Blizzards, Buoyancy and April Foolery
Tuesdays are my mornings to dive at the Great Lakes Aquarium, feeding the sturgeon and eels of the Isle Royale exhibit. Today, however, my schedule had a rare gap, and with a couple of other divers signed up to feed the fish, I found myself with a dilemma: to remain dry and spend a day off work out of the water, or to jump in the cold, indifferent waters of Lake Superior. Predictably, I chose the latter.
Heather, ever the willing dive buddy, agreed to meet at Burlington Bay at ten. Ordinarily, I assemble my rebreather the night before, but as I’d been in the water just yesterday, it was still hanging up to dry—a situation that meant an early rise for gear prep. I harbored ambitions of sneaking in a decent piano practice session as well, which seemed plausible until I looked at the clock and realized I was in danger of running late. With an urgent sense of purpose, I packed my gear and punched “Burlington Bay” into my car’s navigation system, only to be met with a cheerful warning that a winter storm might complicate my route. It is a special sort of absurdity to have to factor blizzards into one’s scuba plans, but here we are.
It is a special sort of absurdity to have to factor blizzards into one’s scuba plans, but here we are.
I hurried out of the driveway only to witness Heather speeding past, effectively nullifying my concerns about punctuality. By the time we arrived at Burlington, the storm was already flexing its muscles. The sun, fighting valiantly, shone weakly through thinning clouds. A stiff wind whipped off the lake, the waves steadily gaining confidence. Burlington is not what one might call a breathtakingly scenic dive site—no coral reefs, no dramatic cliffs plunging into the abyss—but it does have the redeeming quality of being an easy beach entry, an important factor when the water is trying to throw you back onto shore.
We geared up, plodded through the sand, and waded into the surf. The lake, in a particularly playful mood, did its best to knock us off balance as we shuffled toward deeper water. For the first five minutes, the experience was not unlike attempting to boogie board in a washing machine. Visibility hovered somewhere around five feet—an experience akin to diving inside a snow globe that had just been vigorously shaken. But once we descended past the initial turbulence, things settled.
At around 15 to 20 feet, I had a moment of clarity—an almost spiritual realization—that my buoyancy was, for once, exactly as it should be. I’d been adjusting the weight distribution on my rebreather, fine-tuning the balance of air in my drysuit, all in pursuit of that perfect, motionless hover. And at long last, there it was: stability. Not a frantic flailing for equilibrium, not an accidental slow-motion somersault, but actual, deliberate stillness in the water column. It was an almost poetic revelation. Almost.
We pressed deeper, following the subtle boundary where the sandy lake floor meets the rocky bottom. There is something oddly hypnotic about the endless ripples in the sand, like wind-sculpted dunes frozen in place. I’ve yet to capture this effect properly in a photograph, but the attempt remains an ongoing project. On our way back, we stumbled upon a peculiar fallen tree—about 15 feet long, incongruously nestled in its underwater resting place. Always in pursuit of a compelling shot, I motioned for Heather to swim into the frame. The composition was interesting, the moment was right—except for the small matter of me stirring up a cloud of silt just as I pressed the shutter. Art, as they say, is often imperfect.
Art, as they say, is often imperfect.
The water remained a brisk 34°F, and as our fingers steadily lost all utility, Heather spotted something among the rocks. I swam over just in time to see her pull out an agate—an undeniably impressive specimen. I am, by no means, a rock enthusiast, but even I had to admit this thing was objectively cool. Possibly even valuable, though my understanding of the agate market is limited at best. Mere moments later, I discovered my own treasure: a golf ball. Worth nothing and stained brown it was decidedly unimpressive. It was however going to be a part of our ever-growing assortment of salvaged sporting equipment. Probably 50 golf balls and a three-iron we retrieved from Lake Ore-be-Gone.
I am, by no means, a rock enthusiast, but even I had to admit this thing was objectively cool.
Emerging from the surf, I was once again struck by the disconcerting reality of how outrageously heavy my gear feels on land. This is despite the fact that I generally diligent about working out and ride my bike to work year round. Yet, under the crushing weight of my rebreather, bailout bottle (combined weight: 110 pounds), and camera rig (another 25 pounds), I resembled a wobbling, overburdened astronaut rather than a seasoned diver. I briefly questioned my life choices before concluding that, actually, I was doing just fine given the circumstances.
We packed up, exchanged the requisite post-dive musings, and speculated on whether Thursday’s forecasted snowstorm—predicted to dump up to 13 inches—would keep us out of the water. But that was a problem for another day. Today had been good. I had been comfortable, stable, and, for once, completely at ease underwater. I might, against all odds, be getting the hang of this diving thing.
Oh, I almost forgot… it’s April Fools’ Day, so I had a little Photoshop fun with an underwater image from a few weeks back.