• "Diving with Satori " Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher discusses total involvement and clarity.
• "Lacodivitis Somuchus " (Pronounced: Lack-o-dive-eye-tis So-much-us.) Do you have this insidious disorder?
• "My First Few Minutes" Do you see yourself in this letter sent in anonymously?
• "Diving and Golf " by Capt. Jim Hinckley - Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher does a tongue-in-cheek comparison of Diving and Golf.
• "The Stopped Clock " by Capt. Jim Hinckley - Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher ponders what make a great dive.
• "Losing Our Senses" --Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher ponders the dilemma of divers in "Modern Times".
• "Inane Diving" --Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher looks back on his "inane" dive training.
• "A Long Awaited Beginning" --Newly certified diver Damon Gray reflects on his long history of "diving."
• "Why Dive? or Life on the Road!" --Aqua Shack Owner/instructor/philosopher, Suggests we slow down and enjoy the view. By Capt. Jim Hinckley
• "Thank You All Who Supported the Symbiosis Dive Service and Aqua Shack" --Aqua Shack Owner/instructor/philosopher/ ponders the his past, present and future diving and plans. By Capt. Jim Hinckley

"Diving with Satori "

Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher discusses total involvement and clarity.

Diving with Satori

by Capt. Jim Hinckley

Sitting anxiously in my drysuit on the boat at the start of the second dive, I had ignored my own advice. I had a lousy first dive (things didn't go according to plan and I lost a light) and I wasn't necessarily looking forward to the next dive. But just then, something clicked. Something that caused me to live in the moment and totally freed me of anxiety about the past and the future. "Where am I... and what am I doing... right here, right now?", I thought.

I prepared for and performed that next dive with "Satori", and it proved to be one of my personal favorites to date. "Satori" is a Japanese word for timeless focus. It's the focus that Samurai warriors carry into battle - a red hot mental clarity. Webster defines it as the spiritual goal of Zen Buddhism, a "sudden enlightenment and a state of consciousness attained by intuitive illumination." You reach this state of total clarity and oneness of mind and body and action by emptying your mind for a time of everything, but one thing.

The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi taught one how to reach this state of altered consciousness through the use of Transcendental Meditation (TM). It's a technique where you empty your mind by thinking of only one thing; a sound called your Mantra, with complete and total focus. This mantra is just a sound given to you by your Maharishi that has no meaning. By concentrating only on the mantra, you come as close as possible to thinking of "nothingness".

More grounded folks might just refer to it as a "high". The exhilaration of doing your first night dive with complete focus. When I'm diving, there comes a magic of being pulled into the experience so completely that nothing else matters. It's awesome... you don't think about the bills, work, the wife and kids, the dogs, the leaky faucet, etc. It's just you and the dive totally melting together. You are no longer a person separated from your actions. You and your actions are one! But if you let any part of you wander, if you start to think about anything else, it's all over and you lose it. Often you don't even realize you're in that state until you fall out of it!

Scholars have discovered the same phenomenon. In 25 years of study in the field, University of Chicago psychology professor Mihaly Csikzentmihalyi reported many people talk about being "in the flow" or "in a zone". Rock climbers, dancers, great skiers and many other athletes describe a state in which every move seemed "correct and effortless" and perfectly connected, one to the next as though it flowed from them without conscious thought. They become so absorbed that they stop being aware of themselves as separate from the actions they are performing.

This "flow of psychic energy", Csikzentmihalyi concludes in his book Flow, "results from first building skills and then facing a situation that demands their full use while not overwhelming them. This sets the stage for becoming so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter. The experience itself is so enjoyable that people will do it at great cost. For the sheer sake of doing it".

Any lapse in concentration, however, will end the flow. It's being present now in your life. (I guess that as I hit 45, I find myself thinking about these things now and then.) If you pull in your anxieties about the past or project your fears of the future, then you've missed the awareness and the magic of the present... the Satori.

Improved self worth and self-esteem, helping achieve balance in life, confronting fears, setting goals and reaching success are all possible with Satori. Expand it to the fear of something - of being alone, of failure, of speaking in front of an audience. Any fear you have generally stems from a past experience that didn't go well, or perhaps you look to the future and hope you do well. In reality, none of those can be controlled. All you can do is go out and take that giant stride into the night or stand in front of that audience!

Worrying about tomorrow's presentation, your first deep dive or what "line" to take through a tree laden double-black diamond run or boulder strewn Class IV rapid? Experience, of course, makes a big difference. I personally have to have some recent practice where I'm able to quiet the mental noise and put aside my mind's wanderings. Quieting this mental noise is the hardest step, but also the primary one. This is where transcendental meditation comes in handy. Whenever I find my mind wandering, and it always will, I think back and refocus on my mantra.

There are other ways to filter out this mental noise. Whatever works for you is fine and you'll know when it has because your mind is clear and focused and you are highly relaxed. Once you reach this state you are no longer paralyzed mentally or physically and you're able to go out and glide through that perfect dive with the ease of a dolphin or and lay down that perfect run whether for you it's a double-black diamond or the beginners slope.

A certain level of fear is healthy and natural. Without it you may undertake dives you have no place doing. Then again there are times when you know you can do something, but you let your anxieties overwhelm you. When you put those fears aside, you are in Satori. You have transcended the fear and you are now doing the things necessary to conduct the dive successfully. We all have that inherent red flag that says "Nope, that's too much for me today", and that's good. But if it's irrational fear keeping you out of the water, then you've missed the magic of the dive that day.

I feel that magic, just moments after entering the water for a dive, or maybe right in the middle of it, or even at the end. Sometimes, if I'm undisturbed it will last the entire dive and even for a while after it! It's like a post dive high. When you finish a great dive with Satori, that indescribable feeling you have when you finish is your Reward, relish it. It's your reward for pushing yourself and being there in your life - being in the moment!

Happy & Safe Diving (with Satori).

Capt. Jim

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"Lacodivitis Somuchus" 

Pronounced: Lack-o-dive-eye-tis So-much-us. Do you have this insidious disorder?

Lacodivitis Somuchus

by Capt, Jim Hinckley

The arrival of winter can be a difficult time for divers, both physically and psychologically. If, like I, you have found it noticeably more difficult to smile since that dreaded moment when you turned your clocks back from daylight savings time (what a stupid idea), it may be time to check yourself out. You could be suffering from Lacodivitis Somuchus.

Though rarely spoken or written about in legitimate scuba medical journals, lacodivitis can become very serious if early warning signs are overlooked and it is left untreated. Effective early treatment will usually preclude further complications.

First, how do you know if you suffer from Lacodivitis? You can perform these simple tests on yourself in the privacy of your own home. Stand in front of a mirror in a well-lit room and take a close look at your face. If you can still see a slight oval shaped indent around the circumference of your face from your scuba mask, then fear not, you're in great shape. You obviously have no problem staving off the cause of lacodivitis (or you just underwent some emergency treatment for it).

If not, take a closer look. Notice your complexion. If you can still see what many people refer to as a divers tan, characterized by the healthy glow of a properly sun protected face, but only in the circular area not covered by the hood, your probably still OK for now. If not, further testing is required.

Are you cranky, irritable or depressed? Look in the mirror again. Are the corners of your mouth turned down, or up in a smile? Without adjusting your posture in any way, carefully examine the slope of your shoulders. Compare the downward slope from the base of your neck to your shoulder joints where they meet your arm bones. Use good pictures or ask a trusted friend or loved one how that slope compares to what it looks like after a great day of diving. Are your shoulders still being held up high and your chest pumped up or is the slope noticeably greater. If it is you may be exhibiting the early signs of Lacodivitis.

Marked improvement is several sufferers has been seen after a few hours of breathing compressed air in a pool. Obviously, the deeper the better. If the patient can get into an actual "Olympic" size pool with 10 - 15 feet depth where lots of movement can take place, rapid improvement is often seen. Even better, is submersion in a giant ocean tank like at the New England Aquarium, but that can be tough to arrange. Often with these treatments symptoms have been known to be almost all but eliminated, however the underlying cause can only be treated as follows.

For the best treatment the patient must breathe a suitable compressed breathing gas under a pressure of at least two atmospheres absolute (with air that would be a PO2 of about 0.42 ATA's), in a natural open water environment, preferably seawater, while swimming leisurely and having FUN! The ultimate treatment is a dive trip to some warm water destination (Carribbean?) to break up the winter and provide the real experience. Often this mass exposure (two to three dives per day for 6 days) can be enough to ward off Lacodivitis for the rest of the winter! Strange ailment - Lacodivitis.

As awareness of Lacodivitis grows around the nation, community and private pools have begun to allow these treatments to take place in their facilities. The treatment plan organized by your local dive center is called "Continuing Education". Contact your local dive center (the Aqua Shack) and schedule an advanced or specialty course that interests you.

If you thing you know a lacodivitis sufferer, it is usually best not to confront the afflicted directly. A subtle approach is generally much more effective. Try suggesting a visit to a winter dive show or your local dive center. Nothing sooths a case of lacodivitis as well as a few hours of gawking your way through a coliseum full of spotless brand new scuba gear and accessories. All the electronic gadgets and such provide a great "fix" for the dive junkie in need. Fondle and play with the stuff... maybe you can even arrange a pool session to try the gear out!

While at the dive center it may be additionally helpful to select dive related holiday gifts for your lacodovitis sufferer. Try to avoid nautical nick nacks that look salty but perform no useful function. While these items are perfectly suitable for divers not under the effects of lacodivitis, they may cause the afflicted to miss diving even more making the condition worse!

Instead, look for products that will someday help improve the comfort, safety and fun of a future dive. This helps keep the afflicted thinking positive thoughts and looking forward to the future rather than giving up. You also might want to remenber that practical and unexpected items such as environmentally friendly equipment wash, wetsuit shampoo, silicone products or spare parts are nice, but focus thought on the parts of diving we'd all rather "talk about" than actually "do" (like the post dive cleaning).

If none of these recommended treatments show any visible results, take heart in the fact that we're already past the winter solstice, the days are already getting longer, and it won't be long before you set your clocks forward and get your gear ready for another season of great diving. Even in the most dramatic cases of lacodivitis usually clears up completely after a few hours of real live authentic diving. In all cases the only true cure is time... Bottom Time!

Happy and safe diving,

Capt. Jim Hinckley Pres.

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"My First Few Minutes "

Do you see yourself in this letter sent in anonymously?

My first few minutes.

by anonymous

There's a point in a dive that I rate as the most challenging. It's at the very beginning. To be more precise, it's the first few minutes of the first dive of the first day after having not dove (or is it dived) for a while. The degree of difficulty increases the longer it's been since I've been diving, but it also decreases rapidly as the dive progresses.

A few weeks ago I called the Capt. Jim, owner of "Symbiosis", a six-passenger charter boat and the Aqua Shack, a local Dive Center. I booked a two-tank morning dive destined for the beautiful waters of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. At the time, my logbook showed that it had been five weeks since my last dive, an overnight trip to Key Largo in the Florida Keys, where I made two afternoon dives and two morning dives. My memory and my logbook recall those dives on the John Pennekamp coral reef as fun and problem-free.

The enthusiasm and confidence that lingered from the trip five weeks earlier probably made me a bit cocky as we motored 12 miles out to the wreck of the "Chester Poling" in 100' of water off Gloucester, Massachusetts. I hadn't had time to rig my tank when the boat was still at the dock (as Jim had recommended), and it was too difficult to do once we were underway. With five other divers, the divemaster and the captain/boat owner aboard, there was little room on deck to move about. Plus, the seas were a little high that morning, and I didn't want to be fidgeting with my tank and equipment as the boat rocked and rolled.

No matter, I thought. I'll just get it together when we stop at the dive site. Which I did, but not without feeling rushed. The water temperature at the surface was about 54°F and undoubtedly cooler below, so I put on my two piece 7mm farmer john and jacket combo. I also wore a hood and mittens. That meant a lengthy and difficult dressing sequence in the close quarters on deck, which ratcheted up the I'm-feeling-rushed factor another notch. Also, I was diving with strangers, which is bound to generate some concern.

Even so, I was feeling great. It was a gorgeous day, we were cruising along nicely, the seas were calming, and I was about to go diving. What's wrong with this picture? Absolutely nothing!

So why did I begin to feel a little confused and disorganized soon after jumping into the water? I had trouble getting all my gear distributed properly on my body, my mask leaked and on the descent my ears weren't clearing as easily as they normally do. Frankly, I was surprised at my mental state. Following the Keys trip I thought I was at the top of my diving game, given my relative novice status, yet here I was fumbling at the start of the dive.

Once I got organized, cleared my ears and made the descent, the dive played out nicely. I got my first glimpse of a seal, a big bull flashed by a few times just at the limit of the visibility. I even managed to grab a couple "keepers". When we were all back on board the boat and had dried off, I commented about how the first few minutes of a dive are the toughest for me. I got confirming nods all around.

It's no surprise, really. There's more going on in those first few moments than at any other time in the dive. Our world changes in an instant. We transition from standing upright and breathing normally to becoming "weightless" and sucking air through a mechanical device. Our ears rebel against the pressure, our eyes have to adjust to a new perspective, and suddenly we have to manipulate and rely on equipment for all our needs.

All of this occurs in the first few minutes of a dive. If you're not a grizzled veteran or you haven't been diving in awhile, making a smooth transition to the underwater world probably will require deliberate preparation.

A good place to start is at home, long before leaving the dock. Visualize the dive, from the point at which you begin rigging your tank to packing your sopping-wet gear after the last dive. By imagining every step of the preparation and the actual dive, you avoid the anxiety of not knowing what's going to happen. You place yourself a step ahead mentally. Instead of reacting to events, you anticipate them, and that makes all the difference in terms of attitude and confidence.

Prepare your gear as soon as you can after boarding the boat. Try to set up your tank before the boat leaves the dock, and have your other gear ready to don before reaching the dive site. Avoid feeling rushed, and you'll be able to relax and think clearly. After gearing up stop and breathe! You don't want to start a dive already winded. Force yourself to stop, take some long full breaths in and long relaxing breaths out. The idea is to take in oxygen and blow off carbon dioxide. This will help you regain a nice relaxed slow breathing pattern and go a long way to making you more comfortable and relaxed once you do jump in.

Try to get in the water early so you'll have time to adjust your equipment, position and check your gauges, and get comfortable before beginning the descent. Don't worry about getting to the bottom as quickly as you can. If it takes an extra minute to clear your ears and adjust to the increasing pressure and decreasing temperature, so what? It's certainly worth investing a minute to achieve a more relaxing and comfortable dive.

You're also most likely to experience equipment problems early in the dive, so it's only prudent to take your time in the initial phase.

The second dive that day on the "Symbiosis" was even better than the first - better visibility, a second seal, and interesting granite ledge formations populated by a variety of plants and animals. The slight confusion I had experienced at the beginning of the first dive was long gone by the time I entered the water for the second time.

On that second dive, I was ahead of the game mentally - I knew what to expect. The first few minutes were as good as the last.

Here are some hints to help you avoid feeling stressed at the start of a dive:

1. Arrive early. If you are planning a boat trip, make sure you get to the dock with plenty of time to set up and check your equipment prior to departure.
2. Visualize. Imagine every step of the dive, including a mental checklist of potential problems, and how you'll handle them.
3. Take your time. Don't enter the water until you are fully suited-up and all your gear is comfortably in place. Once it is, stop and breathe! Get your breathing rhythm back down before entering the water.
4. Descend slowly. If conditions allow, let yourself float at the surface and breathe while you acclimate before descending. Use a descent line to better control your descent.

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"Diving and Golf by Capt. Jim Hinckley "

Diving and Golf

by Capt. Jim Hinckley

Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher does a tongue-in-cheek comparison of Diving and Golf.

Disclaimer: Before all you golfers out there get up at arms and ready to persecute me for defaming the holy sport, I want everyone to know:

1. 1. I have nothing against golf or golfers; some of my best friends are golfers. Also the two need not be mutually exclusive. Many divers golf and many golfers dive. Let's ALL lighten up and not take ourselves so seriously. After all, this is supposed to be fun!
2. 2. If you think golf is what the article is about anyway, you're taking the example literally, better known as missing the point!
3. 3. The opinions expressed are in no way to be construed to be those of PADI, TDI, NAUI, the USCG, etc., etc., etc., .etc...

Diving and Golf

By Capt. Jim Hinckley

Owning a dive shop and having been an Instructor for many years, I am constantly running into former dive students both here in the dive shop and on the street. Recently, one such former student came into the Aqua Shack for the first time since we opened in Marlboro over two years ago. I hadn't seen him in about ten years. I asked him how he was and exchanged the usual pleasantries. After a while I asked him if he had been diving lately - his response, "No, I gave it up for golf ". MY GOD, I thought, what a premise for an article!

I mean, to choose golf over diving is crazy in the first place, and secondly...why choose? Just because you do one doesn't mean you can't do the other. Personally, I never cottoned much to golf. I'd occasionally jump in the water hazards with a mask and fins to look for lost balls, but whacking a little white ball around with the final goal of putting it into a wee subterranean cup in a certain number of strokes seems a bit pointless to me. I suppose my golfing role models, my father and my uncle, two grown men beating themselves up after a bad round of 18, added to my perception of golf as a form of existential penance. The entire exercise reeked of performing to a standard, a hell of a thing to do on your "day off".

For me, diving has no standard at all. Diving involves gazing into small pieces of unfettered nature, which beats the red, yellow or plaid pants off of replacing divots. To me the entire golf course looks like one big, manicured divot hacked out of the surrounding forest, think about it! I've always been a bit "anti-civilization", at least between meals; nothing beats a good restaurant when you're hungry.

Golfing strikes me as an attempt to master the environment, while diving seems more like dissolving into it. Golf seems like an extension of our "man above nature" view, diving is my attempt to rejoin it. Donning my mask and fins and jumping into almost any body of water I could find, was an activity that promised the wonders of the universe. Golf only held the promise of failure.

Why all this golf bashing? Who knows? Maybe this former student I told you about got me thinking about the modern tendency to take that "performance oriented" attitude to sea. It seems more and more divers have the urge to out-dive the other, to live to up to some standard, to achieve God knows what goal. We always seem to have to have some standard. Why can't we just dive for the sake of diving and enjoy it for what it is. I could go hunting and not catch a thing, or go artifact collecting and not retrieve a thing, hell... I could be a blind and not even see a thing on a dive and I would still love diving because much of the reason I dive is for the escape; not at all what I see, catch or retrieve.

When I'm diving, I don't think of anything but the dive. I'm not thinking about the store, work, the bills, home or the dogs. Not even my lovely wife really enters my mind. I am totally consumed and focused on the dive. Not in an intense sort of way as though it were "work", but more like a meditative sort of way, which is totally involving and ultimately relaxing.

We have prizes for the biggest lobster, biggest and most scallops, most logged dives, and no official prize (unless you count corporate sponsorships) but much admiration for the deepest dive. We have that huge lobster stuffed and mounted to display on the walls in our dive room at home or above the desk in the office, next to the blow-up of the framed photo of ourselves holding that monster fish we speared last summer.

We have our portholes and brass valves stripped from wrecks and polished up to display as though they were made of 24 kt. solid gold. All of this is a long step from meditating on small slices of unfettered nature, a long step from what brought me to diving in the first place.

Perhaps this highly achievement oriented attitude is a sign of our times, perhaps it's just a part of the human package. I happen to believe humans operate at a level not much higher than most animals. We like to think we're so superior but in reality most of our responses to most situations are basically instinctual, albeit perhaps tempered by millions years of "civilization". Making diving into a "performance thing" or a competition is much like some long removed form of instinctive hunting/gathering ritual or macho dominance display.

We all seem to be prone to the "performance thing"... to living up to some external standard in an attempt to find internal reward. I've even recently seen an ad campaign for some video game that says "If you're going to sit on the couch, at least keep score." I mean, please!

Many divers are guilty of coming home some Sunday afternoon feeling totally inadequate. We're ready to kick the dog and yell at the wife or kids, because the day's diving went poorly (re: vis sucked, no lobster, scallops, artifacts, pictures, etc.) and they've somehow taken it as a horrible reflection of their very "selves".

We sometimes refuse to acknowledge that on any given day a diver encounters a myriad of variables that are out of our control. You aren't 100% the author of your own fate, on the ocean you're not even close! If the lobster or scallops never show, the party never starts. You can't catch what isn't there. Sometimes you can't even go if the wind blows too hard, or if the seas are too rough, or if the visibility is zero! None of this is under your control.

Frustrating as this may seem, I prefer it that way. I find it challenging, exciting and interesting to not know exactly what I'll encounter. In diving, we move into the world below, we drift into things bigger than ourselves, and to me, that's excitement! Given the choice, I'd rather be a fully integrated part of the world than lord and master over it. In diving, I find that integration.

For those who seek to dominate their environment, the oceans and seas of the world are a hell of a place to look. For those who desire to perform to a standard while diving, perhaps someone should build a divers theme park. Imagine it..., 18 separate bodies of water in a well manicured weather controlled, dome covered, mini-environment.

We could have a lobster site, a scallop site, and a wreck site seeded with real authentic artificial artifacts, mass produced out of brass plated plastic with a slight green patina for realism, just waiting to be picked clean.

There would be divesite full of dolphin for petting. Of course dolphin are tough to catch, unpredictable at show time and expensive to feed and keep alive, not to mention totally illegal to harvest from the wild so we would have to use a silicone covered, computer controlled robotic dolphin. But what the heck, no one will ever know, they'll look real in the pictures.

Our park wouldn't be complete without a site with an artificially produced current for a drift dive. Lastly of course the most popular, the shark dive with the sharks in the cages (rather than us!). Each divesite could offer a new dive under totally controlled conditions. If things began to get too rough or out of hand, divemasters at each site would simply "turn off" the dive, much like a programmed scene from the "Holo-deck" on the Starship Enterprise.

Of course we would keep score on underwater slates set up in each site, or what would be the sense. At days end we would sip cocktails on a waterside patio next to the 18th site watching an artificial sunset. Lastly, when our day came to an end, we would go home nine Sundays out of ten, feeling like sub-standard jackasses who couldn't quite cut the mustard in the real world.

Keep Diving and Be Safe,

Capt. Jim

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"The Stopped Clock by Capt. Jim Hinckley " -

Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher ponders what make a great dive.

"The Stopped Clock"

by Capt. Jim Hinckley

When I was eight, my Dad told me a stopped clock is right twice a day. Like some sort of Zen paradox, this concept chafed my childhood brain. In a sense my father was right given the technology of the 50's. If I were to suggest this brain teaser to a youngster today, being a child of the later 20th century, they'd most likely miss the point. The modern stopped clock is nothing more than a vacant LCD screen, neither right nor wrong. The sound of tick, tock has faded into the land of the dinosaur.

My father made this statement quite casually, prompted by an overwound alarm clock in my bedroom which had popped a spring. My "Big Ben" was frozen forever at 3:30. According to the theory, it was correct for one minute, twice a day. The first minute of correctness came in the wee small hours of the morning when the whole world, including yours truly, lay fast asleep. The second minute of accuracy came about a half hour after I got home from school. I often looked at that clock after school, hoping to see it return fleetingly to past glory - right for a minute.

Like a grain of sand dropped within the oyster of my skull, the paradox of the stopped clock began cultivating a pearl. At eight years old, it was beyond my capacity for abstract thought; to see Dad's concept as a metaphor. It lay dormant for years, slowly growing, layer by layer. My daily attempts to see the clock right for a fleeting moment represented the all too common mistake of taking a metaphor for literal truth, better known as missing the point!

For me, the sites where festering grains of sand emerge as fully developed pearls are, and always were, at the ocean - the divesites. Amidst the ocean swells and my own habitual actions, I first realized the broader metaphor of a stopped clock being right twice a day. In a flurry of sudden awareness one day, while hauling up the last of a 100 pound scallop catch, I witnessed my own rote actions and disconnected senses, all the while awaiting my moment of glory, my minute of being right. I saw the gear sprung "Big Ben" that was me! I knew at that moment that a stopped clock is never right - it only looks that way! Pure illusion.

Being a psychology major in college, I've talked to a few "shrinks" in my time, many of whom make defining goals a first priority. Working towards the goal, not necessarily achieving it, is "full participation in life". It's taken me some time to grasp what they meant and I have yet to achieve this full state of engagement with my world, but it comes to me at times. Applying that philosophy to Dad's clock metaphor, suggests that ticking is infinitely more important than having the right time plastered on your face periodically. Beginning to make sense? "Well", you're probably saying, "What the hell does all this have to do with diving anyway?"

Most divers would define the goal as catching (or getting) something. Whether it is a bag of scallops, a lobster dinner, the perfect photo, a nice artifact, or some personal (or world) record. You might get the occasional oddball who says he doesn't care if he catches a damn thing, he just likes being there. Nine times out of ten this person, conscious of it or not, is lying. I take people diving for a living and I know this from countless observations. There's hardly a soul who dons a suit, who doesn't ultimately want to "get" something. Otherwise he or she would simply sit at home contemplating their naval sans diving gear.

Which isn't to say the point of diving is to get as much as possible. For the diver in pursuit of scallops, 100 pounds in a day would be considered fantastic! For a lobster hunter, half a dozen 2 - 3 pounders would be a day for the logbooks. For the photographer a roll of hammerhead sharks taken on a week long diving vacation would be considered the trip of a lifetime. A diver who caught only 10 pounds of scallops, or only one puny lobster, or got just one perfect photo of a common Christmas tree worm, might also be considered to have had the trip of a lifetime - the worst.

Measuring success by the score, however, is like deciding if the clock is working based on whether or not it's showing the right time at the moment. The diver who caught 100 pounds of scallops or six lobsters may have been diving from a boat and been dropped right on top of fertile scallop/lobster grounds, had a guide leading him by the hand the entire way, pointing out the scallops or the lobster holes, and telling him where to swim and in what pattern so as to maximize his catch given his air supply. The underwater photographer might have been in the Sea of Cortez during the very predictable annual hammerhead shark run, being shown the prime spots to shoot and the all proper settings to use. These divers might not have "ticked" during their entire trip, relying instead on the guide to move the arms of their clock, making them right periodically.

The divers who caught only 10 pounds of scallops, or only one lobster (barely a keeper), or got only one perfect photograph might have been on the first boat dive of their life. Perhaps they never caught anything before. Could be they never planned their own dive without an instructors assistance. It's possible they've never worked a compass pattern so as not to be searching the same area repeatedly, and still ended up back at the boat. Maybe they never used catch bags, marker buoys, liftbags, or shoved their hand into a hole and fought a lobster without getting pinched! It might be they had never perfected their buoyancy control enough to take any photo without killing an entire reef or stirring up the bottom, let alone be stealthy and still enough to capture a Christmas tree worm.

If these divers trip yielded knowledge on any of these fronts, then they were "ticking" loud and clear, which is, or should be, the main point of diving! The score, like the hands of the clock, has the potential to deceive with a single viewing. A ticking clock can show the wrong time and a stopped clock, as we already know, can read the right time twice a day. You need to look more than once to know if the hands are moving.

What we have in the ocean is a very complex environment. The more time I spend on the water the more convinced I become that we can only fathom a small percentage of the big picture. We surely can learn a lot, we can study it forever, but we can only know relatively little. That's the fun of it! You can dive all your life and still learn something new every day! When you stop learning about the ocean, you by no means know it all (although some think they do), you've simply ceased to "tick".

Sigmund Freud once said, "What a distressing contrast there is between the radiant curiosity of the child and the feeble mentality of the average adult". We adults have a weakness for habitual behavior and habitual thought. This isn't fun, this isn't creative, and it's seldom effective. It certainly doesn't make the most of our lives. It's simply easy! Ease strikes me as one of the highly overrated goals of modern mankind.

Nevertheless, many divers fantasize about the proverbial "fish in a barrel", the endless scallop bed, lobster condominiums, or the wreck strewn with prime artifacts. Easy pickins', all. I've had my dives where I've supplied enough lobster for an entire cookout, or filled so many scallop bags that I was sick of them and ended up giving most away. These, however, were by no means my favorite or most memorable dives. Although to me and everyone else there, my clock appeared to be working, I couldn't feel the "ticking".

Happy & Safe Diving

Keep on Ticking!

Capt. Jim

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"Diving with the Sharks of Frence Polynesia "

Guest writer/diver Mike Porreca tells us about he and his daughter Catherine's first Open Water dive adventure. 

Diving with the Sharks of French Polynesia

by Mike Porreca

In August of this year our family took a vacation on the island of Moorea which is located in the South Pacific twelve miles off the coast of Tahiti. In preparation for that trip my twelve-year-old daughter and I obtained our open water certification from Jim and his crew at the Aqua Shack in Marlboro Massachusetts. Located at our hotel was a (PADI) diving operation called Bathy's Club, which operated two dive boats with trips beginning at 8:30 every morning. Dives were conducted by order of depth with the deeper dives done in the earliest sessions.

For our first dive we choose an afternoon dive done inside the reef beginning in shallow water. A reef located about 150 yards offshore surrounds most of these South Pacific islands. The water visibility inside the reef was about 25-50 feet depending upon water depth. The runoff from the island is largely responsible for this. Outside the reef it is well over 100 feet. This dive's primary objective was to feed stingrays, which were found in many areas inside the reef and often seen in the swimming areas of the hotel. The dive master brought along cut up fish which quickly attracted a crowd of ray's which swarmed all over us and allowed us to touch them. We then went exploring in the coral reefs. At one point we saw a group of Eagle Rays but they were much shyer than the stingrays. While we enjoyed the experience with the rays, we were both a little disappointed with the visibility, not yet realizing that it would sharply improve outside the reef. The deepest we went on this dive was about 45 ft.

The next dive was done outside the reef in an area called Tiki. The first thing one notices here is not particularly the water clarity, which is well beyond 100 ft but that this 100 ft is full of sharks! If you happen to be one of he first people over the side of the boat the sharks are especially curious. (I tried to count but quit after 20). The instructions for this dive told us to descend along the anchor line and then we would be led to an area where we were to hold onto a rock, empty our BCD's and remain still. The dive master went in the water last carrying a hunk of fish for the sharks and other fish to feed on. This brought in the sharks, black tips (3-5ft), gray reef (4-6ft) and a few lemons (4-7ft). The feeding frenzy that erupted was a bit scary as the sharks swam very quickly and close to us. They also went after some of the other live fish, which had come to nibble on the bait. On one occasion the instructor feeding the sharks put a bear hug around a 5-ft black tip.

The reef which surround the island has natural breaks in it called "passes" which are usually formed by the out pouring of fresh water (which kills the coral) from the island's rivers. The fish and sharks tend to congregate here, as there is abundant food. One of these passes is the Opunohu Bay dive, which is rich in fish and coral life. The dives here were usually done at about 75-ft, with 100+ ft of visibility. On one of these dives I lagged behind my group of 5 divers as I was viewing some coral and as I looked behind me there was a group of 4 sharks creeping up to me. I stuck close to the group after that.

One other notable dive was to a spot called the Napoleon-Fish Plateau where a large 3x5-ft Napoleon fish visits the divers. We also saw sea turtle here and moray eels. This was also about a 75-ft dive. All dives were done in short suits, as the water temp was about 80 degrees.

My daughter and I found ourselves well schooled by Capt. Jim and his team at the Aqua Shack for this great diving experience. Other "certified" divers on our trips could not even assemble their own equipment. We had an awesome adventure and I am now looking foward to my next trip (this time with Jim and the Aqua Shack crew) to the Cayman Islands in March!

Happy Diving,

Michael Porreca

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"Losing Our Senses"

Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher ponders the dilemma of divers in "Modern Times". 

Losing Our Senses

by Capt. Jim Hinckley

I've just called a dive travel agent to make some dive trip plans, and I'm put on "hold" to a funky beat. Bah-dump, bah-dump, bah-dump. What genius, I wonder, figured that this ear pounding crap would make waiting at the other end more palatable? I hang up. Later that day, I'm sitting in my office at the Aqua Shack trying to overcome a case of writers block when an ambulance comes roaring by, sirens blaring. Moments later, police and a rescue truck, even louder! Oh, the lovely sounds of modern urban life.

The next morning the day begins with the clock radio screaming at me to wake up. I have to keep it loud or my mind subconsciously incorporates the music into a dream as a way of filtering it out. Later, I'm driving down the road on my way to the marina hoping to have a few quiet relaxing hours on the water with my wife Kim after my morning charter. Maybe I'll even grab a few scallops for dinner later, I thought.

At a red light in Beverly I start hearing it again, gradually getting louder and louder: Bah-dump, bah-dump, bah-dump. My doors vibrate with the booming bass. I can't even hear Kim talking to me over the second-hand sound. Whatever the first-hand version of this sound feels like, I don't even want to know.

After completing the morning charter, it takes about a half-hour to load up my scuba gear and gas up the boat. Twenty minutes later I'm out on the water, engine shut down, anchored quietly over one of my favorite divesites. The boat swings serenely on the hook, back and forth with the gentle breeze and the ebbing tide. I'm grasping a few precious hours sandwiched between the end of this morning’s trip and the falling of night. It comes early here in the northeast in fall and winter.

The conditions are wonderfully quiet, but the bah-dump, bah-dump, bah-dump of the recent past still reverberates through my synapses. Such is the life of the urban diver - teetering on a fence between two worlds. One quiet, one loud. One gently swaying and pulsing, the other blowing my doors off. One demanding open attuned senses; the other requiring sophisticated noise filters.

Unfortunately, filtering is seldom selective - for man or machine. For example, I was coming in from some diving on Newcomb's Ledge last year when a squall line moved through that produced a whiteout snowstorm. Navigating in high winds and zero visibility past the Dry Breakers, Satan Rock, Cat Island, the Brimbles, Eagle Island, and Midchannel Rock wasn't exactly high on my list of things I wanted to do. So when the snow killed visibility, I proceeded to "Fly by instruments". Of course my radar screen was also cluttered with an electronic version of "snow". No problem.... I fidgited with the sea clutter, rain clutter and the gain. By the time I'd filtered out the snow the damn radar wouldn't have registered the EXXON VALDEZ at 100 yards!

We humans suffer similar losses when forced to filter too much clutter. The person who lives the normally busy life of 20th century urbanism, replete with sirens, billboards, neon lights, horns, bad mufflers, tractor trailers and reverberating funky door panels, needs to crank their filters to the max. Otherwise they'd get no peace, no room to think. The unfortunate side effect is that eventually little gets through. Ever try to get someone's attention when their mind was "full of stuff"' and they were busy doing something'? With their filters on MAX, they don't even hear you.

For this reason, when said urbanite hits the water, he doesn't detect the faint color change marking a convergence of currents, or the change of bottom composition, or the slight ripple of "nervous" water that indicates fish moving just below the surface. Our filtered friend never hears the faint cry of a gull in the distance or the soothing sound of tiny wavelets lapping at the hull. Will he notice the slight halo around the afternoon sun that forecasts of rain by morning, or the beautiful rainbow that may follow? I doubt it, because for over-stimulated late 20th century humans, more energy is devoted to shutting down the senses than opening them up.

On the other hand, take someone who spends an inordinate amount of time in nature and works hard at fine tuning his senses. Put Mr. Natural in the mall and what do you get'? Sensory overload. Cause? Inadequate filtering.

I speak from experience. Just recently Kim and I went to the new Solomon Pond Mall in Marlboro to to some Christmas shopping. She knows me all too well. As we approached the parking lot she saw me beginning to squirm in the seat, clench my fists, get visibly agitated. She turned to me and said "Don't worry, everything will be OK! Try not to pay attention to all the people and everything. What she was telling me, in other words, was turn up the filters!

Such forays point out the genuine need for filters. If you don't have them, you'll never get through the day - too much stimulation. Face it, we humans evolved over the last 3 - 5 million years. The radio was invented a mere 100 years ago and television entered the average living room only about 40 years ago. Now we have noise, noise, and noise. Go to a restaurant, they have to play music, often loudly. Go to a bar, and you've got TV 's (some sports bars have 10 - 20 of them), glaring and blaring at you from every angle along with CD jukeboxes! Ride down the road and you'll soon discover that technology has delivered more low-end sound to car stereos than scientists and engineers believed possible a mere decade ago. Bah-dump, bah-dump, bah-dump ....

But what happens when we go back to primordial nature? What happens when the world gets quiet and the sounds that matter are faint instead of deafening? I've yet to discover a method of turning my filters on and off like a light switch and I don't think anyone ever will - I doubt it's even possible. Instead they seem to slowly fade in and slowly fade out as needed. Seems that on a day-to-day basis, I'm either too sensitive for a trip to the mall or too dulled to effectively note fine environmental nuances, or detect elusive little creatures on my dives. Once I'm deafened enough for modern urban life it takes literally days to fully open up to subtle cues.

How many days? I figure three. I'm sure you've all experienced this, maybe without even knowing it. Ever go on vacation to a nice quiet Caribbean island, or the Bahamas, or the south Pacific, or wherever you like. You arrive Saturday and before you know it, it's Tuesday. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday fly by. It takes a few days to "unwind" as people call it, and get into the island pace.

Day One your mind is still in suburbia, you're still thinking fast paced. You’re concentrating on getting through the airport, customs, car rental agency, and getting settled in at your hotel. Day Two you want to do "everything". After all, you only get to do this once a year. Day Three you're finally beginning to slow down, getting to know your way around, enjoying the view. You're not just looking and listening anymore, you're actually starting to really "see and hear". The same thing happens on trips to wilderness preserves, camping, sailing, hunting, fishing, hiking, etc.

During my first two or three days on the water and while diving, my mind discharges unconsciously retained clutter, sometimes in the form of commercial jingles, sometimes in the form of totally unrelated thoughts that just race through my mind. There I stand on the bow of the boat witnessing paradise, while in the back of my mind a voice sings while I whistle along, "Call Rotor Rooter that's the name, and away goes trouble down the drain."

Or I'm swimming through one of the most impressive canyons on Cayman's East End. I exit the crevasse at 110' to behold a pair of awe-inspiring Spotted Eagle Rays gracefully gliding by, while thoughts of family, work, bills, money, life, death, love and hate flow out of my subconscious. The first few days your mind is slowly purging itself of extraneous matter. Countless jingles and irrelevant thoughts gush from my addled brain. After three days the vessel is empty. At that point I hear and see the world around me unfettered - free at last!

It’s not unlike stepping from a brightly lit room out into a starlit night. It takes time for one's senses to adjust to lower levels of stimulation. If you don't stay in the dark long enough, your pupils don't open up and you might go back inside believing the stars aren't out and the Milky Way is a figment of someone's imagination. The brighter the room in which we live, the longer the period of adjustment when we step into the night.

Once we acclimate to day-to-day noise, the quiet can feel a bit uncomfortable. Though a trip on the water offers the possibility of silence -few of us take advantage. We have stereos on board, often on. We have VHF's tuned loudly to the chatter. The loran and radar beeps, the engine hums, and the cell phone cries tweet, tweet. When the water look too drab, we look at eight color video bottom sounders and chart plotters. Some people even use underwater communications systems so they can talk to their partners during the dive (even though they may not need to like commercial, military, research or technical divers). So much for one of my main reasons I took up diving. I've even had people come into the diveshop asking me if those submersible "Walkman's" can be used while diving! Face it - we're stimulation junkies.

Yet diving at it's best depends on sensual presence. You need keen, finely tuned senses - minimal filtering. As unsettling as it may feel on your next dive trip, (beach or boat) take a little time to turn everything off; the engine, the radio, the VHF, the beeper functions, and heaven forbid, the cell phone. Perhaps the silence and serenity will drive you mad, but sit through the madness until you hear something you haven't heard in a while. It might be the gentle splashing of water along the chines of the boat; it might be the breeze through the trees or the cry of that gull in the distance. Hell, it might be your own heartbeat so pumped up by the modern dither that the thump, thump, thump, scares the sh.t out of you!

Drift a while. Don't try to hear, don't try to see, don't try to smell, don't try to feel. Just hang out and "let things in". Take a deep breath or two. Don't think! The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi called this transcending conscious thought, hence the name "Transcendental Meditation". I espouse this technique in classes and advocate its use before every dive. It slows your breathing and pulse rate, opens your mind allowing heightened sensory awareness, and has been proven to be as restful for your body as sleep!

If you do this long enough, you might like it, although I wouldn't expect to at first. After a while you might notice another world in motion, one that seems a bit more real, a bit more basic than the shopping mall or the office. The noise you've grown accustomed to might suddenly feel more like distraction than entertainment. You might ask yourself why you need to be distracted. Or from what'? You might even feel how close we are all coming to losing our senses!

Happy & Quiet Diving,

Capt. Jim

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"Inane Diving"

Aqua Shack owner/instructor/philosopher looks back on his "inane" dive training.  

Inane Diving

Webster's: void of sense or intelligence, silly, pointless

by Capt. Jim Hinckley

I grew up in Marlboro, Mass., at the time it was referred to as a suburb of Boston. Now it's simply called Metro West. Most of my boyhood marine life experiences involved bicycle trecks to filthy ponds and lakes or, if we were lucky, Metropolitan District Commission reservoirs (if we didn't get thrown out by MDC Police). There my friends and I would spend countless hours casting worm and bobber, hoping for the bite of a stunted sunfish or some mud dwelling catfish (we called them kivvers and horn pout). When we'd get bored we would swing from the tree on our rope swing, come crashing down into the water, then wonder why we weren't catching anything.

Our other big diversion was donning our Five & Dime (I am dating myself now) oval masks and snorkels with the diameter of a cocktail straw. This opened up a whole new world to me. We had no fins, we simply wore sneakers, because none of us wanted to touch bottom. The big fear was touching bottom, God knows what was under there besides abandon cars and broken beer bottles. If you stood up and got your sneaker stuck in the mud it smelled so bad you'd have to forfeit the thing. If not, mom certainly wouldn't let them back in the house, they were relegated to the back hall for eternity. Despite the obvious lack of aesthetics on these ponds and lakes we dove them often. After all, it was the only game in town.

Some of these bodies of water may be familiar to you locals. Names like Solomon Pond (where there is now a shopping mall built), Bartlett Pond, Little Chauncy Pond, Chauncy Lake, Millham Reservoir, Lake Williams, Fort Meadow Reservoir, and best of all (to us anyway) the Sudbury Reservoir (known as The Met.), became our staples. These were our stomping grounds. We'd skin dive all over them and it was a fantastic day when we'd actually see a "real" fish, which to us meant a bass, trout, or pickerel. Mike Nelson (Lloyd Bridges) and Jacques Cousteau were my heroes (may they rest in peace).

As adolescence approached, most suburban kids gave up on the Cousteau life and began to focus on football, basketball, baseball, hockey, and other more mainstream activities. I never really did get into organized team sports, preferring instead to be more of a loner, a rebel. I continued my meditation in the water. I even began to see a few patterns. I'd see the catfish most often early and late in the day - especially in the heat of summer.

There was one spot we called the Causeway where shiners always gathered in the tunnel under the overpass that divided the lake in two. I could even count on seeing bass in the shallows around this old tree stump at the Met. If I floated absolutely still they'd eventually come out from under the log and I could watch them shoot to the surface and catch flies. I never caught any fish (who'd want to eat something from these ponds anyway), and I never earned any bragging rights for having seen anything truly unusual. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was an inane sort of training. Skin diving strictly for the sake of skin diving.

I suppose a boy with my preoccupation might have been better off growing up on Florida's Keys, or California, or some Caribbean Island. The problem with those places is that they would have deprived me of the inanity of it all. I might have made the mistake of focusing on something other than the diving. I might have fallen into believing that some big goal exists out there, something beyond the diving itself.

A boy growing up on the Keys in the 50's and 60's could have easily associated world record spearfishing with diving. A boy growing up in California could have connected pounds of abalone harvested with diving. A boy growing up on a Caribbean island would have easily learned to associate tourist dollar with diving. My home waters deprived me of world records, poundage, and dollar signs. On those wretched ponds you had to find meaning enough in the act alone. Otherwise you were better off on the football field, basketball court, baseball diamond, or hockey rink, where other people provided the standards and such standards were attainable.

I suspect that most people would conclude that inanity connected to an activity must render that activity unappealing (or as Webster puts it void of sense - silly) and lead one to more meaningful pursuits. Perhaps..., but only if one has a choice. I've never felt that diving was any more a choice than the color of my eyes. It has always been a given, handed to me by the Creator, predetermined by my genes, or some other mysterious source.

Aside from the fact that I didn't make the transition from the pond to the playing field during puberty, a certain psychological (not to mention physiological) partiality blossomed during that time of change. I began to contemplate the meaning of life. “Just what the hell are we here for anyway?” I, like all kids, worried about pimples, dates, my clothes, and all the other common concerns. Why should one person have pimples while someone else is free of them? Why does the girl I don't like, like me; while the one I do like, doesn't? Heavy questions for a 13 year old to ponder while staring through murky water.

At the age of 18, not many years removed from peddling my bike to the Met, I found myself living on the shores of the Quabbin Reservoir and attending the University of Massachusetts. In my consciousness, the focus had fully shifted away from diving to complex psychological (my major) and philosophical issues and, of course, females. Diving is easier than either, believe me !!!

During that time I began to get turned on to existentialism and phenomenology. Existentialism is a humanistic philosophy which asserts that each person is responsible for forming his "self", and must with his own free will, oppose his uncertain, purposeless, and seemingly hostile environment. Phenomenology is the study of observable facts in nature, or any odd or notable thing. Both of these courses of thinking seemed like the paths of least resistance to me since they fit well with the way I was feeling at the time anyway. I was actually not a very disciplined student, except in lectures. I could listen, take notes, and grasp abstract concepts as spoken words with no problem. The written word (reading books), was too much work.

I had an excellent and very intelligent professor during that time who liked to teach via "inane example". He was convinced that if you used real life examples for abstract philosophical principles students would simply memorize the examples without grasping the principle. My professor didn't originate the idea of inane example in philosophy. I'm sure you've all heard the one about whether or not the tree that falls in the woods makes a noise if there's no one there to hear it. My guess is that it does, but that's getting sucked into the example and missing the point.

Then there's the one that asks if you took a bright red apple into a closet and closed the door so you were in total darkness, is the apple still red? Again, that depends on your perspective. If you believe color is inherent in an object then the apple is still red, if you believe that color is only a reflection of a spectrum of light, then it isn't. We can argue either position but then we're missing the point again. Thought, perception, subjectivity, objectivity, proof, and the very basis of reality are the points.

By now I'm sure you're all wondering "How the hell does all this relate to diving anyway?" Well, my childhood diving was one long inane example. The marine life I encountered wasn't all that rare or beautiful. It didn't grow that large. The fish were a health risk if ingested, and the aesthetics stunk - literally! Perhaps this diving in less than ideal waters influenced my perspective more than a little bit. I've never been known to have a world view that could be called rosy in any sense. I can be a bit cynical and a little short of optimism as to the long term fate of the planet from an ecological point of view.

Sometimes inanity exists in almost everything, not just in diving dirty waters. It exists on the assembly line, in the courtroom, the Pentagon, on Wall street, and in the White House (especially in the White House). If you think about it everything is pointless from one angle, and totally meaningful from another. Money is everything to one guy and nothing to the next. Some people struggle for life, others jump off bridges.

I met a 85 year old lobsterman in Rockport recently. He said he has lived a long, full, and exciting life. "It's a weird world." he kept saying, and I wholeheartedly agreed with him. He mostly fishes during these final years of his life. He said he doesn't give a hoot about the meaning of life, he just knows what he likes. I envy him!

Perhaps diving in smelly, murky waters did foul my perspective, coloring the universe with hues of pointlessness. Maybe I should try to draw from what my professor tried so hard to teach me years ago - the inane is only the example, not the point. Diving murky waters looking for useless fish sounds pretty senseless, but that's only the inane example. The boy who did the diving was totally involved, totally enthralled. The boy who learned to dive for the sake of diving - Hardly inane !!!

Happy & Safe Diving,

Capt. Jim

Do you have a diving experience you'd like to share? Email us at the address below, and you might see your submission posted here!

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"A Long Awaited Beginning"

Newly certified diver Damon Gray reflects on his long history of "diving."

A Long Awaited Beginning

by Damon Gray

I fell in love with diving before I even knew how to swim. As a child, I vacationed in Cape Ann, Massachusetts. That is where I saw what I called a "skin diver." He appeared ready for a space walk; hoses going everywhere, big blue tanks, shiny valves, and a jet black suit of rubber. That was all it took for me to decide that I wanted to do that. Seeing him slip beneath the cold waters of Halibut Point only reinforced what the sight had implanted in my mind: I want to do that.

After learning how to swim when I was 8 years old, I quickly found a mask and snorkel at the toy store. My first test run of the apparatus was an hour long session of laying face down in the bathtub. Thinking back on it, I don’t know how I found white fiberglass with a chrome plated drain so interesting. Sure, whenever I went into any real body of water the mask leaked, and the stuff probably cost less than $10, but for me I was on my way.

After my magazine phase of Ranger Rick and Zoo Books, I asked for a subscription to a SCUBA magazine. I learned a little more about equipment for the underwater world. For the most part, this knowledge was not a result of any informative article, but simply because of the clear photographs of divers and their equipment. I saw all forms of knives, as well as snorkels with devices on top of them to keep them dry. I learned what a BC was.

The most productive portion in my search for SCUBA knowledge happened unsurprisingly in the library of my elementary school. I found a book entitled Skin Diving Is for Me. Even though the book was about the same age that I was, I learned how to select a proper mask, fins and a snorkel. Not only did I gain knowledge of equipment, but I gained knowledge of techniques. I learned that I didn’t have to stand on shore to empty the water from my mask, and that I could actually clear my snorkel without swallowing half the water in the tube.

It was around that point in my life that my great grandparents sold their summer cottage in Cape Ann. My interests spread to other areas. I continued to love spending time in the water, but not the ocean. I was told that I could "swim like a fish," on several occasions, but I rarely swam in the ocean. One summer, I joined a swim team in my mid-adolescent years at the local pool. I became a stronger swimmer, but after a handful months of swimming for several hours a day in a nondescript tiled box, I lost some of my love for the water.

My attention turned to other sports and activities at that point in life. My summers eventually consisted of primarily work. I completed high school and went to college. I didn’t miss the ocean all that much, mostly because I was so busy. Thankfully, I did not have to continue life devoid of the ocean. The "weather conditions" just happened to be perfect for me last spring. My girlfriend was a certified open water diver who never got to dive much for lack of a buddy. I had just finished my junior year in college, and I welcomed an enjoyable activity to contrast with my drab summer job.

The next step was to find a dive shop. After a glance at the yellow pages, and a couple of brief road trips, my girlfriend and I found exactly what we were looking for. A dive shop with "the three E’s" was our destination. Those three E’s are equipment, education, and experiences.

After purchasing the mandatory mask, fins, and snorkel, I was scheduled for my first Open Water pool session. Not only was my girlfriend allowed to come, but she was encouraged to come into the water to practice skills in the later sessions. For the first time this summer I had something to look forward to. The people at work would ask me what the bag of equipment was for, and what it took to learn to SCUBA dive. Although those first few moments spent underwater were wondrous experiences for me, I take more pride in remembering my first open water dives.

A bleak weekend of pouring rain adding to the record rainfall of June 1998 was the setting. Four beach dives in the coldest water I had ever been in. I personally witnessed my instructor’s temperature gauge display 32 degrees Fahrenheit. I can clearly remember that first icy spike of water that slid under the neckseal of my wetsuit and down my back while snorkelling out to the dive site. Some would call it torture, but I call it a long awaited beginning to a life long adventure below sea level. Don’t wait any longer before beginning your adventure.

Do you have a diving experience you'd like to share? Email us at the address below, and you might see your submission posted here!

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"Why Dive? or Life on the Road!"

Aqua Shack Owner/instructor/philosopher, Suggests we slow down and enjoy the view. By Capt. Jim Hinckley

Why Dive? or Life on the Road!

by Capt. Jim Hinckley

Lately I've heard statements and noticed attitudes in some of the dive population that is disturbing to me. Maybe not to you, but philosophically so to me. You see, diving for me is a total experience. When I speak of an awesome dive, I usually mean an awesome day that included diving. From the moment I get up, a planned day of pleasure diving causes me to relax. Diving is an escape from the everyday hustle and bustle, from time constraints (except bottom time), and from the work grind. I try to get the most out of the experience; the planning and preparation, the boat ride out, the between dive and post dive socializing, and the ride back in. In fact, often times what I see or do on the dive is not even the most memorable part of the day.

Specifically, I've recently heard such ludicrous statements as "I guess I'm a spoiled diver. If I don't fill my scallop bag or get an artifact from the wreck, it's not a fun dive. I mean, we only saw one tiny shark!" or "Why do you dive in New England, there's nothing to see there; besides isn't it always dark with terrible vis ?" Or the ever popular "It was a sh**ty dive, I only got two lobsters". If you've ever found yourself thinking or saying things like this, or if you know someone who has, I have one suggestion for you. SLOW DOWN and enjoy the view! Take the time to smell the roses, so to speak. Not just during the dive, but also before and after it.

Now-a-days we're all products of the instant gratification/results oriented society we live in, and seemingly more so all the time. The road plays second fiddle to the destination - by a long shot. This is the era of the fax machine, the miniaturized totally portable cellular telephone, the beeper, and the same day letter, the Internet and E-mail. As much as I'd like to think these high speed mechanizations will be relegated to nostalgia, like so many Nehru jackets (am I dating myself?), I'm afraid they're destined for a permanent place in our lives.

The diving world, once a port in the speed storm of society, has breathed deeply the fumes of the high-velocity, high-tech, results-oriented lifestyle. Witness, the dive computer. With all the bells and whistles beeping away, it deprives me of one of my most important reasons I dive, the peace and serenity. They've even come up with one that talks to you."Your depth is..., Your bottom time is..., You have...psi air remaining, Ascend now !!" Disgusting if you ask me. Some are even talking about connecting the computer to the B.C. to control buoyancy! There goes another one of my reasons for diving, the freedom!

Also in keeping with the results-orientation, people now routinely run 25 or more miles offshore, in 30+ knot vessels, fully equipped with modern communication systems including cellular phone, fax machine, laptop computers (with modem, of course) and SSB radios. The goal, I suppose, is having one's cake and eating it to. There you are diving the Isles of Shoals or the wrecks off Block Island, yet still in touch in case that big deal goes through. Hell, if deals didn't go through you wouldn't be able to afford the boat and diving in the first place. I suppose it makes sense, but putting a cellular phone in my boat is about as appealing to me as floating whipped cream in my Absolut and tonic. (My Baileys & coffee maybe, but Absolut and tonic? YUK!)

Don't get me wrong, I don't think there's anything wrong with computers (I've got one - the silent type), or the high-speed, high-tech communications equipped, diveboat (I've recently put a cellular phone in my boat, but I don't leave it on, hate the tweeting!). All this stuff helps get Mr. Type A out and back in a hurry; and keeps him in touch while away. What bothers me is it encourages us to ignore the road, or to treat it as a necessary obstacle between us and what we desire. I'm a firm believer in "unhurried" diving. Communications on any boat are a necessity, but like anything else, more is not always better. You can reach a point where too much can become a nuisance and detract from the whole experience.

Please forgive me, I never expected to grow up to be a crank complaining about modern times, at least not at 45, but I do more of it all the time. It's just that I'm beginning to believe that everything good in diving, and in life for that matter, happens on the road, not at the final destination. I can't think of one precious diving memory that involved having my picture taken back at the dock with an artifact taken from a wreck, catching the biggest or more lobster than anyone else, or bragging on the boat that I dove deeper than anyone else (a subject for anotherday). I can't even say the best times came amidst a dive when I was darting from place to place filling a scallop bag to the brim, and I love scallops!

My most lasting impressions from the water are what I call Freeze Frames. These sudden visual explosions, many of which last only a second or two, are burned deeply in my grey matter. They have become as accessible to me as photos in an album, though I can't show them to anyone else. They usually happen on the road and seldom have anything to do with a specific goal. These freeze frames can't be weighed, photographed, or videotaped. They can only be treasured as gifts from a beautiful water planet. I have the distinct feeling that the beep, beep of a computer underwater, or the tweet, tweet of a cellular phone on the boat would deprive me of many of these lasting images. Some of these freeze frames are very old but come to me as clearly as the day they happened. As soon as I began diving I started to cherish these moments as much as the dive itself. As a matter of fact, most seem to linger long after memories of the dive and it's objective have failed.

One such freeze frame occurred when my buddy and I were diving off the Sandy Bay (Rockport, MA) breakwater. The weather was absolutely beautiful. We planned on doing some lobstering, and wanted to see if we could catch them while they were still out from the night before so we got a very early start. Just about dawn, we were doing our surface interval sitting on the breakwater with our Zodiac tied off to it. As I looked to my left only about 10 feet away, there laid a beautiful baby grey seal catching some of the early morning rays. I couldn't believe it stayed so close to us on the rocks.

Thinking it might be injured or stranded on the rocks from the receding tide I slowly approached. It just laid there. I cupped my hands and splashed some water from a small pool over the seal. It still just laid there. Finally, I got up some nerve, reached out carefully and began petting it. Unbelievable!! It was so soft. It looked up at me with those puppy dog eyes they're so famous for. After a few seconds, it got up and with one leap shot off into the water. If my memory serves me correctly, we did pretty good lobstering that day, but that freeze frame of it's eyes staring up at me is forever etched in my grey matter. That was the high point of the day (not the bags full of bugs) and I'm convinced it would never have happened if not for diving.

In January of "88" I was on Blackbeard's Cruise (a live aboard dive boat) on one of our group trips I had put together. On the cruise out toward Bimini we passed over many areas where there are lots of flying fish. They always provide a visual treat watching them burst forth from the boat. I can see them now. Frigate birds feed on flying fish, amoung others. These magnificent birds also lead fishermen to sailfish, marlin, tuna, dolphin, and countless other offshore species. As I said, frigate birds feed on fish but they cannot land on the water. They don't have well oiled feathers and their wings are too small (for the size of their bodies) to allow them to lift off from the water. They catch their prey in their beaks but never touch down.

As we proceeded out into the Gulf Stream (before the waves began getting huge), I spotted a frigate working for it's dinner in the late afternoon sun. As our boat moved through the water, the flying fish spooked and flew. The frigate was flying low to the water. When the frigate's shadow passed over the fish they would see it, go airborne and the chase was on. The sight of a bird and a fish engaged in a dogfight, each with wings spread, one banking and dodging, the other chasing with beak agape is one of my all time favorite freeze frames. Again, it happened on the road so to speak, and although the diving was fantastic that week, that flying scene still remains one of the most vivid memories of the trip.

Several years later I was diving in Cozumel with my wife Kim, who was newly certified at the time. Everyone seemed to want to go deeper (again the preoccupation with deep!), see bigger fish, and fly over the reef with the greatest of ease in the 3 knot current. They all seemed driven to cover vast areas of bottom and try to see everything in one dive. We were content to lag far behind the group, ducking down behind coral heads to get out of the current and investigate. It was under one of these outcroppings that we spied a spotted moray. Not terribly uncommon. Many would have swam on, but we decided to hang around and try to lure it out with some tidbits we had brought along. It came out a little, but wouldn't fully extend itself, so Kim decided to move in for a closer look.

Just as she did the moray, getting curious, came lunging out of its hole right up to within inches of Kim's nose. Needless to say, being a fairly new diver at the time, she was startled and initiated an immediate backpeddling retreat. Presto, an instant freeze frame! What a hilarious sight. Eyes as big as the mask, air bubbles everywhere, peddling backwards. We still look back on it and get a good laugh. We encountered many other marine creatures; bigger, more pretty, more colorful, and more rare, during that trip, but that freeze frame is my memory of the week. Everyone else seemed to be in a rush to get to their destination (which seemed to be the end of the dive) instead of slowing down, opening their eyes, and enjoying the view. They were missing the trees for the forest.

Just last year, it was the end of October and I was diving from our diveboat "Symbiosis" with a group off Kettle Island. It was early morning, and for late October in New England it was a beautiful day. The sun was beginning to warm up and the surface was glass calm. Just as I went to the bow to drop the anchor I saw a large fin come up through the surface then disappear. I yelled to the others as they were assembling their gear. We looked out off the port bow, and about 20' in front of us, a finback whale surfaced, spouted copious amounts of water and air through it's blowhole, and descended again. He did this a couple more times, coming right up to the side of the boat to where we could actually pat him, then swam off. This caught everyone by surprise. But there it was. The morning sun glistening off it's back, a truely awesome sight! This one instantly hit the freeze frame file.

I have countless frames hidden away. They represent the richest part of life on the water for me. I'd have never seen any of my freeze frames had it not been for the urge to dive, for I'm too much a results oriented person to sail meditatively over the ocean. I suppose you can't have a road without a destination, and diving has always been where I'm headed. I need the focus, the goal.

Can you have a destination without a road? If you go too fast, if you spend too much time on the cellular phone, if you spend your dive looking at your high tech junk instead of the scenery, if you consider the 25 miles to the divesite nothing more than a boring obstacle to be covered as quickly as possible, then YES - you've missed the road! As much as it fits our modern consciousness to think it would be great to be beamed "Star Trek" style from home to the divesite, bag a few bugs, scoop some scallops, and beam back home, I wouldn't want it! I live for more than some quantitative end result.
I live for the road !!!

Happy & Safe Diving

Capt. Jim