You see, during a previous attempt to locate the so-called flamingos of Connecticut 2-Bit, we failed rather completely. This time, we came prepared. On the way over, Heather called the Brainerd dive shop and got beta: “Just drop in, head left, follow the submerged mining road.” Which, let’s pause and acknowledge, is the sort of sentence that would confuse anyone outside the dive world.

Conditions were gray and damp—the kind of drizzle that never quite earns the title of “rain,” but does a commendable job of being unpleasant. It wasn’t enough to soak you unless you stood in it long enough to develop moss, but it did set a rather moody tone.

We kitted up, stepped off, swam left for a few minutes—and sure enough, there they were. Plastic flamingos, half-sunk into the silt, some with zebra mussels clinging like cursed jewelry. A few lay flat across the lakebed like the aftermath of an oddly themed garden party. Heather posed with them for a photo to send to her Florida cave-diving friends—apparently they loathe flamingos, which is a niche feud I didn’t know existed.

From there, we descended. And things got interesting.

This site features a dramatic vertical wall starting around 35 feet. On our last visit, we followed it to about 80 before calling it. But I’ve been working on getting more comfortable with depth, trying to tame the low-key dread that tends to accompany deep dives. This time, I agreed to go deeper—targeting 100 feet, my current rebreather certification limit.

We followed the wall down. Viz wasn’t great—particulate, muted light. I didn’t expect to reach the bottom, but I did. At 115 feet. The deepest I’ve ever been.

It was proper dark. Not just a dim twilight, but the kind of darkness that makes you wish you hadn’t left your dive light behind (I had). Heather, blessedly more prepared, swept her beam across the gouged-out bones of old mining—pitted stone, rusted relics, and the occasional tree root doing its best impression of a drowned specter. There was nothing alive down there. Just slabs of history, thick silence, and shadows that didn’t seem in a hurry to explain themselves. And yet, for reasons I can’t quite name, I felt oddly at ease. My breathing was smooth, loop silent. The usual mental alarm bells that go off at 100 feet were silent for once. No “You don’t belong here!” thoughts. Just a strange calm.

We lingered around the 100-foot mark for 15–20 minutes. My NDL time dropped to near-zero, as expected. Watching it climb back up as we slowly ascended was oddly satisfying. Gain ten feet, gain ten minutes. Magic.

Back in the shallows, we wandered for another hour and a half—effectively turning the rest of the dive into a 90-minute safety stop. The sun had come out by then, slicing through the water and spotlighting schools of curious bluegill, a darting pike, Got a shot of Heather finning through submerged trees that I rather like. Shallows like that feel like redemption after the deep: warm, lit, alive.

It was one of the better dives I’ve had—deepest yet, and maybe most relaxed at depth.

The next step, I think, is the air/dil deco course. It will  extend my depth range by 30’, and it will allow longer bottom times. Useful for dives like the Madeira, where the real sights don’t start until deep. But before I sign up, I need to run some skills again—dil flushes, boom drills, bailout protocols. You know, all the things you hope you’ll never have to use but absolutely must get right.

So here we go: the next chapter. A little deeper. A little longer. Still learning.