Depth, Deco, and Daughters in Boulder
It’s been a busy few weeks since my last post — the sort where you surface one morning, check your planner, and realize you’ve somehow managed to cram in several dives, a trip across the country, and only a modest amount of sleep.
Two of those dives were on the Madeira, a wreck that never fails to make me feel both reverent and slightly inadequate. She went down in 1905, pounded against the cliffs near what’s now Split Rock Lighthouse — a grimly romantic location that only Lake Superior could produce. Nine of her ten crew survived, thanks to one sailor who heroically scrambled up a 60-foot cliff with a rope. These days, the Madeira’s steel ribs still stand like a cathedral of rust, and swimming among them feels almost like entering a story you shouldn’t interrupt.
The cliff that ended the Madeira’s voyage now basks in calm water and autumn sun. A kinder face from a lake that once had no patience for steel or sailors.
Yesterday’s dive was one of those rare Superior days when the lake decides to be kind: visibility was good, and the water, unbelievably, was warmish — 57° at the surface, 49° at 120 feet. Practically tropical. I even managed a few photos I’m rather fond of — a black-and-white shot of those fin-shaped plates stretching out of the gloom, with Heather hovering in the distance like a particularly graceful piece of underwater punctuation.
Heather’s rebreather is still awaiting repair, so she was diving open circuit — which proved, yet again, why I’m fond of my closed-circuit rebreather. After ten or fifteen minutes beyond 100 feet, she’d already built up nearly twenty minutes of decompression obligation. Meanwhile, my little mechanical lung quietly adjusted my gas mix as I ascended, keeping me just on the right side of no-deco. She hung serenely at her stop while I amused myself nearby with drills — diluent flushes, mask removals, boom drills — all in preparation for this weekend’s Air Diluent Decompression course.
I’m beginning to feel more at ease at depth now. The 100-foot mark no longer feels like a psychological event. These days, I can actually appreciate the scenery instead of mentally rehearsing my emergency bailout plan. It’s a curious thing — the calmer you are underwater, the safer you are, and the more you enjoy it.
The cross below marks loss and grace alike — a whisper to slow down, breathe easy, and treasure the grand and the fleeting moments we’re given.
There were a few other dives tucked in between. One, after a morning volunteering at the Great Lakes Aquarium, at Lake Ore-be-gone — a former mine pit that sounds made up but isn’t. I spent over an hour doing drills, trying to quiet the small but persistent voice in my head that insists I’m not ready for deco training. Another dive, less glamorous, was at Burlington Bay. A sandy slope, maybe 30 feet deep at best, where the chief attraction is finding golf balls. We collected fourteen. The nearest golf course is at least a mile away, suggesting either superhuman golfers or particularly determined loons.
A tiny oasis in a desert of sand — proof that even at 30 feet down, life finds a way to be stubbornly, beautifully alive.
But the true highlight of the last couple of weeks wasn’t underwater — it was in Boulder, visiting Grace. Isabel came too, skipping a trip to California with her boyfriend so we could all be together. We hiked the Brainerd Lakes Area — a mountain spot just outside Boulder that, to any Minnesotan, sounds like a clerical error. Back home, the Brainerd Lakes Area is a summer paradise of fishing, pontoon rides, and sunburned vacationers who insist that walleye taste best when cooked over a campfire. The Colorado version, by contrast, involves few lakes, plenty of altitude, and the distinct impression you’re being judged by your own lungs.
We had dinner with Grace’s boyfriend’s family — his parents delightful, his grandmother unapologetically Italian and refreshingly unfiltered. Shari and Dom’s mom bonded instantly; his dad turned out to be a cyclist and retired lawyer, which feels like an appropriately Boulder combination. It was one of those easy, laughter-filled evenings that make you realize your kids have grown into kind, funny, luminous adults. I’ve said it before, but I genuinely hit the jackpot with mine.
Now, with my decompression course on the horizon, I’m equal parts eager and mildly terrified. The drills are familiar, but that’s probably what makes them intimidating. Still, if all goes well, by next week I’ll officially be a “technical diver.”
Whatever that means…