The Perfect Storm

It was a beautiful day in Apalachicola, Florida. My Husband, Bob, and I arose early from our tent, prepared the boat for a day of diving. Listening to the marine radio, a storm warning was announced. I asked Bob if we should be going. He made some gesture like “We’re here, we’re diving.” I reminded Bob, to not forget the regulators from the trunk. He made some gesture like “I know what I’m doing.” We awoke my Step-daughter, Brianna, had a nice breakfast, hitched up the boat, and we were off. That morning the seas were unusually calm, and smooth. It was so calm, that we even water-skied on the ocean on the way to the dive site!

We were searching for some limestone ledges where large grouper were known to hide. Bob had read about the location in a sport fishing magazine. It said to head in a Southeasterly direction from the tip of Dog Island for five miles. So that’s what we did. Once we got five miles, we had to find the drop-off of the ledges by using the depth finder. This usually takes quite a bit of time, going back and forth, back and forth. This is the time I usually get sea-sick, so I try to focus on the shore-line. But that day we were so far out there was no shore-line. Finally, we found it! We knew exactly were the ledges were and we were excited.

Bob was preparing our dive gear when I heard some foul language! I immediately knew what happened. He forgot the regulators! Being a good wife, I did not say “I told you so.” I simply said “We know where the spot is, let’s mark it on the GPS and we’ll be back in no-time. It was a quiet ride back, 8 miles by sea is a lot longer than 8 miles on land.

We retrieved the regulators and we were back at the spot. By this time, we could see the sky getting dark in the distance. Brianna was getting worried, but Bob just made some gesture like “Trust Me.” By the time we got all our gear on, there were several other boats there, on our spot! Imagine, 8 miles out, and there, huddled in an area of 200 feet, were 5 fishing boats! Brianna again voiced her concern of the distant dark skies. She asked if we could hear the boat’s engine from below, and Bob said yes. So, we dove.

When we got to the bottom, we saw a few barracuda, but no grouper to spear. So, we swam along the ledges in search for the big one. When it was time to turn around, I noticed it was getting dark. I thought Bob, as he usually does, disturbed the sandy bottom with his fins, making it difficult to see. Then we hear the sound of a boat engine, revving and releasing, revving and releasing. Although we were only down for about 15 minutes, Bob gave me the signal to surface, and we did. When we were topside, I was immediately splashed in the face by a huge wave. At first I was upset, because I thought one of those big fishing boats had gotten too close and splashed us. Then when I got my bearings, I realized there were no more big boats – just our little one. A 20-foot bow-rider. I heard immediate panic from Brianna – “Get in the boat! Get in the boat!” I was getting knocked into the boat engine from the waves, and received a nasty burse from the propeller. I knew I had to take off my tanks before I could board the boat. When I got on board, it was full of water from being anchored and the waves crashing over the bow. I immediately turned on the bilge pump. I thanked God it worked.

Bob and I have a great system together, I guide the boat so he can retrieve the anchor and dive ball. I immediately took the helm and listened for direction. Bob was leaning over the boat to lift the anchor chain over the rail and these massive waves were crashing onto him. Our wetsuits were still on, and that gave me some comfort in knowing that if Bob went over, at least the buoyancy of the suit might help him surface.

Then Bob yelled: “Get me to the dive ball!” Brianna then shouted: “Leave it! Leave it!” Bob responded: “It cost $50 and we’re not leaving it!” I knew we had to grab the ball on the first try, because it would be too dangerous to turn around in those conditions.

So the anchor was up, the ball was in-hand, and Bob took control of the boat. After taking the first few waves, my first thought was a contingency plan for when the boat capsized. I asked Brianna, a Florida State Swimmer, if she wanted a life jacket. She shouted back, “No. I’m afraid to get up, I’ll fall over!” I then threw her a seat cushion that doubles as a flotation device, and shouted, “If we capsize, first swim down then out, so you don’t get trapped under the boat. Then we will all meet at the front of the boat.”

Taking the waves took skill. Bob had to push the throttle down when riding the wave up, then immediately kill the throttle on the way down. It didn’t seem to make a big difference since every ride down a wave was like crashing. Bob had to navigate the waves just right, because one wrong turn would capsize the boat. Five miles. Five miles of this torture to get to the leeward side of Dog Island. Five miles of throttle, then crash, throttle, then crash. We spotted a larger fishing vessel in the distance, and Bob thought if we could just get behind him, it would be calmer water. It was. But the boat was not stopping at Dog Island, so we had to leave the comfort of the stranger, and make it to the island alone. When we finally got to the leeward side of Dog Island, I counted over 50 boats in its lagoon. 50 boats that were at least twice the size of ours. 50 boats with all of their passenger’s eyes glued to us. I’ve always wondered what it was they were thinking. Was it “How did this small boat make it through the Perfect Storm.” Or was it “Why the hell didn’t those people listen to the marine report!”