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Dying to Dive

As summer neared its end in 2018, my wife and I wanted to get in one more fun activity with our 11-year-old grandson, Patrick. Since he and I are both avid anglers and nature lovers, she made a suggestion tying both together.

“Let’s go to the aquarium,” she said.

We visited the shark tank, fed stingrays and marveled at the butterfly exhibit. Then we came upon the large, brightly lit, open reef display. I sat in front of the huge thick glass, hypnotized by the reef’s gloriousness. Bittersweet memories of my tropical diving days came flooding through. The last time I dove was in 1997, four years after my ALS diagnosis.

At the time of that dive, Christopher, my son, was 12 years old, the age youngsters can qualify for a junior diving certificate. For my son’s January birthday, I surprised him with scuba diving lessons. Over the winter, I took him to classes to qualify for his certificate. He was the only child in the group geared for adults and managed to pass the written exam. Then, he followed up with an open water test and received his certification in the summer. He was ready.

As a father and a diver, I desperately wanted to share that world with him before that happened. Now with his certification, it was within reach. The undersea world is like visiting a different planet. It is an alien world, a place where we are only visitors. There, life is so fundamentally different. Shapes and colors are as remarkable as they are unreal.

I began exploring options for a trip. I chose St. John in the Virgin Islands. It had a national park where we could camp, and a world famous water environment. Because of my paralyzed arms and hands, along with weak legs—combined with Christopher’s age—I expected to have a difficult time getting a dive shop to accommodate us. I called a few local scuba shops explaining my physical condition and they declined my request. Growing worried my calls took a more frenetic urgency.

Out of the phone came, “Hello.”

I opened with, “I know this will sound crazy, but please hear me out. I am dying from Lou Gehrig’s disease and I want to take my 12-year-old diving before I die. My arms are already paralyzed but I still can swim well under water.” I continued before he could respond negatively. “He is all set. I took him for his certificate. He has his open water dive completed. He is a good swimmer and mature for his age.” I wrapped up with, “I understand my request is unusual and will be a headache. It means the world to me for a chance to dive with my son. I need you to help make the dream a reality. Please work with me.”

After listening, the owner replied, “Mr. Pendergast, if you want to dive that badly, we’ll do whatever it takes so you get to dive with your boy! Come down and we’ll make it work.”

“Oh, thank you for this chance. You made my summer. I can’t wait.” I shot back.

Over the Jewish Holy Days in September when school closed, we headed to the Virgin Islands. As my wife watched us trudge off towards the plane dragging our luggage, with my son doing most of the work, she wondered out-loud, “What did I just do?” The sight of us actually leaving made it real. “I sent a paralyzed man off on a diving trip out of the country accompanied only by a twelve-year-old child!”

“How are you doing?” I asked him.

“Okay, Dad. Let’s go or we will miss the plane.” He looked back to hurry me as we walked towards the gate

We headed for an adventure of a lifetime. I had no idea it would be an epic experience-a forever memory.

The harbor resembled a sheet cake covered with blue frosting. Humid, sweet, salted air filled our nostrils walking down the long wharf. We boarded a specialized dive vessel designed for the open water reef diving along with several other people. All eyes were on us as my son assisted me aboard, while trying to lug our gear at the same time. The boat headed out of the harbor towards the reefs that form a protective ring around the Island.

The ocean swells caused us to rock and roll. In unison to their rhythm, I staggered like a drunken sailor. Christopher lurched to hold me up each time I weaved towards the railing. We must have looked like a pair of amateur comics rehearsing for a talent show. The engines eventually quieted and the captain dropped anchor just beyond the sensitive coral to prevent damaging it.

Getting me suited up was a challenge. With several dive assistants helping, I struggled but managed to get the skintight wet suit on. However, the all-important weight belt proved to be impossible. We were unable to cinch the thirty pounds of lead around my waist. With no weight, I would float like a cork because of the buoyant suit and the one hundred cubic feet of compressed air in the tank strapped to my back. Faced with failure, the Dive Master proposed a solution violating all the rules.

“Instead of wearing the weights on a belt, we can put them in the pockets of your buoyancy compensator vest. You won’t be able to shed them easily by releasing the buckle in an emergency, but it will get you weighted.”

Weighted down I was able to dive. If I needed to surface immediately in a dire emergency, I couldn’t. The weights would be stuck in my pockets and I would drown. In a normal situation, this would never be an option. Given my circumstance, there was no alternative. Either I chose to dive with this added danger or I sat on the boat. My son’s eyes implored me as I realized there was no choice.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

Experienced divers get a dive master to supervise a group. In our case, my son got his own “buddy” and a separate one went with me. He wanted to be at my side to protect me from common problems that would be life threatening for me, like a dislodged mask or dropped mouthpiece. He also could adjust my buoyancy compensator so I wouldn’t sink or float, remaining neutral in the water. Christopher entered the water with the traditional backflip from the side rail of the boat while I stepped off the rear swim platform. Our adventure began.

Once in the water, we descended a steep coral wall not unlike a cliff you encounter when hiking in the mountains. The face of the reef dropped off and we swam nearly vertical as we went down. Every 15 or 20 feet there was a complete change in environments because of diminishing light penetration. Each new zone brought more fantastic delights than the previous one. Different corals dazzlingly displayed their varied shapes, textures and colors. Teals, turquoise, magentas, marigolds, pinks, purples, emeralds and of course, azures flooded our eyes. The schools of fish changed as well. Tropical fish are riots of color with improbable combinations and fantastical bodies. There were moving clouds of stripes, dancing polka dots, and other stunning designs swimming past. Their names conjure imaginations in land lovers who never get to see them in their natural habitat: Parrot, Angel, Trigger, Zebra, Convict, Lion or Clown, for examples. These fish are more majestic and beautiful than the names suggest.

Life teemed everywhere. Gelatinous anemone arms of every length, color and width waved in unison moved by an unheard melody. It reminded me of human arms swaying together at a rock concert or a wave at a football game. Black pincushions punctuated the lines of coral, as the sea urchins were everywhere. Darkened crevices hid mysterious, reclusive creatures—an octopus tentacle or lobster antennae revealing its occupants. Sea stars of all hues confirmed the reef was heaven on earth, or more accurately, under it.

Once we reached the bottom at about 60 feet, the maximum we could go without decompressing, I rested on the sugar sand sea floor. I rolled onto my back and in the total silence of the moment, I stared at the heavens far above. It felt like I was in a vestibule of a medieval cathedral looking up at a huge stained glass window. Shafts of light pierced the water, filtered downward and reflected off the reef’s rainbow of colors, creating a massive fresco. And there, in front of God’s masterpiece, was my son moving slow with the rhythm of the ocean. I filled with rapture. As joyous as I was, there was more to come!

A short swim away from the base of the reef was a trough that dropped an additional 30 or 40 feet. The Dive Master accompanying us signaled to go deeper. I declined, opting to watch and allow my son to experience the deeper dive solo. How many kids this age have been almost a hundred feet under the ocean alone! Because of the additional depth, they could only dive down a moment and immediately return to the shallower depth at the bottom of the reef. As the pair tilted down and dove, I moved over them. I watched my son grow small. His fluid movements entranced me.

I moved directly over him and stared at the bubbles coming out of his regulator. They were literally the breaths of his life. The large bubbles floated upward, breaking into multiple orbs as they rose through the water. I positioned myself to allow the bubbles to hit me. As they did, they burst into hundreds of small ones. The tiny bubbles stuck to my black wetsuit and covered me from mask to flipper, similar to a glass of sparkling champagne! The light shined through the bubbles causing them to shimmer. My black wetsuit sparkled like countless miniature diamonds. His breath of life encased me. I bobbed on the breath of my son, my offspring, the flesh of my flesh. I experienced a Oneness. It was surreal, never to be forgotten.

I never dove again. What a way to end 30 years of diving.

My wife and Patrick already moved on to other exhibits.

As I left, I mumbled, “Will Patrick ever dive? I hope so.”

The lesson in this is you are never too young, old or sick to enjoy new, memorable adventures. Do not let such opportunities slip by.