My Last Dive With Cheryl

Every Wednesday, during the summer and fall months, brought with it a new mystery dive in Lake Erie. It's now mid July and this is my sixth such dive this year, with the same group. My best friend and favorite dive buddy Cheryl was once again accompanying me with the same group of fourteen regular charter attendees. But I felt uneasy about something. Something seemed different. Perhaps it was the elder gentleman who was new to us as boat captain? Perhaps his new boat and the surroundings seemed strange. Something just didn’t sit right, and I knew my dive buddy Cheryl could sense it too.

Every Wednesday during the scuba diving season would bring about a charter that would leave the dock and meander several miles offshore, zigzagging across the top of the lake. The group of 14 divers would watch the depth finder looking for abnormalities in the bottom landscape. A sudden bump on the monitor’s graph would indicate something might be worthwhile scouring the bottom for. When that happens, two divers would enter the water and investigate the findings. If worthwhile, everyone would jump in.

We were specifically searching for bottle dumps from the 1800’s. Garbage scows would leave the dock in Port Dover and travel several miles out into the lake, dump their load of trash and return to the dock. Over the decades most of the discarded refuse biodegraded, but bottles last forever. Collecting old bottles was the hobby of everyone on the mystery dives.

Cheryl and I were the two newest divers on the charter, with less than a hundred dives each. We were told it was fun and safe, and the cost was well within our budgets. The lure of finding something interesting or worthwhile far outweighed any danger of diving in unfamiliar waters. Besides, this crew of divers was a well experienced group with thousands of dives in Lake Erie accumulated between them.

Cheryl, a Divemaster candidate, was more comfortable than I, as she had a couple of years’ experience on these dives. She was fun to be with, helpful, full of laughter, pranks and kindness. I never imagined that this would be my last dive with her.

As the boat left the dock, the group was arranging their gear, strapping tanks to buoyancy compensators, checking air pressures and talking about the upcoming adventure. The diving gear was stacked in neat little piles on the deck, waiting to be dawned. Once everyone had their gear assembled and secure the predive briefing began.

After some debate, it was decided that we would start four miles from shore and search within a six-mile square grid. This area had proven to be successful in the past. The captain reviewed everyone’s dive logbook and established that most of the divers were capable of deeper dives up to 130 feet. He mentioned that Cheryl and I did not have the experience to dive that deep and that we would take the first shallow dive, in the sixty-foot to one-hundred foot deep range.

A mile of so from the dock, the group huddled around the depth finder and began chatting about how smooth the bottom was in that area. However, it didn’t take long before something caught our eye and the boat drifted to a halt. A discussion ensued with most of the divers figuring that the abnormality was too narrow and long to be a garbage heap and was most likely at tree that had fallen in the lake and lodged itself in the sand. Its branches rose from the bottom about thirty feet, but it was only in seventy feet of water. Bottle dumps were always wider and not quite that high. We moved on.

A half hour later, something of interest appeared on the depth finder screen, which prompted ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ and a few ‘woo-hoos’ from the group. An anomaly about five feet high and at least twenty feet long. The captain quickly explained that it was longer than twenty feet but that is the maximum that the bottom reading sonar could capture. With the depth meter registering fifty-five feet deep, as if it were a choreographed movement, the group turned to Cheryl and I. A simple head nod from the Captain meant it was time for Cheryl and me to gear up and check it out.

Ten minutes later, and sixty pounds heavier in gear, we were standing at the rear of the boat checking our air pressures and huffing into the regulators to ensure they would deliver air easily. With a classic giant stride we were introduced into the placid water.

As I gave the I'm OK signal to the Captain, I turned to Cheryl to begin our descent. I thought I detected a look of uncertainty in Cheryl’s eyes, but since she mentioned nothing, I asked nothing. Since this was a shallow dive, it was only a bounce to the bottom and back, even if we found something. It was considerably less than the one hundred feet I was certified to dive in. I knew our gear was recently serviced and we had more than two hours of air available in our tanks.

Divers have a rule. Anyone can cancel any dive at any time, for any reason, without explanation or repercussion. I believe that Cheryl was considering invoking that right. Since she mentioned nothing, I asked if she was still good to go, and the reply of “I guess so” didn’t help the uneasiness that I was feeling.

We bobbed about the surface for a for several seconds before deflating our buoyancy vests and descending. The water was clear, as most times Lake Erie is. Fifteen feet below the surface we could see the bottom.

The bottom of Lake Erie is mostly sandy with extraordinarily little vegetation growth. The high winds and shallow depths keep the sand moving and little weed growth is evident. Today there was no wind, no current and the only sound was the bubbles leaving our regulators.

Several seconds later we were hovering over the bottom, looking about for the anomaly that we saw on the sonar screen. Nothing appeared to resemble what we saw, but it must be there somewhere. Perhaps we did not descend straight down and were a little off target. Cheryl signaled to swim east by pointing to her compass heading.

It didn’t take long before we saw a large, two-foot diameter, metal pipe appearing out of the sand. We tapped on it as we were curious as to what it was. Cheryl wrote in the algae covered pipe. The letters LPG (Liquid Petroleum Gas) made perfect sense to me. This is the pipeline that delivers natural gas and runs the length of the lake with branches off of it to the mainland.

With the discovery of something not worthwhile, I gestured that we could return to the surface with the “thumbs up” signal. But as we were about to kick off the bottom, something caught our attention.

It sounded like the boat motor. Were they leaving us, or signaling us to return? Boat captains never start their engines while divers are in the water. Being uncertain, we hesitated. Then the feeling we had on departure returned and I felt my heart start beating rapidly. Why? What was the problem? The sound of the motor that was distant started getting louder. It made no sense. And then it appeared!

A lake freighter was about to pass overhead. These monstrous cargo ships traverse the Great Lakes regularly and are to be feared by divers in shallower waters. Carelessly nobody on our charter boat checked to see if we were close to shipping lanes. Now we are in danger. The pull from the giant propellers of these boats sucks up sand and loose objects from the bottom. We were about to become one of those objects. The distant sound of an air horn meant that our boat was signaling us about the approaching danger. Usually that means that we should rapidly ascend, but we were too late for that. Returning to the boat meant we would have to swim towards the west and that would take us directly into the path of the freighter.

Now the roar of the freighter engines overpowered the sound of the air horn. Shortly, if we didn’t discover where it was, we would be churned into fish food. I checked my depth gauge and saw we were sitting in about forty feet of water. I knew the draft of this freighter could be thirty feet so those propellers would certainly be the end of us.

The large nose cone of the freighter was in clear view as it steamed toward us. The bulbus bow was huge and red and was within forty feet of our location. I could feel the suction beginning to draw me off the bottom. I quickly grabbed Cheryl and moved toward the pipeline, wrapping my arms tightly around the gas pipe. Cheryl did the same. In an instant we could feel the water pulling us upward. Our feet pointed towards the surface, our faces in the sand and our arms clenching the pipe in an effort to stay submerged.

For what seemed to be hours the freighter moved above us. Cheryl’s screams became silent and mine, very dim. The roar of the engines and the sound of the propellers were deafening now. I could feel the fins slip off my feet and the regulator in my mouth wobbled like an autumn leaf on a breezy day. I knew that the speed of the freighter should take it past us in a few minutes but understood it would seem like an eternity.

My arms muscles were burning and my grip on the pipe was loosening. I knew I couldn’t hold on much longer. I could feel the tears running down my cheeks but couldn’t hear my screams. Water filled my mask and the tears were replaced with Lake Erie water, sand, and dirt.

With one hand holding the stanchion under the pipeline, I reached over attempting to grab Cheryl’s buoyancy compensator with the other. I may have lost my grip for an instant as the suction from the propellers increased. It was now directly overhead. I seemed to float for a moment like a flag in the breeze. I could see the swirls of the water around the propellers and I started feeling faint. Suddenly I heard nothing but silence in the water and a ringing in my ears. Everything moved in slow motion and my only thoughts revolved around the grip on Cheryl’s vest and the pipeline stanchion. Letting either one of those grips loose would mean death for one, or both, of us.

Finally, the turmoil passed. I realized that at some point I had let go of Cheryl. She was was incoherent and understandably scared. Her eyes were wide and were attempting to look through the silt for something. We sat there for several minutes as I hovered over her, continually looking about for any more danger. I was concerned about another freighter following the first. I wasn’t sure it was a safe time to ascend. Finally, Cheryl headed towards the surface, and I watched her as several divers pulled her onto the boat.

The visibility was terrible after the freighter kicked up the bottom sand and debris. It didn’t take more than a few feet before I lost sight of Cheryl and the charter boat. I no longer heard the air horn that had been blasting nonstop for what seemed like an eternity. I no longer heard the bubbles coming from my own regulator. I no longer could sense any danger. The water became cold and dark, and a deep calm fell over me. I was alone and unafraid, but I knew Cheryl would be ok now.

I often see Cheryl, my friends and family. They gather periodically and speak about me like I’m not even there. They never speak to me. They must be terribly upset that I could not do more to protect Cheryl. Sometimes I think I’m not even present with them and wonder why they appear so close, yet so far.