Showing posts with label Sharks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sharks. Show all posts

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Sharks in the Mist, Part II (wetdawg.com)

A Great White...
Photo by Ken Steil
Check out the full
"Sharks in the Mist" Photo Gallery here...

Editor's Note: This is part two of a three-part story. Click here to read part one. 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.

Guadalupe represents an aqua Eden for researchers and shark divers. Unlike South Africa, Australia and the Farallon Islands, visibility is often crystalline, well over 100 feet on the best days and, provided you chum the water, white sharks are almost guaranteed to show up everyday during the season.

It was Benchley's first time diving at Guadalupe and his last encore with great whites. He and Wendy were celebrating their 40th Wedding Anniversary on the trip.

"In South Africa, they do most of the cage diving off these monster seal colonies," said Benchley, when I asked him how Guadalupe rated against other shark sites. “The sharks are all over you there; 15 to 20 at a time in a given day… I've been to South Australia half a dozen times and I've always had pretty bad luck there. On one trip, we saw only one shark in eight days. Guadalupe was certainly better than my experiences in Australia. There were more great whites there and they were much less shy. To have about three or four sharks around the clock for four straight days was top of the scale."

I also saw sharks regularly during those same days. Although Benchley and I were on separate boats under different eco-operators, the drill was essentially the same on the Odyssey and her sister vessel, the Horizon. Each one-hour dive rotation constituted dropping into on of two 10' X 20' cages deployed over vessel's stern, four divers per cage. Unlike everyone else on the Odyssey, I was not a certified diver at the time—the reason why Patric had stressed taking an introductory scuba course, pre-trip. "Some people get claustrophobia or panic," he had warned. "The last thing you need to worry about is breathing through a regulator with great white sharks swimming in your face."

Non-certs are allowed on these dives since you don't go below ten feet and breathing is done with a hookah. Odyssey divers were each cinched in a 60-pound weight harness so we wouldn't be bobbing around like loose corks. The water temp here averages 60-62 degrees, which constitutes coldwater diving. And because you're standing immobile in a cage rather than swimming, your core body temp drops like Bush's approval ratings. "I don't like coldwater diving," said Benchley, who wore a 40-pound harness and considered the water temp "marginal for a wetsuit."

On my first dive, I was bordering on sensory overload as I wrestled into a 7mm wetsuit, then the head-shrinking hood, boots, and gloves—all borrowed from Alan. The whole getup felt like a black python had me in a goodnight squeeze. There was so much to think about, like the rules Tracy had laid down at first dive meeting: Never stick any part of your body outside the cage and never make any sudden movements that might trigger a "predator-prey reaction," she admonished. It was easy to get distracted by Tracy's easy, Sandra Bullock looks, until she administered instructions with disarming authority. By day she wore navy blues—pants, collared shirt, and a tight cap, brim low slung. But at night it was as if she stepped out of a phone booth, transformed from serious-mannered dive ops manager into sensual hostess, wearing a flowery sheath, her dark chestnut waves braided and no longer stuffed under a cap.

Tracy would monitor us from the dive platform. Another sharky would man a push-pole during rotations. "If a shark were to come in too close to the cages, we push it off," Tracy said. "It doesn't harm the shark. We just give them a little extra nudge to keep them from entering the cage, because sharks don't have a reverse mode."

Patric and crew had been tossing five-gallon buckets of tuna parts, hang bait and powdered chum—made from dried fish and blood meal—over both gunwales. "By using dried product, we hope to not put anything into the environment like parasites or bacteria," Patric told me.


View the original article here

Sharks in the Mist (wetdawg.com)

On Shark Alert...
Check out the full
"Sharks in the Mist" Photo Gallery here...

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.)


View the original article here