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Editor's Note: "Sharks in the Mist" is a three-part story. The author, C.J. Bahnsen is a freelance writer based out of Orange County, CA. Parts of this story previously appeared in the LA Times.
"Peter Benchley is on The Horizon," our dive ops manager, Tracy Andrew, announced as she disembarked from the panga boat and climbed aboard our 85-foot charter dive vessel, The Ocean Odyssey. I was among the 16 shark divers and 10 crewmembers who stood bunched and excited on the afterdeck upon hearing the news. Hard as I tried to keep the dignified aura behooving a journalist on assignment, I found myself hip-checking through the small crowd and, with overeager impatience, asking, "Did you talk to him?"
It was November of 2004. Our vessel sat anchored in the northeast leeward side of Isle de Guadalupe, some 300 yards off an area known as "Shark Heaven." The Horizon, sister boat of the Odyssey, sat at anchor not far off, also loaded with shark divers, led by ecotour operator, Paul "Doc" Anes. I was signed on with Patric Douglas, youthful swarthy-tanned CEO of Absolute Adventures-Shark Diver, for a five-day live-aboard package. Tracy had been tooling around on a panga with the shipboard shark researcher, Mauricio Hoyos Padilla, who was tracking acoustic transmitter signals from tagged sharks with a hydrophone. When they motored past the Horizon, there was Peter Benchley and his wife, Wendy, among the dive party. "We just waved a 'Hello' to him," she said to my disappointment.
Guadalupe breaks open the sea 160 miles offshore of Baja California Norte. Cinder cones, geological folds and vermillion striations of lava rock are evidence of the island's volcanic birthing. It is a rugged, 22-hour, stomach-churning steam, 220 miles due south from San Diego Harbor to get there. As far as weather during the journey, we had drawn the short straw. And Patric hadn't minced words amid his welcoming orientation, forewarning us that seas were not ideal for the long crossing as the boat pulled out of H&M Landing. "I hope you're all ready," he said, "because this isn't going to be a trip; it's going to be an expedition."
To further send that message home, Cory Grodske, head chef, emerged from the galley in apron and a white paper hat and said, "Since we'll be traveling due south, we'll be in a trough." To illustrate, he held one hand up as a makeshift boat, rocking it side to side. He warned us to pour our own hot liquids. Trying to find someone else's cup with a pot of scorching coffee in rough seas would be an act of scalding stupidity. He demonstrated how we should brace a shoulder and hip against the center serving island, while keeping one foot spread out, braced against the base molding during the act of pouring. Cory also requested that, as the seas deteriorated, the male divers (there were four women among us) sit down when using one of two heads to relax our bladders. "The women will love you for it," he said, smiling serene through his reddish beard stubble. My first thought was, Geezus, are we going thru a typhoon?
When we hit 10-foot swells about five hours into the trip, I realized my chewable bonine pills, ginger root capsules, and Queaz-Away wrist bracelets weren't doing jack to ease the barf knell. "As we travel farther south, we'll be getting into more unprotected waters," Cory said, when I had discreetly asked how bad the seas would get. Also a scuba instructor with a 100-ton captain's license, Cory struck me as a nurturing soul gifted with steel nerves. He looked out the starboard galley window at the sugar-topped rollers then back at me: "This is calm… So can I set you up with a little bucket to have in your bunk?"
Alan DeHerrera, my dive bud from Fullerton, California, gave me a knowing look as we sat in the salon, aware that my main concern wasn't the great white sharks on this trip but the seasickness that dotted my past. (Especially the deep sea fishing trip as a preteen off Miami Beach, when I ended up doing "the big spit," as Hunter S. Thompson called it, over the starboard rail, my dad bracing me with his arms and body saying, "Let 'er rip, kid!"—which is how I ruined his brand new Sperry deck shoes.)
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