Dive Weekend in Mackinac
This weekend my dad and I drove up to St. Ignace to do some diving. Every year, we stay in the same motel, The Driftwood, and eat breakfast at the same restaurant, The Galley. As usual, we arrived before they were open, and spent some time shooting the breeze, and looking out over the harbor. During breakfast, a fog bank slowly rolled in off the lake, and smothered the entire area. We carried our gear onto the boat, and I put on my drysuit while we waited for the captain. When the captain arrived, we left the dock and motored out onto the lake, following behind another dive boat to make up for our lack of radar. We were able to make out the vague shape of shore lurking in the fog for a few minutes, but it soon faded, and we were in our own little bubble of space with the other dive boat. The rest of the divers and I settled in for the boat ride and I noticed that I could see my breath, a first for me in July in Michigan. After a half hour or so, the divers on the boat in front of us started pointing off into the fog. Gradually, a dark blob resolved itself into the shape of the south tower pilings of the Mackinac Bridge. Looking straight up, it was impossible to see the bridge deck above us. As we continued on past the bridge, I kept watching the space where the bridge should be. Suddenly, it loomed out of the mist like an iron ghost, accompanied by its fog horn blasts.
Shortly after, we were moored to the Eber Ward, and my dad, Mike and I were the last team of divers to hit the water. The visibility was simply astonishing as we swam up to the bow and hovered out over the sand. The beautiful lines of the Ward's hull were marred only by the fatal gash near her bow. Coasting over the railing, we paused to examine the three different anchors still lashed to her decks. Heading towards the stern once more, we ducked through a hatch and swam most of her length in her first cargo deck. Bluish green light from the hatches cut distinct squares into the twilight of the cargo hold. Silt had drifted over the deck much like snow, and we drifted above it, not disturbing a bit of it. When we reached the engine, Mike worked his way around it, and my dad and I returned to deck via a hatch, just before Mike popped up from another direction. We then dropped over the stern rail and took a look at the rudder before our ascent.
Once back on the surface, the fog had started to lift and the lower half of the bridge was visible again. While we swapped out tanks, we motored over to the Cedarville, a lake freighter that had sunk while trying to make it to shallow water following being hit by another ship. Unfortunately, she didn't make it and broke in two amidships. She's currently laying in ~130 of water on her starboard side. Due to an equipment malfunction, Mike couldn't make the dive, so it was just my dad and myself. After sticking our heads into various cabins, we entered the cargo hold. The load of limestone she was carrying had partially spilled out of the wide open hatches, and that sloping floor combined with the slanting blue light coming in through the same hatches and the cavernous space created the ambiance of an ancient cathedral. Near the edge of visibility, a diver was silhouetted in a shaft of light. Returning to the surface, my drysuit started steaming as the sun hit me. Looking toward the bridge, the fog bank had retreated further, wreathing the middle of the towers in mist while exposing the tops of the towers and the bridge decking.
Sunday morning, there was no fog as we headed out and the plan was to install a new bouy on the William Young. One of the members of the original dive team had a tear in his drysuit neck seal, so he didn't want to overexert and risk breaking open the patch. As a result, my dad, mike and I got tapped to unhook the grapnel we used to anchor into the wreck, attach the new bouy and line, and detach the old line and chain and send it up with a lift bag. We hit the water, my dad took the chain, and down we went. The grapnel was snagged in the railing amidships, so on arrival it was a 50-50 chance of picking the right direction to the bow. My dad picked left, and off we went. After 20 feet or so, he changed his mind and we turned 180 degrees. We then swam until we hit the stern of the ship, which was exactly where we didn't want to go. So, another U turn and we swam all the way back up to the bow. When we reached the windlass, my dad dropped the chain, and pointed at it. I swam down, and reached under the windlass to grab the chain. I pulled it up and around, and my dad held the loose end while I undid the new shackle and used it to make secure the loop of chain. My dad unclipped an adjustable wrench from his BC and I snugged down the shackle. While I was doing that, Mike was working on cutting the zip ties off of the old shackle. Using the same wrench, I undid the shackle on the old chain, and unwrapped/untied it from the other side of the windlass. My dad put a couple zip ties through the new shackle on the other line to make sure it didn't work loose, then came over to help with this chain. Mike dug out his liftbag, and we looped the chain through the straps on the bag, and closed the loop with the shackle. A burst of air from my dad's pony tank, and the liftbag carried the chain to the surface. At this point, I checked my dive computer and it told me I had 2 minutes left until I hit decompression. As a side note, unplanned decompression is BAD. So, I signalled to dad and Mike that I needed to head up. I headed up the line while they untangled the grapnel and waited for them at 30 feet. From there on out, it was a breeze.
For the second dive we headed over to the Minneapolis. I had changed tanks during the surface interval, but after I had strapped myself in, and Mike was in the water, I checked my gauges and discovered I had essentially no air in my tank. Some discussion aboard the boat ensued, and we found a tank I could use. As I was strapping it in, my dad checked his gauges, and discovered his second tank was empty as well. It turns out that whoever was filling tanks at the dive shop didn't fill our second set of tanks. After a bit more discussion, my dad agreed to use a half-full tank for this dive. The plan was he'd start out breathing off his pony tank. A pony tank is a smaller tank that gets strapped to the primary tank, and usually it's only equipped with a regulator; no pressure gauge. It's normally reserved for emergencies, as a sudden ascent from 100+ feet is likely to result in crippling injury or death. In this case, my dad decided to breathe off the pony until it was empty, then switch to his primary tank, so that he'd know how much air he had left after emptying the first tank. Fortunately, this plan went off without a hitch, and we completed the dive safely. One sleepy car ride later, I'm here in my room, ready to crash.
Shortly after, we were moored to the Eber Ward, and my dad, Mike and I were the last team of divers to hit the water. The visibility was simply astonishing as we swam up to the bow and hovered out over the sand. The beautiful lines of the Ward's hull were marred only by the fatal gash near her bow. Coasting over the railing, we paused to examine the three different anchors still lashed to her decks. Heading towards the stern once more, we ducked through a hatch and swam most of her length in her first cargo deck. Bluish green light from the hatches cut distinct squares into the twilight of the cargo hold. Silt had drifted over the deck much like snow, and we drifted above it, not disturbing a bit of it. When we reached the engine, Mike worked his way around it, and my dad and I returned to deck via a hatch, just before Mike popped up from another direction. We then dropped over the stern rail and took a look at the rudder before our ascent.
Once back on the surface, the fog had started to lift and the lower half of the bridge was visible again. While we swapped out tanks, we motored over to the Cedarville, a lake freighter that had sunk while trying to make it to shallow water following being hit by another ship. Unfortunately, she didn't make it and broke in two amidships. She's currently laying in ~130 of water on her starboard side. Due to an equipment malfunction, Mike couldn't make the dive, so it was just my dad and myself. After sticking our heads into various cabins, we entered the cargo hold. The load of limestone she was carrying had partially spilled out of the wide open hatches, and that sloping floor combined with the slanting blue light coming in through the same hatches and the cavernous space created the ambiance of an ancient cathedral. Near the edge of visibility, a diver was silhouetted in a shaft of light. Returning to the surface, my drysuit started steaming as the sun hit me. Looking toward the bridge, the fog bank had retreated further, wreathing the middle of the towers in mist while exposing the tops of the towers and the bridge decking.
Sunday morning, there was no fog as we headed out and the plan was to install a new bouy on the William Young. One of the members of the original dive team had a tear in his drysuit neck seal, so he didn't want to overexert and risk breaking open the patch. As a result, my dad, mike and I got tapped to unhook the grapnel we used to anchor into the wreck, attach the new bouy and line, and detach the old line and chain and send it up with a lift bag. We hit the water, my dad took the chain, and down we went. The grapnel was snagged in the railing amidships, so on arrival it was a 50-50 chance of picking the right direction to the bow. My dad picked left, and off we went. After 20 feet or so, he changed his mind and we turned 180 degrees. We then swam until we hit the stern of the ship, which was exactly where we didn't want to go. So, another U turn and we swam all the way back up to the bow. When we reached the windlass, my dad dropped the chain, and pointed at it. I swam down, and reached under the windlass to grab the chain. I pulled it up and around, and my dad held the loose end while I undid the new shackle and used it to make secure the loop of chain. My dad unclipped an adjustable wrench from his BC and I snugged down the shackle. While I was doing that, Mike was working on cutting the zip ties off of the old shackle. Using the same wrench, I undid the shackle on the old chain, and unwrapped/untied it from the other side of the windlass. My dad put a couple zip ties through the new shackle on the other line to make sure it didn't work loose, then came over to help with this chain. Mike dug out his liftbag, and we looped the chain through the straps on the bag, and closed the loop with the shackle. A burst of air from my dad's pony tank, and the liftbag carried the chain to the surface. At this point, I checked my dive computer and it told me I had 2 minutes left until I hit decompression. As a side note, unplanned decompression is BAD. So, I signalled to dad and Mike that I needed to head up. I headed up the line while they untangled the grapnel and waited for them at 30 feet. From there on out, it was a breeze.
For the second dive we headed over to the Minneapolis. I had changed tanks during the surface interval, but after I had strapped myself in, and Mike was in the water, I checked my gauges and discovered I had essentially no air in my tank. Some discussion aboard the boat ensued, and we found a tank I could use. As I was strapping it in, my dad checked his gauges, and discovered his second tank was empty as well. It turns out that whoever was filling tanks at the dive shop didn't fill our second set of tanks. After a bit more discussion, my dad agreed to use a half-full tank for this dive. The plan was he'd start out breathing off his pony tank. A pony tank is a smaller tank that gets strapped to the primary tank, and usually it's only equipped with a regulator; no pressure gauge. It's normally reserved for emergencies, as a sudden ascent from 100+ feet is likely to result in crippling injury or death. In this case, my dad decided to breathe off the pony until it was empty, then switch to his primary tank, so that he'd know how much air he had left after emptying the first tank. Fortunately, this plan went off without a hitch, and we completed the dive safely. One sleepy car ride later, I'm here in my room, ready to crash.