Two times in my diving career I have had what most people would call very close calls. Each one resulted in a burst of laughter from my dive buddy and myself. The first, we were in Pearl Harbor Hawaii removing the secondary propeller from a fast-attack submarine. These secondary propellers are hydraulically lowered from inside the ballast tanks of the submarine when it needs to be used. To accommodate this design, there is a large “skid plate” below and attached to the propeller itself. When it’s raised and put away, this skid plate contours to the submarine and you would never know it was there if you didn’t know where to look. In order for us to work on it, we had to attach a watertight box that completely surrounds the opening of the prop. Once installed, we pump the space full of air to dewater it and give us a dry place to work while under water. Scaffolding is installed at the bottom of the box so we can stand, and the prop is lowered down allowing us work. One of the first steps is to remove that skid plate and send it up to the surface via crane. 36 bolts later we had it free and removed. But this thing is wide, heavy, and awkward to hold. There were three of us inside the de-watered box at this time and the plan was to hand it from the guy standing on the highest point to the middle guy, and then to me, standing on the metal scaffolding in rubber soled booties. The hand off went well. When the plate made it to me, Mark, the middleman still had a hand on it, we made eye contact, he asked if I had it, I gave him a confident yes yes. He let go, and I slipped. There’s forty feet of dirty industrial sea water from the bottom of our containment to the soot-riddle bottom of the bay, and I was holding something that weighed 60% of my body weight. I was instantly underwater, hands still clutching the plate, my umbilical and dive hat all detached from me and hung inside the containment. I’m under water, everything is blurry, but fortunately something saved me from rocketing down to the bottom. When I slipped, the corner of the plate hit the scaffolding I was previously standing on. About an inch of it. It was enough time for the two divers inside the containment to grab the parts still exposed to them and prevent me and the 90-pound metal rectangle from disappearing into the depths. Once I gather my wits I slowly come back to the surface, into the containment that is now rumbling with laughter from my other dive buddies. I couldn’t help but join in and I tell them “I told you I got it.” We finished the job incident free, and after the day was done, it really wasn’t ever brought up again.

The second time my near demise resulted in guttural laughter was a few years later. Mark, the same diver from before, was with me for an offshore hull cleaning of a huge cargo ship. We were in Hawaii again and for environmental reasons all big hull cleanings must happen at least three miles off shore so as to not introduce any potential foreign wildlife clinging to the hull into coastal waters. That far out at sea ocean conditions vary a lot and can change at a moment's notice. Today it was seemingly mild. On the starboard, east side of the ship there was a lot of chop and a lot of water movement. But on the port side the conditions were very calm with the ship itself acting like a shield to the elements. So that’s where we moored up our water taxi and prepared for the dive. To accurately paint a picture of the dire situation I ended up in I need to mention a few things about the company we worked for at the time. They were the definition of penny pinchers and would consistently sacrifice safety and regulation in order to maximize profits. This meant that we were doing this hull cleaning in SCUBA instead of surface supplied air. It meant that we would dive alone, untethered to anything or anyone, only being attached to our water taxi by holding the pneumatic airbrush that we used to clean. The brushes were pretty fun to use. They were big. As you held onto it, air would blow in such a way to both spin the brush but also suck itself into the hull of the ship. It would also propel you forward so you could just hold on, squeeze the trigger, and allow it to drive you all around the ship like a snail leaving a slime trail. Except we were removing slime.

Mark and I had decided to work together and drive our brushes from bow to stern (front to back). Each of us would attempt to accomplish about five feet of width; him above, me below. We are nearing the back end of the ship, and I can see the propeller extending 15 feet out from the end of the ship being supported by its struts. Just another 20 feet or so and we would be done with this pass where we would then return to the taxi, swap out our air bottles, have a snack, and get back in for another bow to stern pass. I’m getting close to the edge now; Mark is above and maybe 10 feet behind me when I feel a strange sensation. My hair started “blowing” away from the ship in a violent manner. Strange. What didn’t occur to me before it was too late was why. Seconds later I’m ripped from the ship flipping and spinning uncontrollably, pneumatic brush being the only thing keeping me attached to my team. The ship was blocking a ripping current and when I came close to the end of the hull, it swept me away like a leaf on a windy fall day. I have zero control over myself, and I am whipped down and outwards around to the other side of the ship. The last thing I noticed before I lost sight of the port side, my dive buddy, and our taxi was a huge cloud of bubbles streaming from Mark's regulator and mask. He’s laughing uncontrollably! I’m whipped to the starboard side now, still clutching my brush, and I'm pinned underneath the bilge keel. If you don’t know, a bilge keel is like a long fin running the length of the ship on each side. Its purpose is to reduce the amount of rolling the ship does from side to side. Very common on large ships like this. And I’m stuck under it. I can’t even pry my torso from the hull because the current is pushing me into it with tremendous force. Luckily, I still had my brush. I grab the pneumatic hose with both hands, allowing the brush to fall, and start to pull, hand over hand, back to safety. It doesn’t take long until I'm back on the safe and calm side of the ship, where the journey then gets easy. A couple minutes of hand over hand and I’m back to my water taxi, exhausted. Mark was on the taxi already and was kind enough to fetch my next bottle so we could return to the water and do our next pass. Punk ass.