From incredible island hiking to world-class windsurfing, Bonaire is an all-around outdoor paradise. Better yet, unlike neighboring Aruba and Curacao, there’s not a chain hotel in sight and its easy roads and well-marked attractions make it eminently explorable with or without a tour guide. Throw in super-friendly, Dutch-infused locals with an infectious love for their natural landscape, and you’ve got the DIY traveler’s trifecta.

Explore Bonaire for yourself with this lineup of the island’s top five outdoor adventures—no scuba tanks required.

1. Washington Slaagbai National Park

With rolling desert hills and towering cactuses dominating the landscape, the rugged Washington Slaagbai National Park feels more like the American southwest than the Caribbean, except for one thing: You can’t turn the bend of a dusty West Texas trail to find a deserted white-sand beach where rolling waves beg you to body surf. From hiking and mountain biking to bird watching, kayaking and cliff jumping, this park has adventures to top any visitor’s must-do list. Car- and bike-friendly roads run alongside hiking trails that include a flat walk through the prickly pears out to Chikita Beach and a not-so-flat climb to the top of Branderis, the island’s highest point. Aside from the visitor center at the entrance, the only facilities are found at Slaagbai, a white sand beach on the west side with a food vendor and picnic area among historic harbor buildings.

2. Cave snorkeling

You could be forgiven for thinking the only place to get wet on Bonaire is the ocean. That’s because its most secret snorkel spot isn’t at the beach, but rather beneath a blanket of desert scrub brush. Like many Caribbean islands, subterranean springs have eroded parts of Bonaire’s coral limestone substrate, leaving the island pockmarked by caves. Protected as natural and cultural resources (they were used by native Bonaireans), these caves require local guides. Clay Davalaar—of Jentis Tours—will bring the lights and ropes needed to reach the heart of a particularly impressive, spring-filled chamber just a short drive from Kralendik. Heat up during the climb down, then you can slip on a face mask and cool off in the crystal-clear water swimming among a maze of rock formations.

3. Harley Tours

While they might seem mutually exclusive, the Venn diagram of scuba divers and Harley riders has a big intersection, and true to form, a passionate group of dive-crew-turned-motorcycle-junkies recently launched both a booming local motorcycle club and laid-back custom tour company from the iconic Captain Don’s Habitat dive resort. With its wide open spaces and relatively long stretches of empty road, Bonaire seems built for motorcycle riding—just watch for goats—and there’s little that compares with saddling up a rumbling Harley to sightsee along the salt pans and old slave huts on the island’s south end. Custom rides can range from a couple hours to a full day, and a favorite route passes through the Sorobon area at Lac Bay, with a stop for some fork-tender kabritu stoba (goat stew) at the Maiky Snack local-food shack.

4. Windsurfing

While Bonaire’s west side supports the bulk of the island’s hotels, shops and watersports, the eastern side is all about the wind. Buffeted by tradewinds year round, Lac Bay is the everyday surf turf of local pros that tear up windsurfing competitions throughout the Caribbean. But it’s not just for experts—aquamarine Lac Bay stays shallow and flat calm far offshore, which makes it the perfect spot to get your sea legs. And situated right on lively Sorobon Beach, Bonaire Windsurf Place has board rentals and lessons taught by championship-winning windsurfers that’ll have you standing and sailing in no time.

5. Mangrove Kayaking

The reefs of Bonaire boast unprecedented numbers of marine life, and they owe their diversity to the robust nearshore mangroves that act as protected nurseries for young sea creatures. To see this delicate and vital ecosystem, take a kayak trip into the winding channels of mangrove trees and sea grass beds from the Mangrove Center, a dual-purpose research facility/paddling operation on the outer edge of Lac Bay. After weaving from the mangrove tunnels to the ocean and back again, you can tie up in a protected cove. Slip gently into the water to swim among juvenile reef fish and look for the flower-like Cassiopeia, aka upside-down jellyfish, that plant themselves headfirst in the silty seabeds.

For divers looking to put to sea at Alotau and crisscross the heart of Milne Bay’s most fruitful diving grounds, a day boat just won’t do. It takes a big ship—one with the range and the room to run hard-core diving expeditions through deep-water channels pockmarked with oceanic seamounts, and into far-off protected coves where volcanic, black-sand beaches plunge beneath placid waters, sporting weird, wild marine life on some of the best muck dives in the Coral Triangle.

Only a handful of dive boats ply these waters—period—so the choices are few. But the newest option, offering a vast 10-day diving itinerary, is the Dancer Fleet’s Star Dancer. The spacious, 110-foot, 16-passenger motor yacht previously operated out of Kimbe Bay further to the north, but moved in March 2011 to launch a wide-ranging itinerary in Milne Bay. “The other liveaboards in this area focus primarily on critter diving,” says Star Dancer captain Chris Guglielmo. “We’re trying to offer a mix of muck sites, pinnacles, and reef dives.”

On an exploratory expedition at the beginning of April—Star Dancer’s second Milne Bay charter ever—the trip kicked off with a bang at the first dive site, Manta Ray Cleaning Station. The rubble bottom didn’t elicit many cries of joy at first. But by the second dive, one of the ship’s divemasters, a local who grew up in the village on the adjacent beach, had scouted the reef with a knowing eye.

“Would you care to see the mantas?” he said in his soft, Aussie-tinged island brogue. And within minutes of cranking up the chase boat, he deftly dropped the first group down the center of a swirling pack of ten footers. At the peak of an encounter that lasted to early afternoon, four of the winged behemoths flew in formation around a small coral head, back-rolling and dive-bombing just feet from the divers’ face masks, perpetually accompanied by swarms of eager remoras and cleaner fish.

With the group’s big-animal fix sated, the next day started with world-class muck diving off Samurai Island. The historic Samurai Wharf was once the province’s most prosperous port—now long moved to Alotau—but the pilings and the stacks of clam nets and other detritus scattered beneath the old piers still see unprecedented marine-life traffic.

At the end of the crumbling pier where local women and children jigged hand lines tied to Coke bottles, the group back-rolled into a dense cloud of their silver-sided quarry. And on the bottom, choose-your-own-adventure was the name of the game—whether hunting for wobbygong sharks beneath the lava rocks on the fringe of the pier, playing peekaboo with a pair of harlequin shrimp directly under the Star Dancer’s swim step, or gingerly tipping up bottles, boots and old coconut shells among the pilings in search of pipefish, stonefish, and octopuses.

From there, the charter alternated between open-ocean pinnacles and black-sand slopes off isolated villages where warm islanders greeted the Star Dancer in hand-carved outriggers loaded with homegrown fruits and vegetables. The savvy galley crew kept the guests well fed with hearty, impeccably fresh meals by bartering bags of rice and packaged noodles for everything from mangos and passion fruit to sweet potatoes, pumpkin greens, and fresh tuna.

The pinnacles—boasting names like Doubilet’s Reef, Crinoid City, and Calypso—rise from the inky blue depths and feature innumerable examples of the region’s unprecedented coral varieties. And while fishing has clearly taken its toll—schools of large pelagic fishes and sharks are virtually non-existent, with the exception of the occasional black-tip or tawny nurse shark—critters steal the show on these dives. The eagle-eyed dive guides make quick work of revealing pygmy seahorses clinging desperately to tiny gorgonian branches, lacy scorpionfish nestled among the rocks, and crocodile fish flattened against the seafloor.

And on the black-sand muck dives, the divemasters proved their worth even more clearly, seeming to conjure exotic creatures like imperator shrimps, cockatoo waspfish and stargazers from the backs of grazing sea cucumbers, piles of leaves, or the silty substrate itself.

In a nod to the WWII remains that still occupy many parts of Papua New Guinea’s forests and coastlines, the exploratory expedition climaxed with a single deep dive on an intact B17 “Blackjack” bomber plane, sitting in 155 feet of water at the foot of a serenely beautiful coral wall. “Unfortunately, this will probably never be part of the normal itinerary,” Gulglielmo said after motoring through the night to isolated Cape Vogel. “Even for Milne Bay, it’s just too remote.”

Need to Know

When to go: Weather and dive conditions remain good, but predictably unpredictable, year round. In general May to November can bring strong winds and rain, while January to March can bring calm, warm weather, but squalls and rain happen unexpectedly throughout the year.
Dive Conditions: Water temperatures range from the high 70s to the mid 80s. Muck sites are generally in protected coves with modest visibility. Expect unpredictable currents and surface conditions on the pinnacles, where visibility can top 150 feet.
Operator/Price Tag: Star Dancer runs 8- to 10-night charters year round, with 6 1/2 to 8 1/2 days of diving. Prices range from $2369 to $2995.

Belted into the passenger seat of a four-door pickup — the bed full of dive gear — I’m rolling down a narrow stretch of paved road that cuts through a buzzing swath of Yucatan jungle listening to my dive guide, Nat Wilson, explain the mythology behind the freshwater-filled caverns we’ve been diving for the past couple of days. He’s just finished the part about how the ancient Maya believed the openings of these cenotes served as portals to Xibalba, the Mayan underworld, when he hits the brakes and swerves to the shoulder. “You see that?” he asks, his outstretched finger pointing out my side window. “What?” I ask. “The jungle?”

“Through this hole in the trees. See its tail?” I look harder — fairly impressed that he could spot anything through the dense underbrush — and I see it, a blue bird about the size of a pigeon with a twitchy tail. “That’s the motmot,” he says, adding that the Maya considered mot- mots to be the guardians of the cenotes. “In reality, they hang around the caverns because it’s the only access to fresh water out here,” Wilson says. “And these days, us cave divers watch for the birds to help us find the entrances.”

Of course Wilson — the training director and in-house cave guru for Dressel Divers — doesn’t need a motmot to help him find the cenote we plan to dive. Though there are dozens of cenotes open to divers, one of the most popular is the Dos Ojos system — the name means “two eyes” and refers to the two primary cavern openings, called the “East” and “West” Eyes, which when seen from afar look like two eyes protruding from the jungle floor. And while this area is increasingly subjected to throngs of swimmers who splash around the entrances, Wilson assures me that deep inside the caverns it’s a whole different world.

In order to get underwater before the tour buses crowd us out, Wilson rolled up to my resort bright and early. Luckily I’m staying about midway between Playa del Carmen and Tulum — in the heart of cenote country — and when we show up, we have the place to ourselves.

We park next to the trailhead that leads to the main entrance at the East Eye, strap on our gear and head down. I notice smoke billowing up from brush fires around the opening, and when I ask, Wilson explains that the locals, modern-day Maya who own the land around the cenote, build the fires as offerings to the gods. “Really?” I ask hesitantly. “Of course not,” he answers with a laugh. “They’re for the bugs.” I slap a handful of mosquitoes slurping from my ankle.

Despite the bonfires, the mosquitoes are drinking their fill from our exposed feet and hands, so we make quick work of a back flop from the dive platform into the crystalline water, do one final gear check and descend to the floor of the pool, where two guidelines are tied off at the mouth of the cavern. The right guideline, called the Barbie Line, follows an easy, well-lit path. On the left, the Bat Cave Line extends 65 feet into the opening of the submerged cavern before hanging a left into a darkened side passage. We take the latter.

Wilson assumes the lead, hovering skillfully a couple of feet above the line to avoid stirring up the bottom, and I frog-kick gently to keep pace as we slip into the dark passageway, flashlight beams bouncing off the stark-white limestone formations — thick floor-to- ceiling columns and hanging stalactites that formed eons ago before these tunnels filled with water.

After swimming a few minutes, we make another left turn into a large chamber, where a narrow beam of light coming through a small hole in the distance provides dim illumination while we follow the contours of the wall. From here, we follow the guideline as it slopes upward, leading us into the dive’s eponymous feature: the bat cave — another large, circular chamber, this one only partially filled with water, leaving an open-air space in the top of the room.

Bearing left, we circumnavigate a jumbled pile of rock slabs, which had fallen from the ceiling to create a mesalike mound in the center of the room. Along the circumference, we explore a fissure beneath the limestone that constitutes the jungle floor 40 feet or so above our heads. And meandering through the tight maze of stalactites and stalagmites, we pass underneath some of the most delicate formations I’ve seen in any of my dives through these cenotes. The ceiling bristles with soda-straw stalactites — pencil-thin protrusions that blanket the surface en masse like a bed of nails.

At the far end of the chamber, Wilson stops and motions me to the surface of the water, tinged green by sunlight from a small opening in the roof. Popping up into the air pocket, I remove my regulator and take a breath of the cool, damp air. True to its name, the ceiling of the cavern boasts clusters of small bats; occasionally one swan dives from its upside-down perch and — wings spread — glides over the electric-green pool only to arc upward and alight once again.

Eventually we drop back down and continue around the other side of the room, following the line back the way we came and emerging along the edge of the West Eye. Here, our line runs into itself at the passageway back to our starting point. We hold our lights to our chests; from this vantage point, the sunlight filtering through the main entrance puts the cavern in silhouette, and “laser beams” of light stream in along the edges.

After we climb up to the dive platform, Wilson starts back up the trail, but just as I’m about to turn and leave, I see it again: the small blue bird, tail bouncing disjointedly, perched on the lip of the cavern as if overseeing our departure.

Need to Know
Getting There: The majority of Riviera Maya’s divable cenotes are off the main highway between Playa del Carmen and Tulum. Most U.S. airlines fly to Cancun. From the airport you can drive, take a taxi or hop a colectivo (shared van) for the 60- to 80-minute drive down the coast.

When to Go: Water temps (75-77°F) and calm dive conditions are constant year- round. The Yucatan’s high season runs from December through April with cooler air temperatures and less rain. The rainy (low) season runs from May to November, but many resorts offer reduced off-season rates, so it’s worth considering.

Operator/Accommodations: The Barcelo Maya Palace (barcelomayapalace.com) is part of the Barcelo Maya complex, which sports five amenity-rich all-inclusive resorts of varying price points stretched along nearly a mile of white-sand beach. Arrange your dives at the on-site PADI IDC center, Dressel Divers (dresseldivers.com), which has a multilingual staff and certified cave/cavern guides.

Price Tag: Rooms at the luxe Barcelo Maya Palace start at $170 per person, per night, all-inclusive. Dressel Divers’ excursion to the cenotes is $70 and includes lunch. Tanks are about $40, but you’ll get discounts for buying multiple fills.

Can’t-Miss Topside Adventures: Tulum is one of the best-preserved coastal Mayan archeological sites and has some of the region’s nicest beaches. (Tip: Go early to beat the crowds.) You can also explore tropical jungles and coastal mangroves at the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve.

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I know what’s coming. As I exit through an opening in the lava-rock cavern called First Cathedral — a popular dive off the Hawaiian island of Lanai — I hear the high-pitched din of clicks and squeaks building above the noise of my bubbles. A pod of spinner dolphins is approaching, the volume of chatter signals that more than a few are heading my way.

My gut tells me the dolphins will pass through the sand channel alongside the cavern. So, I make a hard right, swimming fast, before I dump the air from my BC, plant my knees on the seafloor and lock my gaze west down the length of the channel.

For about three minutes, the sound grows. Then, just as the cacophony crescendos, the pack leaders swoop into the mini canyon at the edge of my visibility like an undulating bullet train that’s just jumped the tracks. They move in a tight formation, a seemingly endless line. Individuals occasionally break from the crowd, careening down to skim the seafloor, or bolting for the surface.

This is Hawaiian big-animal diving at its best. Many divers link Hawaii synonymously with humpback whales, which congregate there every winter. But most will never see these behemoths below the surface. More common — and more exciting when they arrive en masse — are encounters with the resident spinner dolphins that cruise the coastline year-round, sometimes in pods hundreds of acrobatic animals deep. To be graced with this experience requires about 90 percent luck, because interaction is at the dolphins’ discretion. Make no mistake: These animals are clever, rarely approaching divers by accident. What’s the other 10 percent of the encounter? A mix of awareness and attitude. Divers must first recognize the pod’s approach in time to get into position, and second, avoid any action — swimming after or trying to touch the animals — that will scare the pod.

From my vantage point on the seafloor, I watch the pod, which is some 150 to 200 strong, perform the eponymous spins and loop-the-loops unique to this wild species. They disappear above the surface only to dip back in to perform another curling maneuver underwater. The mothers display less bravado as they swim down the middle of the pod, casting protective glances toward their calves in tow. After maybe seven minutes, even the stragglers pass. The chatter fades and the whole impressive display disappears just as quickly as it arrived.

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]]> http://www.travis-marshall.com/2009/09/28/bullet-train/feed/ 0 http://www.travis-marshall.com/2009/09/24/advanced-adventure-s-s-thistlegorm/ http://www.travis-marshall.com/2009/09/24/advanced-adventure-s-s-thistlegorm/#comments Thu, 24 Sep 2009 19:12:30 +0000 Travis Marshall http://www.travis-marshall.com/?p=661 S.S. Thistlegorm.]]> Scuba Diving Magazine, Sept/Oct. 2009

It’s a little after daybreak. The quiet on board breaks without warning, replaced with loud commands delivered in terse Arabic as the agile crew swings into position to man the lines. We have arrived.

My dive boat has been motoring along the coast of Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula for nearly four predaylight hours. I walk out of the main cabin, where I’ve slept most of the bumpy ride huddled on the thin cushions of the bench lining the wall, and see the divemaster disappear over the side, bounce-diving to tie a guide­line from our stern to the wreck. I pour a cup of thick Arabic coffee and groggily prep my gear in the early morning light. In a few minutes, I’ll hop off the stern myself and make my way to the seafloor to penetrate the deepest bowels of what is arguably the most famous and histori­cally rich shipwreck in the Red Sea.

A dive trip to the British supply ship SS Thistlegorm requires no small amount of effort, but it’s unquestionably worth it for an opportunity to slip inside this veritable World War II time capsule, bur­ied by a hailstorm of German bombs in 1941 while en route to deliver her cargo of supplies to Allied troops in Suez. After sinking, the Thistlegorm lay undisturbed for about 14 years, explains John Kean, an experienced Thistlegorm guide and author of the book “SS Thistlegorm: The True Story of the Red Sea’s Greatest Ship­wreck.” At which time a budding explorer named Jacques Cousteau — piloting another soon-to-be-legendary ship, the Calypso — moored up to her and made the first-ever scuba-fueled explorations of her decks. Today, the Thistlegorm draws tens of thousands each year.

I make one final check of the condi­tions. Out here at the mouth of the Gulf of Suez, current and surface chop are common, and today has both. So I giant-stride off the stern with an empty BC and make a beeline down the guide rope to the shelter of the Thistlegorm’s hull. Descending over the blast zone — where German bombs detonated munitions holds near the stern — I can see both sections of the 415-foot-long ship: The front half sits mostly intact, upright at the shallower end of the slop­ing seafloor, while the stern, twisted 90 degrees, rests on its port side in about 95 feet of water. As I approach the opening in the hull, I glide over the tracks of a pair of Mark II Bren Carrier tanks, upside­down in the pile of munitions.

Unlike a passenger ship, with an inte­rior full of winding passageways and cabins, the Thistlegorm features wide-open cargo holds and no shortage of vertical exit points. Slipping inside the wreck at Hold 3 feels a bit like walking into a war museum where shafts of sun­light illuminate the displays through skylights in the roof. I find myself sur­rounded by piles of  hand grenades and anti-tank mines scattered in a state of dis­array pretty much as they fell after the ship touched down on the seafloor. It’s an impressive collection, but I know the most striking is ahead of me in the for­ward compartments.

The Thistlegorm’s first and second holds overflow with a payload of large war material. My gaze extends across row after row of Bedford trucks, intact down to the tires and packed in the belly of the ship like sardines. And each truck bed is loaded to capacity with BSA motorcycles. Stacked along walls sit crates of medical supplies, Enfield rifles and endless boxes of ammuni­tion. The gravity of this cargo hits me like a wave. It’s a drop in the bucket of what was required to keep that massive Allied war machine moving, but peo­ple’s lives depended on this stuff — they never got it, and good people died try­ing to deliver it.

My time is running short, and I make my way shallower by traversing through the upper holds and spend a few brief moments exploring the rail cars, davits and a torpedo on the upper deck before finning to my guideline. My bottom time is maxed out, so I make a slow ascent and take an extra-long safety stop.

When I climb back on board, the boat has fallen quiet once again. It seems like we all need a moment to digest the experience. But before we can think too long, the cook swings up from the galley, cracking jokes through a smile as thick as his accent and ushering us inside for a hearty meal before we move on to drift the walls of Ras Mohammed.

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WHEN YOU SLIP INTO THE OCEAN AND SWIM NEXT TO A whale shark, it’s the underwater equivalent of going on safari, then getting out of the Land Rover and running with elephants. Shark spotters in search of this ultimate in-water encounter travel far and wide for a chance to dwarf themselves next to these massive creatures. In spite of their status as the world’s largest fish -they grow as long as 50 feet-the animals are shy and spend much of their lives hidden from view. But in spring and summer the big-mouthed behemoths arrive en masse to feed at a few choice locations in the western Caribbean and in the Gulf of Mexico.

Flower Garden Banks National Marine Sanctuary, Texas

An oasis of life in the center of an oceanic desert, the Flower Garden Banks National Marine Sanctuary lies about 110 miles off the coast of Freeport, Texas-so no passport needed. The area attracts a slew of creatures and boasts such unique animal life that in 1992 it became one of 14 federally protected marine areas.

WHEN TO GO: Whale shark sightings at the Flower Gardens aren’t as common as at locations farther south, but a good time to try is in August and September. WHO TO GO WITH: Because the site lies so far offshore, the best way to experience it is on a live-aboard boat. Fling Charters offers two-and three-day trips (four and five days during coral spawning) aboard its 100-foot dive boat, the MV Fling (from $805; flingcharters.com). Trips include two to five dives a day, meals, and snacks.

Isla Holbox, Mexico

Each summer hundreds of whale sharks congregate off this island to feed on plankton blooms. Isla Holbox sits just a few hours’ drive northwest of Cancun, yet the atmosphere in this fishing community is a world away from its developed neighbor. There are no cars on the island; the only motorized transportation is a golf cart.

WHEN TO GO: May to September WHO TO GO WITH: Holbox Tours and Travel offers money back guarantees on snorkeling encounters from June through August (from $95; holboxwhalesharktours.com), making this destination your surest bet. WHERE TO STAY: Casa Iguana is a private beachside retreat surrounded by palm groves (from $55; casa-iguana.net). WHERE TO EAT AND DRINK: Edelyn’s, a hopping pizzeria, is located in front of the main square. Fill up on Chef Miguel’s signature lobster pizza, and when you’re finished, walk to local hangout Habana Nights for a nightcap.

Utila, Bay Islands, Honduras

Along Utila Town’s dusty roads, guesthouses and dive shops tout the seasonal appearance of the island’s biggest attractions: whale sharks. These giants feed on plankton blooms by following schools of tuna. Watch for fish “boiling” at the water’s surface: There’s a good chance you’ll find a whale shark circling underneath.

WHEN TO GO: February to June; August to October, WHERE TO STAY: Get an all-inclusive room and dive package (a great deal) at Utila Lodge, and hop on the boat straight from your waterfront bungalow along the private dock (from $209 per night; utilalodge.com), WHERE TO DRINK: At the Tranquila Bar, an open-air tavern suspended over the water, island expats and backpackers come together to down Flor de Cana rum and deconstruct the day’s dives.

Gladden Spit Marine Reserve, Placencia, Belize

Belize’s Mesoamerican barrier reef, the largest in the Western Hemisphere, lies just off Placencia’s shore and offers stunning natural scenery: The Gladden Spit Marine Reserve, a vital section of the reef, hosts the annual spawning of more than 25 species of fish. During the full-moon spawning, whale sharks gorge themselves on clouds of eggs and sperm. Sign up early: Tours fill up months in advance.

WHEN TO GO: March to June WHERE TO STAY AND DIVE: The Inn at Robert’s Grove boasts a dive center with a fleet of fast boats that dock on 22 acres of beachfront property five miles from Placencia Village (from $240 per night; robertsgrove.com). TOPSIDE ADVENTURES: Placencia makes a perfect base for jungle trekking up the Monkey River, exploring the Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary (the world’s first jaguar preserve), and hiking the Mayan ruins of Lubaantun.

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This island 210 miles south of San Diego is possibly the greatest place on Earth to view great white sharks in action — drop a cage in the water, add some chum, then jump in and watch the show thrash around you. But all of that is changing, and fast: The Mexican government last year banned chumming to protect the sharks. The irony is that no chum means fewer sharks, less tourist interest, and therefore more illegal fishing that the dive boats once held at bay. Outfitters are already alarmed by an increase in poaching and fear the great white population there is on the verge of collapse. “I’m cutting back on the number of trips,” says Patric Douglas, owner of outfitter Shark Diver. “But they’re filling up fast. People want to see these animals while they still have the chance” ($3,100 for five days; sharkdiver.com).

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When you start thinking about diving for a living, you ultimately come to a fork in the road, as there are, simplistically speaking, two professional diving paths: the recreational side and the commercial one. A career in recreational diving is what most scuba divers fantasize about: tropical islands, white sand beaches and easy, shallow reefs where people fin around and marvel at the marine life. Follow the commercial diving path, and you enter a world of underwater roughneckery. Scuba tanks are replaced with diving hats and surface supplied air. And clinging to the struts of an oil platform, laying down a bead with a welding torch while fending off sharp-toothed creatures of the deep is just another day at the office.

Commercial diving is labor-intensive work that often requires divers spend months at sea or abroad in less than appealing destinations. But the money’s good. A commercial diver fresh out of training can command close to 50 thou a year—not bad for someone without a college degree. And then there’s the lifestyle. Like commercial fishermen, the stereotypical commercial diver loads up on women and booze between one fat paycheck and the next. “There’s a reason so many of us marry strippers,” jokes Mike Oden, career advisor for the Ocean Corporation, one of the leading commercial diving schools in the country. “When you’re offshore for months at a time, you go a little crazy when you get back on land.”
Ten years ago, as an 18-year-old fresh out of high school with a penchant for underwater adventure, I stood at that fork in the road, simultaneously doing my divemaster training and putting my feelers out to commercial diving schools like the Ocean Corporation—which actively seek out impressionable youths in search of adventure and a decent paycheck. Ultimately, I took the leisurely fork in the road and made my way as a dive instructor in some of the world’s most enviable diving destinations. But one question always lingered in the back of my mind: What if?
And last August, the Ocean Corporation gave me, and 14 other average Joes from all walks of life, the opportunity to see how the other half lives. By signing up for the school’s annual Commercial Diving Experience (CDE), I got an all-access pass to spend a weekend in a commercial diver’s shoes—and diving hats—and answer that question for myself.

Nestled into the urban sprawl that is Houston, Texas, Ocean Corp has an unassuming appearance. From the front, its gate opens onto a small parking lot, and its façade gives every impression that it’s just one more in the string of office buildings sharing its street. But when I crack the front door, a shelf of antiquated hats, spearguns and photographs greets me, and by the time I pop out the back end into the staging area, I’m transported to a more familiar world. Gear cages hold racks of drysuits patched with duct tape, banks of compressed air, scuba equipment and huge coils of hose. And a multilevel wooden platform behind the building is where the magic happens. The 4.2-acre campus has six diving tanks—three eight-foot tanks for underwater welding and cutting training, two 12-foot tanks and a 24-foot tank complete with a mock oil platform inside—not to mention a permanently installed medical decompression chamber, a portable decompression chamber and a 400-foot-rated lock-out diving bell.

Saturday morning, I join my fellow campmates, the student helpers and a handful of Ocean Corp instructors. The schedule says we’ll start off with an equipment orientation and safety meeting before we “mobilize” at the 12-foot tank for some hat time, basically a meet and greet with the gear we’ll use throughout the weekend. Two by two, we each strap on a harness with an emergency-bailout scuba tank, pull the neck dam—a metal ring with a drysuit-style neoprene seal—over our heads, and lock the hats down before leaping into the tank. The hats weigh 30 to 40 pounds each, so a weight belt isn’t necessary, and topside, the weight puts a fair bit of strain on my neck. Underwater, I’m only slightly negative, albeit top heavy, and I hop my way around the tank like an astronaut on the moon, getting a feel for the flow adjustment valves and the less-than-clear communication system before running an out-of-air drill.

That afternoon is devoted to a mock work-dive scenario. I gear up on the edge of the 24-foot tank with my dive buddy, and when we’re both ready to go, we make the leap and grab the down lines running to the bottom. With a loop of rope around one hand, I use the other to force the hat in and up on my face, which crams the hat’s nose plug into my nostrils so I can equalize as I descend. Once I touch down on the bottom of the tank, my first task is making the switch from nitrox to mixed gas—a helium, nitrogen and oxygen mixture. “Crank your free flow, and count to 20,” says the voice in my hat. “One, two…breathe…three, four…breathe,” I respond. By about 14, my voice takes on the twangy, high-pitched character that lets my tenders know the mixed gas is flowing, and I turn to make my way hand-over-hand, low-gravity style, about 10 feet up the mock oil platform to the pipe flange we’re here to assemble.

It’s a relatively complex process requiring lift bag maneuvers and indirect communication with my work partner—we can’t talk directly, but rather speak via the tenders on the surface—made even more challenging by the limited field of vision offered through the hat’s faceplate. After about 15 minutes, we finish the task, put our tools back in the basket hanging from the surface and I return to my down line to switch over to nitrox and make my controlled ascent.

Because it’s a simulated work dive, we feign a long, deep bottom time, and once we get out of the water, we have five minutes to strip down and climb into the decompression chamber before our blood starts to “boil.” It’s 100-plus degrees here in Houston, and a cramped metal tube baking in the summer sun doesn’t look terribly inviting. But we climb in and make our way through the locks system into the main chamber where we’re taken down to 50 feet and slowly brought back up to sea level over about 15 minutes. Amply decompressed, we scramble out of the chamber—it feels a bit like climbing out of pressure cooker—and go through a quick neurological evaluation before the instructors give us the all clear.

With the next day comes the highlight of the weekend, the moment many of us in the camp have been waiting for: Underwater cutting and welding. The cutting part uses a thermic rod—ignited by direct current and fueled by liquid oxygen—that burns at 6,500 degrees and cuts through damn near anything. The welding, in terms of the tools and basic concept, is similar to welding above water, but doing it underwater requires different techniques and an added safety concern—namely avoiding the electric current running through the water. Les Joiner, the former president of Ocean Corp, is on site today to take us through the two processes. “Like everything else in this industry, the safety rules for underwater welding and cutting are written in blood,” Joiner says at the start of his safety briefing. “And all you have to do to avoid electric shock is not find yourself between the ground and the lead. If you get between where the plate’s grounded and the end of this torch, you’ll find out why they call it direct current.” It’s a simple rule. As long as we don’t walk to the other side of the tank or point the end of the torch toward our bodies, there’s no real risk of shock.

First, I hop into the cutting tank. A length of pipe stands upright on the cutting table. I pull the handle to let the oxygen flow, spark the torch and pierce the solid steel pipe with the tip of the rod. It slides through like the proverbial hot knife through butter. With a slight sawing motion, I attempt to cut a straight line across the pipe, but the result is a jagged mess. The welding process is equally simple to enact, but equally hard to do with any dexterity. Pulling the torch along what I hope is a straight line with one hand, while holding the bucket bouncing on my head with the other and trying to see anything through the billowing bubbles of smoke and the one- by three-inch welding lens duct taped to my mask, I gain immense appreciation for the focus and skill this school’s students master on their way through the program. And when I get out of the welding tank and head for the showers, I realize my question has been answered.

Everything we’ve done this weekend is set up in a controlled environment so we can get a feel for the work these divers do every day without experiencing the true danger and desolation of a real working situation. But I get the picture. These divers are essentially living tools employed by the massive machines—usually the oil business—that they work for. They hang like bait on a hook in the open ocean, power tools in hand, doing work that’s not only dangerous in and of itself, but also because of its depth and offshore location. The instructors who’ve been showing us the ropes are survivors. They beat the odds in a dangerous world and came out the other side to train the next generation, but the hardened looks on their faces and the gruff tones in their voices tell more about this life than any words could do. It’s a job for the young. It’s a job for the brave, maybe even the stupid. It’s not the job for me. But for divers who have that same question gnawing in the backs of their heads, Ocean Corp is alone in the commercial diving world as a place that provides this camp to let people find that answer for themselves.

Sidebar: The Ocean Corporation is one of the world’s leading commercial diving facilities. It’s an accredited technical school that offers a variety of diver and nondiver training. The Commercial Diving Experience is offered annually at the beginning of August. Participants must be scuba-certified and 18 years or older; cost is $499 per person. For more information visit oceancorp.com or campcde.com

Sidebar: Get More
Want to see Ocean Corp’s Commercial Diving Experience in action? click the “on assignment” channel at scubadiving.com/video for original video, shot on location by ShrimpTank Productions.

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“You want to shoot it or stab it?” Fischer asks me on the phone as I’m arranging my custom hunt. “Most people want to stab‘em.” Days later, in the back of a mudsplattered 4WD pickup, dogs whine and scrape at the doors of their cage as we pull to the side of a rutted dirt track. Joe Fischer and Phillip Dickerson, local hunting guides of the good ol’ boy variety, train these dogs from birth for a single purpose: tracking feral hogs. And they live for it. When Fischer cracks the door to the cage, the muzzles, tongues and paws of a seemingly uncountable number of canines push through the cracks, and when he lets it fly on its hinges, the barking mass spills onto the ground. As a pack, they’re on the scent before they even catch their balance. “Let ‘em go,” Fischer says. “When they start barking we’ll know they’ve got one.” It’s maybe 7 a.m., already a little late for hog hunting—these nocturnal animals are often well on their way to bed by this time of day—but within just a few minutes, I hear what he means. When the pack catches up with its quarry, the dogs “bay” the pig (surround it), usually in a clump of Lowcountry swamp brush, and bark at the top of their lungs from all sides to keep it penned into the area. The change in the dogs’ cries is unmistakable, even for a first time hunter such as myself. The hunt has already begun.

Once we slip into knee waders and collect our hunting gear—a four-inch hunting knife, .357 revolver and one muscle-bound pit bull on a chain for backup—we ford the roadside canal and push through the low-lying shrubs and spider webs, making our way toward the frantic barking. Ten minutes of slogging through the swampy forest that surrounds the private cornfield that we’re here to protect and we’re getting close. Fischer stops short, looks at me with a furrowed brow and puts his finger to his lips in the universal signal for, “keep your mouth shut, noob.” Then he slips the revolver into my hand. “We’re gonna creep around this side,” he whispers, gesturing with his left hand. “When you see the hog through the bushes, make sure you’ve got a clean shot, and take it down.”

We move around the perimeter and the telltale snout comes into view, then the light tan body begins to take shape through the leaves and branches. Almost 150 pounds of sow now stands before me, frozen momentarily, as dogs stand jumping and barking all around her. With a mixture of relief and regret, I lower the pistol to my side. I came here to shoot a pig, not a dog, and I decide I don’t want it bad enough to risk a shot with the dogs so close.

Just as I turn to explain my dilemma to Fischer, a hole opens up in the pack, leaving the pig a clear escape path away from her canine captors. She bolts for the one thing standing in her way: me. With visions of cloven hoofprints dancing across my chest, I raise the pistol, crack off a shot from the hip and the charging sow takes a nosedive not ten feet from my knocking knees. Fischer slaps me on the back. “Nice shot, John Wayne,” he says with a laugh. My voice cracks with the complete opposite of confidence when I ask what would’ve become of me had I missed. “Aw, she probably would’ve just bumped into you—it ain’t like she’s got any tusks or anything,” Fischer answers in his jocular Georgia drawl.

This is hog hunting, Lowcountry style. It’s an activity of necessity as much as it is one of sport. These swine are invasive, omnivorous pests that will eat just about anything—from grain, roots and acorns to carrion, livestock and earthworms—they’re pigs after all. “They turn over food plots and front yards, damage roads and destroy endangered native plant species and the natural habitats of native animal species in their hunt for food,” explains David Mixon, game management supervisor for the Department of Natural Resources (DNR). “And the hog population grows fast. One female can produce three litters annually, with 10 to 15 piglets per litter.”

Hogs aren’t actually native to North America, so all of our hogs today, feral or otherwise, are descendents of livestock brought over from Europe as early as 1498. Different colors, shapes and sizes—from squat, fat farmstyle piggies to the lean, longtoothed razorbacks of Southern lore—can be found running wild all around Savannah’s perimeter, across Georgia and much of the U.S. for that matter. These days, they all fall under the blanket term—”feral hog.”

Adult hogs usually grow to be about three feet in height, weighing anywhere from 100 to 500 pounds depending on their access to food and how hard they have to work to get it. And while they range pretty much anywhere they can find food and shelter, feral hogs generally prefer the cover of dense brush for protection. When the temperature rises, however, the swine spend much of their time wallowing in swamps, wetlands, ponds and streams close to protective cover.

As a sport, hog hunting comes in many flavors. The hardcore outdoorsman can crawl through the brush of late dusk or early dawn, examining pig signs and stalking prey on their wits alone. Pigs can be hunted from a blind with a hunting rifle or bow and arrow or on private land, with the appropriate permits, they can be attracted by bait at night and shot under 12-volt lighting. One of the most efficient and effective ways to hunt hogs is with dogs. Hunting guides like Fischer and Dickerson, or any of the hunting plantations scattered around the Savannah area, use well-trained hunting dogs to offer softer-skinned stalkers with a penchant for pig sticking a virtually guaranteed, customized killing experience.

Shoot or stab? I ponder my decision and see the dog-hunting technique first-hand when Fischer loans me a DVD of some of his past hunts. There are two types of dogs: “bay” dogs, in my case Catahoula and Parker Curs, and a fiercer breed, like a pit bull, known as the “catch” dog. Bay dogs can pick up a scent as old as four hours and the hunters amble through the forest until the dogs have cornered or “bayed” the prey. Then, the catch dog is unleashed—taking the hog down and pinning it to the ground. This allows the guides to grab the swine by the legs and hold it belly-up while the hunters make quick work of the beast with their weapon of choice. In my pre-hunt
DVD, the killers are clad head-totoe in camo and whooping encouragements like “git ‘er done” and “stick that pig” before thrusting their knives up to the hilt to the tune of Deliverance-style pig squealing and licking the blood from their dripping blade.

“I think I’ll shoot it if you don’t mind,” I decide. “I understand,” Fischer says as we walk through the forest. “Honestly, I get worried that some of those guys will go home and stick their wives afterward. And all that blood licking, that’s disgusting. I bet those people get sick something awful.”

Having dispatched my pig with what I hope is a minimum of pain, suffering and squealing, it’s time to
take on the task of dressing the animal; getting it home and butchered before the flesh goes bad in the sweltering Georgia summer heat, which Fischer explains can happen in as little as an hour on a hot day. Because of restrictive USDA regulations, it’s almost impossible to find a butcher in the Savannah area willing to dress a wild hog. Hunters mostly take on this duty themselves—and hunting guides will often butcher the pig as part of the experience.

Fischer doesn’t have any qualms about undertaking this role. With a hunter’s skill, he makes a slit up the belly and deftly removes the guts before looping a chain around the upper jaw and dragging the carcass back to the truck. Back at the house we toss a rope over the low-hanging branch of a tree, hoist the hog up by its hind legs and hose it down while it spins spread-eagle. Fischer makes cuts in the skin around each of the four legs and peels the hide down over the hindquarters, slicing through the fat that connects it to the muscle. With the skin hanging inside-out like a macabre cape, he uses a hefty butcher’s knife and hack saw to remove the backstrap (the loin running on either side of the spine), shoulders (front legs), hams (back legs) and ribs, and puts them on ice in a large cooler.

The majority of the meat stacked neatly in the freezer, I set about making my first meal. A wild animal, the meat of a feral pig is less fatty and much tougher than farm-raised pork. This makes a stiff marinade and a slow cooking process a requirement not to be ignored. After soaking the backstrap in an orange and lime-based Cuban Mojo sauce for 48 hours, I pop it in the oven on low heat until the meat reaches the requisite 170 degrees (to kill any risk of trichinosis) and sit down to a dinner that puts every pork chop I’ve ever tasted to shame.

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When I stepped off the plane in the Bay Islands’ central hub of Roatan, two distinct faces of the dive tourism experience here immediately presented themselves. Outside the arrivals gate, taxi drivers jockeyed for fares for the 25-minute drive to West Bay, where the crowd is young, a variety of languages fills the air and the price tag leans toward budget. There, oceanside dirt streets lined with island guesthouses hum with divers loading docked boats and attending open-air certification classes.

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Know what to do when an alligator attacks underwater? Ike Monreal survived, and you can too.

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Meet the Humboldt squid: Length; up to eight feet. Arms; eight, plus two grasping tentacles. Vitals; an inquisative, calculating brain and three hearts pumping cold, blue blood. Defenses; 40,000 teeth embedded in 1,200 suction discs–and one razor sharp beak. Food; anything it can get its suckers on.

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