There didn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason why some divers experienced the bends and some didn’t, if proper procedures were not followed.
A diver could basically be compared to a carbonated drink. It’s the bubbles that form under the skin that can potentially cause problems—yeah, it’s always the most delicate of existences that seemed to cause the most issues. If they get into your tissues and bloodstream, you’re looking at shortness of breath, rashes, aches in the joints, not to mention the more severe ones, like paralysis.
In short, nothing remotely fun to look forward to if a diver breaks the surface too soon and decompression sickness decides to become your fuck buddy. Not to mention the dangers of freaking out and losing all sense of self.
“Radio topside, Fausti,” Boomer said. “John Algae is giving me the fucking runs.”
These men were not prepared for death subsurface. Being a retired rescue diver in the Coast Guard, I had been trained to retrieve dead or alive.
A swish of the water brought John Algae closer, some of his dinner guests disbanding before they attacked once again. Wilkie started to kick, trying to gain enough traction to rise above. But the current was too strong, and he was too panicked to even figure out how to rise. He looked like a man that had lost every bit of sense—how to move, how to swim. He was as weightless as a feather. He was as useless as one too.
I radioed the surface team, giving them the four-one-one. After a bit, we were instructed to continue our job. What the boss man wants, the boss man gets.
“He’s not going to make it,” Boomer said. “He’s too freaked.”
The water whooshed again, bringing John Algae even closer, and with him, a manta ray that had to span at least twenty feet. He circled above us, his wings moving so effortlessly that it was simply beautiful. He dipped lower, coming dangerously close to Boomer’s dive umbilical. In many ways we were as helpless as an infant in the womb, connected to life through the cord, our only link to life this far under.
Wilkie started up again, trying to run away with no means to do so.
“Call surface, Fausti! Call surface! Too many obstacles against us. Fucking Wilkie is going to scare the manta ray! He almost got me!”
I made the call to topside, letting the tender know to ready the decompression chamber. Pointing up, I gave Boomer the signal to start his ascent.
“Wilkie,” I said. “Wilkie. Listen to me. I’m going to get you out of here.”
No response. I would’ve ordered him to look at me, but visibility was slim, and given his state of mind, small movements were lost on him.
“Wilkie. We’re going to do this together. Just listen to me, and on my signal, we’re going to go up as far as we can. We’ll have to wait it out a bit, but we’re going to break the surface, man.”
He made a noise between a cry and a moan.
“You ready?”
We went up a bit, my instincts telling me it was far enough, but I checked my depth meter to be sure. Wilkie went to go up even further, but I put a hand on his arm to stop him. He itched to take the flight.
“Hey, Wilkie. You just got married?” No answer, but he looked at me. “Yeah? What’s your wife’s name?”
“K-Kit,” he answered.
“Kit. All right. She knows you’re down here?”
“Y-y-yeah.”
“My wife, her name’s Scarlett.”
I moved him up a bit, stopping when we were able to.
“She’s a dancer, man. You know one of those women who dance on their toes?”
“L-like F-Fred-d F-Flinstone?”
“Nah, she’s a ballerina, man. She can float, like we’re doing now, but she does it on a stage.”
He said something incomprehensible.
“You ever see a ballerina dance?”
“N-no.”
