[NFBMD] Diving by Terri UtterMohlen (for Tonight's Chapter Meeting Discussion)

[Ellen Ringlein]

DIVING

by Terri Uttermohlen

When Terri Uttermohlen considered the possibility of fulfilling her
long-held dream of diving in the sea, her blindness was not what she feared.
What she

worried about was whether she would find an instructor willing to work with
her. Here is the delightful story of her adventure:

Jacques Cousteau, the French oceanographer and inventor of the aqua-lung,
has always been a hero of mine. When I was a kid, I used to dive vicariously

by watching him on television. The fish and other sea life brought to me by
his camera fascinated me. 

I also admired the younger French divers as they fell backwards into the
sea-clad in wet suits, masks, fins and tanks. It seemed like magic to me to
be

able to enter another world so close, and yet so different, from the one
inhabited by those of us dependent on air for our survival.

It may not surprise you then to find that I wanted to try diving on a recent
trip to a small island in the Caribbean on my belated honeymoon. My husband

Jim and I planned the trip for months. Though we had both traveled out of
the country several times before, it would be our first trip alone together.

Jim and I are blind, a circumstance that led us to some unusual speculation
about how we would be received and what techniques we would use to maximize

the freedom and pleasure we would have on our trip.

After much Internet research, planning, shopping, and contemplation we still
had many questions as we took off from the Madison, Wisconsin, airport:
Would

our inadequate French be enough to help us get around? Should we carry our
canes in the water the first time we went in? Did we have enough money for
all

of the shopping and fine dining we were hoping to do? Would dive shops freak
out at the idea of a blind person wanting to dive in the sea?

We had been on the island for two days when I ran into Sebastian, a small
man from Paris who ran the activities desk at our hotel. 

"Is there any way I can help you with water sports?" he asked us after
pointing out a bench for us to rest upon while waiting for our tour guide. 

"I would like to scuba dive," I said boldly, anticipating an argument. 

Instead he responded surprised, but willing, "I can help you arrange that."

Reassured that this dream might be realized I told him that I would call the
dive shop later to set something up.

On Tuesday I stood nervously in front of the activities desk wearing a
sarong, my swimsuit, a hat, and enough sunscreen to grease a car. My
transportation

to the dive shop arrived, and we were introduced.

Mark, my instructor, drove us across the island, over a steep, poorly graded
road to the hotel that housed the dive shop. We conversed a little on the

way. His English was fairly good, and he seemed only a little nervous about
my blindness. 

When we arrived at the pool, Mark showed me the fins, mask, regulator, and
tank. He was a good instructor and explained step by step what he wanted me

to do. He held my hand and said I should squeeze his hand twice if I was
having a problem and once if I was OK. He taught me how to inflate my tank
vest

using a valve to control buoyancy.

The first time into the pool, he had me simply place my face in the water
and breathe through the regulator. Since I made it around the pool a couple
of

times successfully doing that, he guided me deeper and deeper until we
touched the bottom of the pool. 

Finally, he asked me to sit on the bottom. My only challenge was, being well
blessed by Mother Nature and an abundance of fine Wisconsin cheese in my
diet,

I had trouble swimming below the surface. Some weights solved that problem,
and I soon sat cross-legged on the bottom until Mark signaled me to rise.

The lesson over, Mark said that we could dive the next afternoon in the sea.
I was pleased to have passed the test, and even more pleased that he had
relaxed

considerably with me.

The next afternoon, I stood on the warm boards of the marina, trying to
squeeze my ample Midwestern flesh into a wetsuit. I succeeded in stuffing
myself

into my new skin and handed Mark all of my land clothes for safekeeping. 

I reached for my cane and discovered it had taken a walk with a curious
eight-year-old son of the dive shop owner while I was occupied with the
wetsuit.

It was quickly retrieved. 

Finally equipped for my adventure, I clambered into the boat. 

The tropical sun beat upon me as I rested on the bench at the back of the
boat. I was the only American on board. As the dive boat moved into the
harbor,

its roundly inflated sides pulsing with the impact of the waves, I sat and
listened to the French-speaking voices around me. Was I really there? I felt

like I had been transported into the Jacques Cousteau films I used to watch.
I sat hoping that I would enter the water before the commercial break. 

The ride to the dive spot was brief. Mark and I waited on the boat while the
other divers and their instructor made their respective splashes into and

under the waves. While I waited my turn, I let the French conversation
between Mark and the mother of a particularly young diver pour over me like
sun-warmed

wine. I could understand only a bit and instead focused my drowsy mind on
imagining the scene around me.

Eventually the others returned, and I donned the fins, re-zipped the sausage
wrapping, put the mask on and daintily jumped off the side of the boat into

the warm Caribbean. Mark swam to me and helped me put on the tank and the
weights. 

Because of the wetsuit, the weights had to be very tight on me before they
would stay where they were intended. The first attempt had them sliding
almost

immediately to encircle my thighs. Since I had no aspiration to emulate the
swimming style of a mermaid, I suggested that we try again. After much
giggling

on my part, we finally put them successfully around my waist. 

Being cautious, Mark repeated the exercise of the pool. First we swam around
the boat with my face in the water, making sure I was comfortable breathing

through the regulator. I reassured Mark several times by squeezing his hand
once in response to his questioning squeeze that I was OK. I was far better

than OK, but we hadn't worked out a signal for "wow!!!" Eventually we began
to descend in the water. 

My first impression of the dive was Mark's reassuring hand in mine, the
bubble of my breath rising from around my face, and the sun-warmed water
surrounding

me. 

We slowly descended to the bottom. As we swam, I ran my hands along the
surface of the coarse sand of shell fragments. I hoped that Mark would warn
me

if I were about to grab one of the Caribbean's less friendly residents. 

As we swam, Mark would tap my right arm when he wanted to guide my hand to
show me things. I touched rocks bearded with algae, a tiny closed clam, and

a conch shell that I believe still encased the conch. I saw sea plants that
looked like firmly planted garden weeds and beautiful slime-oozing strands

of tall sponges shaped like kielbasa.

Mark placed my hands on coral, stubby sponges, and sea fans. One type of sea
fan made of fuzzy finger-wide tendrils seemed to pull itself away from my

touch. Another type had wide rigid leaves that didn't move at all. 

I was amazed when I touched coral. This variety was a hard globe with a
pattern of lines and swirls incised into the surface. After touching the
coral,

my arm began to burn. I pointed to it, but of course Mark was unable to
explain that it was Fire Coral at the time. Instead, he squeezed my hand to
ask,

"Are you all right?" Since the burning was minor, I squeezed back
reassurance, and we swam on.

Finally, I could hear that the tank was emptying of air. My throat was dry
from the regulator, and I knew my time under the sea was almost over. Mark
gave

the signal, and we arose.

On the surface of the water Mark told me that he had been surprised a moment
before by a three-foot-long Great Barracuda. The fish barely noticed us and

swam peaceably around ten meters from us. Mark had forgotten that I wouldn't
see it and was momentarily afraid that I would panic. Had I sensed fear from

him, I might have been afraid, but my trust, by then, was absolute.

We swam back the short distance to the boat. Mark removed my tank, and he
handed it and my weights to the other instructor. I handed up my goggles and

asked if I should remove the fins. Mark responded, as you like.

Next came the least graceful moment of the excursion. As I recounted
earlier, I was stuffed into the wetsuit. The boat was round, rubber, wet,
and about

four feet above the water. There was no ladder or rope to hold onto. In
younger days, it would have been relatively easy to pull myself up onto the
boat.

These are not my younger days, however, and years of heavy computer use have
left my hands and arms weak. 

I reached my arms above to grasp the upper side of the boat. Helpful hands
pulled on me like a Thanksgiving wishbone. Mark pushed from below. I was
laughing

and out of breath, so I could not explain that the men pulling on my arms
were making it impossible for me to help myself get into the boat. After
much

pulling, pushing, squealing, and laughter on the part of the slim Europeans
who surrounded me, I was finally able to say, "Let me try." Thus I finally

flopped aboard, relieved and a little embarrassed.

As we made the short bouncy trip back to the marina, Mark handed me a small
beautiful snail shell. Of all of the shells I had examined when diving, this

was the most perfectly formed. He presented it to me as a keepsake. 

I inquired to make sure that no one was occupying the shell. I didn't like
the idea of evicting a small creature from the water. Nor did I relish the
possibility

of that same creature emerging into my hand to register its complaint at the
rude treatment. 

I could not express my thanks to Mark for understanding and respecting my
desire to experience the sea. He said that he really enjoyed the experience.

 

After we arrived at the dock, Mark helped me peel off the wetsuit. (Without
his aid I would have needed a shoehorn and about a quart of WD-40.) I threw

my clothes on over my swim gear, and we drove back to my hotel.

When I returned, I found Jim contentedly sunning himself on the beach. The
rest of our honeymoon trip was wonderful, romantic, and sun-filled. We
arrived

home after an endless day of cancelled flights and plane malfunctions. As
soon as we arrived, we unpacked to ensure that everything had traveled
safely.

 

In the bottom of one of the suitcases I found the perfectly formed,
delicate, gray and white shell. I marveled at the beauty of the shell and
the fact

that I had finally lived that long-held dream of being under the sea. 

Thank you Jacques. Now you are even more my hero.

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