June 6–13, 1996

ultimate summer fun

Diving Into The Wreck

Ninety feet under the Atlantic with amorous jellyfish and a sunken tugboat.

By Jennifer Darr

As I stood on the edge of the boat with a 40-pound air tank on my back and 16 pounds of lead around my waist, trying to keep from toppling over while waiting to hurl myself into the ocean, I had a thought:

What am I, crazy?

The challenge was not only the six-foot jump from the boat. It was diving 90 feet below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean to The Great Isaac, a 185-foot-long WWII tugboat that collided with The Bandeirante, a Norwegian freighter, in 1947.

This was also my first "real" dive since my scuba certification in May, 1995.

How did I wind up chasing after a 54-year-old boat in very deep water? It began with one of those "Whaddya wanna do for the summer fun issue?"City Paper brainstorming sessions.

Someone mentioned sky-diving and deep-water fishing.

Hmmm. If you combined the two...

"How about wreck diving?" I asked.

I explained that the ocean off the Jersey coast is riddled with shipwrecks and that exploring those wrecks was one of the only exciting things divers can do in this area — adding, however, that I had never been diving in the ocean and that I was not sure if there were any trips scheduled so early in the summer.

The editors' eyes gleamed.

"You're going on your first wreck dive."

After calling a few dive shops, I bookeda day-trip on the Robin II, a 45-foot aluminum crewboat with veteran diver Bob Archambeault behind the wheel.

My first thought was to skip town. Or maybe I could break my leg. But diving is fun, I reasoned with myself.

In spring, 1995, I took a three-credit basic course in scuba diving at Temple University mainly because I wanted an easy A and I thought the course would consist of swimming around and breathing out of a funky tube the whole semester ("scuba" is an acronym for self-contained underwater breathing apparatus). After the second class, I realized that some skill and concentration was involved.

To get certified, as in most programs, I had to dive to about 50 feet in a quarry, use some of the skills I learned in the basic course, and come up alive.

It wasn't enough training to get me into the Scuba Olympics (yes, there is such a thing.). But the basic lessons served to prepare me for my impromptu wreck dive.

Except that there were a few situations I wasn't prepared for.

As we made our way nine miles off the coast of Barnegat Light, N.J., I tried to psyche myself up with visions of serene undersea worlds and curious fishies.But other images kept creeping up instead.

Jaws.

Jellyfish.

Moray eels.

Loch Ness Monsters and Creatures from Black Lagoons

My reveries were interrupted by another diver named Charlie yelling, "Hey, a tank just went over!" One of the tanks hadn't been secured to the boat properly and had flown overboard.

I feared it was my rental. Thirteen other divers thought it was theirs.

As we searched for our tanks, the unlucky diver revealed himself with a sigh.

"I got a good deal on that tank, too."

Between you and me, I'd hoped it was my tank — so I wouldn't have to dive.

We finally reached our destination and sent the anchor down. As a fellow diver regurgitated his morning meal over the side of the boat (seasickness: easily avoided by taking over-the-counter medication), I suited up.

First, I put the jumpsuit part of my wetsuit on. What's that like? Try putting on 60 pairs of control-top pantyhose while bouncing on a pogo stick. As the boat rocked, I attempted to apply the balance skills I learned in yoga (another summer adventure). After breaking a fingernail and bumping into a few sharp corners, I managed to get the suit on.

Next, the jacket and the boots — which lasted about as long as it takes to put a worm on a hook. I waddled up to the deck to don the tanks, the mask and snorkel, the weight belt, and other miscellaneous gear necessary for a fun afternoon.

My favorite accessory, which, colorwise, matched my fins nicely, was my thigh knife. Despite all its James-Bond-in-Dr. No cachet, this knife is not intended for underwater brushes with Communists, mad sharks or any other sea enemies. I needed it in case I had a scuffle with nylon fishing line. (It looked so Ursula Andress, though.)

When I got the O.K., I hurled myself off the boat and swam around front where Bill Dixon, the most experienced diver, waited for me. We descended and descended and descended.I looked down, hoping to catch a glimpse of a mysterious, fascinating world, but all I saw were brownish-green clouds speckled with dime-sized jellyfish. A few of the gelatinous creatures brushed past my upper lip and cheeks

At about 50 feet below, I felt a rush of cold water (the temp was 42 degrees, I found out later) and I saw the Great Isaac. Covered with mussels, starfish and other sea foliage, the scene reminded me of the moment in The Blue Lagoon when Brooke Shields and that blond guy found the dead sailor clutching a barrel of rum.

In fact, no lives were lost in the collision in 1947, just a sailor's dentures. And if there had been any bodies, the crabs would have eaten them by now — or so said Gene Peterson, the owner of the shop that took me on this adventure.

We swam around the wreck, trying not to bump into other divers who were fearlessly searching for WWII artifacts, lobsters without eggs (it is illegal to catch small or pregnant lobsters) and other treasures.

After about 20 minutes, I started to shiver. We found the anchor line, and went up to the surface. I swam around the boat to the ladder. The biggest challenge of the day, I realized, was getting back onto the boat.

The ladder shook just as much as the boat did. I was dunked in and out of the water as I grabbed on. Once I got my finned feet on the lowest rungs, all I had to do was climb up another five or six rungs with 55 pounds of weight on my back.

Once on the boat, my upper lip began to tingle and turn a pale shade of red.

Served me right for smooching with jellyfish.

I shed the heavy gear, ate a cheese hoagie and maneuvered my way to the front of the boat to catch a well-earned smoke. I was joined by Tony Braccili, assistant divemaster, who came up to keep an eye on the emerging divers.

"I bet not too many divers smoke," I mused.

"Smoking is taboo," he replied between bites of his pretzel.

Oops.

I finished my taboo activities and returned to the front of the boat. Dixon approached me and said, "That was pretty brave of you to go on a dive like this for your first ocean dive."

As I dozed off, nestled in between bags and wetsuits in the cabin of the Robin, I thought, "Scuba Olympics."