Covediver's Underwater World

Every so often a random event occurs that shakes us from our complacency and reminds us that some people still undertake adventures to go look for lost vessels. My turn to be reminded of this came today when Peter Lowney visited the office where I work.

Peter stopped by to talk to a coworker of mine who resides in an adjacent cubicle. Among his duties, Mike maintains the shipwreck information database for Alaska. He has amassed the single most complete information source on lost vessels in Alaskan waters. As a result, he fields numerous inquiries regarding lost or wrecked vessels, just as I did when I worked for our Pacific office. The object of Peter’s inquiry was the U.S. Navy submarine, U.S.S. Grunion, which was lost during the early days of the Aleutian campaign of World War II.

Recall that the Japanese invaded Alaska in the Spring of 1942 as a feint preceding the Battle of Midway Island setting off what has been described as “the 1000-mile war.” Although the attack may have been a diversion, the resulting conflict was quite real.

For many years, the fate of the submarine remained a mystery. As Peter--a Bering Sea crabber--told the story, recent translations of action reports by Japanese sailors revealed details of an engagement with the Kano Maru and the USS Grunion that led to the sinking of the submarine and suggested a likely location from which to begin a search. I was transfixed as he briefly related the highlights of the story. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned the scenes of the battle as he described it and could almost see the exchange of cannon fire. Peter is on his way to the Aleutians to take part in an expedition that will attempt to locate the submarine using remote sensing equipment--the search sponsored by the family of the sub’s captain.

I will be following the details of the search as they unfold via the expedition’s website, Searchforthegrunion.com.

The Wikipedia article on the USS Grunion shows the fate of the vessel as “lost due to unknown causes.” Perhaps the expedition will begin to provide some clues as to the causes.

When I moved to Alaska, I had more than 1,000 dives under my weight belt. As to activities undertaken on any one particular dive, my dive log book would provide nary a clue. I confess a certain laxity in keeping a log book. I record most dives as a single line of code on a sheet I keep on work file on the computer’s hard drive. Just the bare essentials--date, place, elapsed time of dive, maximum depth, purpose of dive and dive buddy. Most of the time my sheets record the purpose of the dive with a single work like “exploration,” “recreation,” “training,” and so on. In fact, except for describing the purpose, my Suunto dive computer with its three pages of displays for each dive does a more thorough job of keeping track of my past dives than I ever did! Investing in the interface to transfer the data from the Suunto to my desktop computer would just be a waste of software. Were it not for the requirement to keep a log in order to maintain my research diver certification, I believe that I would have abandoned the practice 20 years ago.

My lack of interest in keeping the record should not be taken as a criticism of those who do. On trips I keep a very extensive journal which goes far beyond the contents of any dive log. These diaries are more akin to writers note books than dive logs and they contain my running commentary on the experience. I know people who produce wonderful field notes on the natural history of every critter encountered. I am not one of those folks.

These detailed logs have become part of the "grey literature"--observations recorded but never published. The grey literature is finding application in countering a phenomena known as shifting baselines. When scientists record and publish the data, it becomes the "baseline" of the census of the reef, by which all future changes will be measured. The problem arises in that the baseline does not reflect recent changes in the reef. For example, a census of Yellowbanks off Santa Cruz Island would reflect the absence of pink abalone in the area. Yet, detailed logbooks from the 1980s would reflect a healthy ecosystem and home to dozens of pink abalone. As such, these detailed logs are important in putting the initial baseline into context and reflecting a shift over time.

Dave Rowell, my basic diver instructor, advised me to keep a log book so I could enjoy reviewing the details of my dives in the years to come. I pictured myself sitting in front of the fire turning the pages of my log and reliving each dive in vivid detail through the observations I recorded, as if writing down the water temperature would allow me to feel the bone chilling numbness of a February dive in the Channel Islands. I diligently filled out the one-dive-per-page-format of my official PADI logs for my first 50 dives, completing two log books, and then I stopped. The word “cryptic” and “bad Hemmingway” describes the literary style of my log entries and I cannot recall the details of the dive from the information scribbled in the log. I do not feel cheated. I never really had the desire to relive any particular dive but always looked forward to the next one. For me the blank pages were something to be filled in so I could turn it to the next blank page and increase the number of dives by 1.

I am always amused when a dive buddy comes up and asks me to sign a log book as if to verify the accuracy of the entry. Some buddies do this with the attention to detail of a border guard checking the visa in a passport, complete with signature and date stamp! Some newly minted divers actually believe that the dive will not count unless the entry is countersigned, which places the buddy in the role of a wet notary public. I usually sign without comment but wonder if anyone has ever actually been asked to produce a log book to vouch for the number of claimed dives.

Examining the pages of anyone’s log usually reveals a water stained bundle of stuck together pages containing barely legible writing. The dampness of the marine environment seems to conspire with the slick paper to make the ink run or fade before it has a chance to dry. I advise them to get a spiral bound, pocket sized note book with waterproof paper (such as those produced by Writes in the Rain) and use a No. 2 lead pencil to make the entries—an unbeatable combination in the marine environment.

I have a peculiar workout routine. I like to do underwater fin swimming and this being Alaska; I have to do it in a swimming pool! Right now, I am doing about 1,000 yards, three days a week. This level of effort is a fine complement to my 3,000+ yard my Masters Swim Club puts me through the other days of the week.

The first question I am usually asked when I mention this fitness activity is “what exactly is that?” I usually reply “swimming underwater with fins, mask, and snorkel.” The usual rejoinder is kind of a half sarcastic “oh, you mean skin diving or snorkeling.” I tried explaining what I was doing to a scuba instructor the other day and just kind of gave up.

Underwater fin swimming is not snorkeling (although a snorkel can be used) because the object of the activity is to swim the length of the pool underwater. Nor is the activity properly classified as breath hold diving because “diving” to any depth for any distance is not really possible. So I call what I do “underwater fin swimming.” I had thought of calling it just “underwater swimming” but found out that the latter term is known as competitive swimming’s fifth stroke. If any of you have watched Olympic swim competition in the freestyle you recognize that in the last few Olympiads the swimmers seem to cover almost as much distance swimming underwater as they do on the surface. I could call it “fin swimming,” but for me the object is to not break the surface until I get to the opposite end of the pool. To do so I need the boost provided by fins, albeit small bladed fins, although there was a time in the not too distant past where I could do it unaided.

The venue where I swim is very nice, a 25-yard pool at the gym where I work out. The pool goes from 3 to 10 feet deep. The schedule allows for lap swimming a couple of days a week and at least two of the six lanes are always available for adult lap swimming. I have learned the various comings and goings of people and pretty much can predict when I can have a lane to myself or sometimes even have the pool to myself. I like having a lane to myself for a couple of different reasons. First, having a lane to myself helps protect my fellow swimmer. I sometimes swim with a Trainer monofin, which is a real kick (no pun intended). This fin has a sharp edge to the blade and has a warning label pasted on the fin warning the user to that effect. Second, it cuts down on the hassles I get from other swimmers. I do swim a structured workout. I was once confronted by a woman swimmer who insisted that if I wanted to snorkel I should do so at the community pools because the lanes at the Club were reserved for people who swam real workouts. I was splitting a lane with another swimmer and we were getting along fine. I told her that I was swimming a structured workout, that she showed her ignorance by thinking that swimming with fins was not really swimming, and that it was rather presumptuous of her to assume that because I was not swimming her workout I was not swimming a workout.

I have had the pleasure of teaching fin swimming to youngsters at the Club, mostly to the basic skill level. The key is to make it fun. The experience is structured to reinforce skills and build new ones with an emphasis on fitness and safety. We do swim through the hoops, play underwater Frisbee golf and Ultimate Frisbee, introduce underwater hockey skills, and sometime have a surface fin swimming tug of war using a grudge belt. I recall the good nature surprise of two boys in the class when their younger sister won the tug of war.