must 'water down' the
air with helium. They must do this at exactly the right time. Get it wrong and they
risk horrible side effects, such as vomiting, amnesia, seizures and worse. The
deeper they go, the smaller the margins for error. Any miscalculations, equipment
rmalfunctions or unknowns and they can't simply swim to safety. Gas in the blood
stream has to be released slowly to avoid 'the bends. The bends are bad. And, of
course, panic only makes things worse.
Cave-diving combines these two unfathomable pastimes.
It offers all the associated horrors of clambering through inhospitable nooks and
crannies with all the complexities of being under water. It is routinely described
of the modangerous sports on as one the planet, but unlike all the other contenders
for this accolade - proximity flying, base jumping, rodeo-riding and so forth it
is. not an adrenaline sport. Cruelly, your safety depends on remaining relaxed.
Pulse rates must never quicken. Breathing must never shorten. Zen-like calm is
essential, particularly in situations where you don't feel calm at all. What you
want is nice and boring. Under water, things happen slowly. If a parachute fails on
a base jump, you have seconds to contemplate your fate. If something goes wrong 10
kilometres down an underwater tunnel, you usually have only until your air runs out
to find a solution or make your peace.
There were plenty of quite large incidents in the pioneering days of the sport.
Before technical advances during the Second World War, you had two options if you
wanted to swun through a submerged cave. Option A, you could hold your breath, dive
in and hope there was a pocket of air on the other side. Option B, you could invest
in the very latest technology - standard diving equipment consisting of a brass
helmet and an unwieldy waterproof suit. Option A was risky but Option B had its
downsides, too. It required an air supply to be fed through from the surface.
Even with the advent of self-contained breathing apparatus, the sport was hardly
unhazardous. Deaths came with faulty equipment, overzealous ambition and, most of
all, problems with orientation. Many cave-diving fatalities have occurred when
divers kick up silt, lose their way in zero visibility and then run out of air. To
reduce the risk, cave-divers follow a guide line (or lay new line if the cave is
undiscovered.)
Equipment has improved a lot since the early days, but accidents still happen.
Those who do this sport can't stop because they have to know what's around the next
corner, even if it is just another tunnel.
From an article by Mat Rudd, The Sunday Times, 1st December 2013.
My first concern was to look for the ship. I glimpsed a black mass disappearing
eastward, its lights fading in the distance. I shouted for help, swimming
desperately toward the Abraham Lincoln. My clothes were weighing me down. I was
sinking! Then I found and seized the arm of my loyal friend.
What about the ship?" I asked.
'As I jumped overboard, I heard the helmsman shout, 'Our propeller and rudder are
smashed by the monster's tusk!"
"Then the ship can no longer steer, and we are done for!
Having concluded that our sole chance for salvation lay in being picked up by the
ship's longboats, we had to take steps to wait for them as long as possible. I
decided to divide our energies so we wouldn't both be worn out at the same time:
while one of us lay on his back, the other would swim and propel his partner
forward.
The monster had rammed us at 11 in the evening. I therefore calculated on eight
hours of swimming until sunrise. The dense gloom was broken only by the
phosphorescent flickers coming from our movements. I stared at the luminous ripples
breaking over my hands, shimmering sheets spattered with blotches of bluish grey.
It seemed as if we'd plunged into a pool of quicksilver.
An hour later, I was overcome with tremendous exhaustion. My limbs stiffened in the
grip of intense cramps and paralysing cold. I tried to call out. My swollen lips
wouldn't let a single sound through. I heard my friend cry 'Helpl'. Ceasing all
movement for an instant, we listened. His shout had received an answer. I could
barely hear it. I was at the end of my strength; my fingers gave out, my mouth
opened convulsively, filling with brine....
Just then something hard banged against me. I clung to it and was pulled back to
the surface. I feinted... then someone was shaking me vigorously.
'Ned!' I exclaimed. "You were thrown overboard after the collision?"
"Yes, professor, but I was luckier than you and immediately able to set foot on our
gigantic whale. I soon realized why my harpoon got blunted and couldn't puncture
its hide. This beast is made of plated steel!"
I hoisted myself to the summit of this half-submerged creature that was serving as
our refuge. 1 tested it with my foot. Obviously it was some hard, impenetrable
substance; not the soft matter that makes up the bodies of our big marine mammals
but a bony carapace, like those that covered some prehistoric animals. The blackish
back supporting me was smooth and polished with no overlapping scales. On impact,
it gave off a metallic resonance and, incredibly, it seemed to be made of riveted
plates. No doubts were possible! This animal, this monster, this natural
phenomenon that had puzzled the whole scientific world, that had muddled and misled
the minds of sailors, was an even more astonishing one made by the hand of man!
There was no question now. We were stretched out on the back of some kind of
underwater boat that took the form of an immense steel fish.
Just then, a bubbling began astern and the boat started to move. We barely had time
to hang on to its topside, which emerged about 80 centimetres above water. It was
imperative to make contact with whatever beings were confined inside the machine. I
searched its surface for an opening, but the lines of rivets were straight and
uniform. Moreover, the moon then disappeared and left us in profound darkness. We
would have to wait for daylight to find some way of getting inside this underwater
boat, and if it made a dive, we were done for!
In the early hours, the vessel picked up speed. We could barely cope with this
dizzying rush, and the waves battered us at close range. Our hands came across a
ring fastened to its back, and we all held on for dear life. Finally, the long
night was over. From inside the boat came noises of iron fastenings pushed aside.
One of the steel plates flew up, and a few moments later, eight sturdy fellows
appeared silently and dragged us down into their fearsome machine.
This brutally executed capture was carried out with lightning speed. My companions
and I had no time to collect ourselves. I don't know how they felt about being
shoved inside this aquatic prison, but as for me, I was shivering all over. With
whom were we dealing? Surely with some new breed of pirates, exploiting the sea
after their own fashion.
From Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, by Jules Verne.