Brighton Bass

The morning began with an 8 a.m. dentist appointment, which is the sort of thing that puts a damper on even the brightest morning. My car, loaded to the brim with dive and photo gear, sat vulnerably in the parking lot, but I reassured myself that even the most ambitious of criminals wouldn’t bother with a 25-year-old rust bucket. After a mild scolding about flossing more often, I was off to Brighton, arriving a couple minutes before my dive buddy Heather. As we geared up there was the usual onlookers from the lakewalk. Diving in Lake Superior in late winter, it turns out, is not a common sight.

The entry was, as expected, an exercise in grace and coordination, meaning I promptly slipped on a large, algae-covered rock and landed on my knees in a foot of water. No injuries—aside from pride—and I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached deeper water where my 70 pounds of gear mercifully began to float. Heather and I exchanged final checks, I gave the thumbs-down (which, in scuba, confusingly means “let’s go down” rather than “bad idea, abort mission”), and we descended.

Our initial route took us straight out before veering south, skirting around some fishermen’s lines. A pre-dive chat with them had revealed them to be the friendly sort, which is always reassuring when you’re about to submerge near people wielding hooks and sharp objects.

Visibility was decent and we swam south for about 25 minutes before Heather flashed the turn-around sign. This signal, in winter, carries a secondary meaning beyond the obvious: it translates roughly to “I am now officially freezing.” The water was a bracing 36°F, and no matter how much insulation you pile on, eventually, your hands decide they’ve had enough and transform into frozen, useless bricks.

On the return swim, Heather pointed out a smallmouth bass nestled under a ledge. I managed to snap a photo, and under the flash, its markings looked oddly different from what I’m used to seeing in inland lakes. It was widely speckled and without the typical red marking in it’s eye. Like most smallmouth, it regarded us with mild disinterest, so getting a decent photo was relatively easy, but finding fish in Lake Superior, that’s about as common as finding a functioning public payphone!

When we surfaced, the sun was still shining, and for once, I felt completely at ease throughout the dive—no racing thoughts, no unease, just the quiet joy of floating through an alien world. I suppose I’m finally settling into the idea of trusting a machine strapped to my back to keep me alive. Well, maybe trusting isn’t the word… Understanding is probably better. Don’t think I’ll even total trust something that’s managing the air I breathe:-)

Diving Lake Superior in the winter isn’t easy in any sense of the word, but as I stood there dripping on the shore, I realized something: while most people were still in their pajamas, sipping coffee and scrolling through highlights of someone else’s adventure, we had already explored the depths of the largest lake on the planet. Not bad for a morning’s work.