October 1, 2005

Yesterday was our last day of diving at Cocos Island. We were going to make it to the other side of the island no matter what. That’s were the Hammerheads like to go. The seas were still high and wild and so we took the small “pangas” all the way out. The currents were so strong that we were like flags fluttering on the descent line. It was a fight to make it down to a hundred feet. We were greeted by a few isolated Hammerheads and the usual gang of Whitetips but none were willing to humor us with a closer pass. The most amazing display of Hammerhead school was still on the first dive of our trip.

Dirty Rock was even more of an adventure. I now know what it feels like to be a sock in a washing machine. But, I was a sock, holding a very large camera, 2nd regulator free-flowing my precious air supply, mask flooding to the top. So, of course, holding on to the rock for dear life with one hand and my precious camera with the other hand, there were no more hands left to clear my mask, fix my 2nd regulator, check my gauges and computer or signal to Paul. I survived the dive, barely, but it was quite the humbling experience. This is definitely not Caribbean resort diving!

For the last dive of our trip, we returned to the site of one of our first…Manuelita. The current had picked up there as well but it was nice taking a quick drift tour of the submarine part of the island. There were no Hammerheads there this time but that was fine.

It is amazing how something small can trigger distant memories. Last night, when dessert was served, I found a small piece of Tiramisu sitting in front of me. I love Tiramisu but I haven’t had it in about eight years. I have reasons for abstaining from one of my most loved treats…it is a test of discipline as well as an honor to a memory. I’m thousands of miles from home in an environment that is almost as different from home as Mars. Even so, I was visited by dreams last night that reached so far back into my history…all triggered by a dessert.


Today, the long march back to Puntarenas continues. I remember how miserable I felt one week ago on the way out. The Scopolamine patch had taken the edge off but I was still ill enough that I didn’t want to get up from the lounge chair on the deck. Of course, that resulted in a mean sunburn that made covering my body with neoprene and submerging myself into a vat of salt water four times a day a bit challenging. I’m happy to report that I may have gotten my sea legs. I feel quite fine right now. Then again, there still lies 21 hours of travel ahead. “Knock on wood”.