Oxygen
Page 9
On Boxing Day of 2005 I dived to 75 metres with no fins, and on 8 January 2006 I reached the goal of 76 metres (250 feet) that I had set for myself in 2003, when the world record had been 63 metres. When we attain a goal, we sometimes reward ourselves with a pause in which to recover and reflect. This is all very well and necessary, but pauses can turn into standstills, and as time passes waiting for new motivation, the prospect of beginning again becomes more and more daunting. In freediving my foremost intention has never been to set a record or reach a certain depth, but rather to try to come as close as possible to human aquatic potential, wherever that may lie. Pretty numbers that took my fancy when I knew comparatively nothing about freediving (like ‘250 feet by age 25’) had little to do with that goal, and were just way-markers that indicated my progression. Even today, I set my goals as far out as I dare into the dark waters of possibility. In the words of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (Africa’s first elected female head of state), ‘The size of your dreams must always exceed your current capacity to achieve them.’
So, the day after I dived to 76 metres I was back in the water, repeating the dive plus a training table after it. I had already set a new target of 92 metres, and the marketing department in my brain had come up with a catch phrase for it, to make it sound even more appealing to my ego: ‘300 feet, with two bare feet and one breath of air.’ Of course, I didn’t mention this new goal to anyone, just as I had also kept the previous one to myself. Together with the fact that, most likely, it would have been ridiculed, I had discovered that the inner fire that stokes motivation is best kept that way: internal. If I trumpeted my goals to all those I crossed paths with, then they would of course congratulate me for being so bold and aspiring (‘Really? You want to dive how deep?? Wow, that would be amazing!’), and that premature praise could satisfy my brain’s reward centre and breed complacency. Instead, if I told no one then the only way I could show them my intention was through realising it. A blacksmith knows to keep the forge door closed to build the heat that can shape iron.
I did, however, allow myself to start contemplating a world-record attempt for the spring of that year. A colleague, Riccardo Mura, who ran a freediving centre in Sharm El Sheikh, agreed to host and organise a record attempt in May, as part of an Italian Apnea Academy freediving jamboree. Suddenly I found myself considering an entirely new prospect in the sport: freediving under the scrutiny and expectations of judges, spectators and media. I knew there was still a lot of work to be done before then, so concentrated on bringing my focus back to the task at hand.
For many of my training dives I was joined by American expat Charlie Beede, who lived on the island with his Bahamian wife, Joyce. A real estate agent by trade, Charlie had spent his life on and in the water, as a surfer in Hawaii in the 1980s and ’90s and then as a commercial spearfisher in the Bahamas while he waited for his broker’s licence to be approved. As well as safetying my deep dives, we would go on spearfishing trips together to the Jumento Cays — a chain of flat rocks that stretches west 60 nautical miles (111 kilometres) from the coast of Long Island towards Cuba. They form the boundary between a deep tongue of the Atlantic Ocean and a vast area of shallow, sandy-bottomed water peppered with coral heads and reefs. These are the lobster grounds, where Long Island fishermen make their living fetching up the prized crustaceans.
Spearguns are illegal in the Bahamas, which makes Hawaiian slings the only way to hunt fish underwater. The sling is essentially an underwater slingshot; it requires brute strength to pull the rubber back and release it, propelling a free steel shaft through a hole in the handle of the sling. A primitive form of hunting, it requires greater skill to hit and land the fish so limits catches, taking pressure off fish stocks. Some fish, such as groupers and hogfish, were still very easy to target, but the prizes were the more timid mutton snapper, or free-swimming mackerel and permit.
In March I was joined on the island by Mike Lott and his Danish friend Timo Jattu, who was an avid spearfisher. After training in the morning we would go in search of a new area of water in which to hunt in the afternoon. We’d take turns pushing an old ice chest to store the fish in, out of reach of the sharks. The Bahamas is one of the few countries in the world that has made illegal any form of shark fishing. This wise move has ensured healthy shark populations, which in turn guarantees thriving reef ecosystems. It also means that there is always a shiver of Caribbean reef sharks on the prowl, hoping to steal the fish off your spears. They were easy enough to keep at bay as long as we were able to collect the speared fish, bring it quickly to the surface and throw it straight in the ice chest. Things got dicey, however, when we were being followed by a half dozen or so sharks that had become increasingly frustrated from watching the skewered groupers and snappers vanishing literally into thin air above them. And things got downright hairy if the ice chest, containing the day’s haul of fish plus several litres of seawater mixed with said fish’s blood, capsized in a rogue wave. On several occasions we had to turn away a toothy opportunist with a jab from the blunt end of the spear, although I don’t think we were ever close to being bitten ourselves. There is an increasing understanding of sharks, however some people still retain the notion that they are voracious aggressors that will attack anything with a pulse. The reality is that sharks are mostly timid, cautious, and selective in the way they feed. It is only in extreme circumstances that they might confuse humans for their prey, and even then the confusion seldom lasts beyond the first taste. Granted, with all the fish blood in the water these did classify as extreme circumstances, but we were still able to keep control of the situation by showing confidence and dominance, and the sharks acquiesced to this enforced hierarchy in the same way that wild cats, dogs and other animals do. If you ever find yourself snorkelling in open water in the presence of a shark, and you haven’t been spearing fish, then I encourage you to stop and watch its graceful and languid movements for as long as you can. However, if you’re not comfortable with its presence then the best method of driving it off is to duck underwater and swim, with purpose, straight towards it. Even large tiger sharks will be spooked by the intimation that they are your prey, and will scuttle off at high speed on an arcing route that allows them to keep you on one side of their vision. One caveat: don’t try this in water with poor visibility or when swimming in an area frequented by seals — in those cases it is best to get out of the water!
On 15 March 2006 I completed a training dive to a depth of 80 metres, equalling the current unassisted world record, in a time of 2 minutes 58 seconds. I knew that there was a great difference between a casual training dive with friends and a record attempt under the scrutiny of judges and video cameras, not to mention spectators. Competition stress is a huge factor in freediving performance, and accounts for many divers struggling to reach depths that they have handled easily in training. It results in an elevated heart rate and cerebral activity, as well as stimulation of the sympathetic nervous system that governs the fight or flight response, releasing adrenaline into the body. All of this eats into oxygen stores before the dive has even begun. To break the world record I would have to dive to at least 81 metres, but to have confidence in attempting such a depth I felt that I needed a ‘buffer’ of several metres more in terms of what I was capable of doing in training. In short, there was still work to be done.
*
At some point during our spearing expeditions we added a black grouper and horse-eye jack to the ice chest, and to our dinner table one evening. We also shared some of this fish with our landlords. For months afterwards I would regret this act of imprudence. Of course I had heard of ciguatera (tropical fish poisoning), which is caused by the toxin ciguatoxin, but I had assumed it was only present in larger fish and that even if we did contract it we would be sick for a day or two and then recover, knowing not to eat that species of fish again. I was spectacularly wrong on both counts. Black groupers, known as gags in the Bahamas, are all toxic regardless of size, as are most jacks. Moreover, ciguatoxin is not
a toxin that lets you off lightly. It is created by tiny organisms, dinoflagellates, present in the coral and algae of the reef and is ingested by the herbivorous fish that feed on the reef, accumulating in higher concentrations with every step up the food chain.
Ciguatoxin is a neurotoxin, and in humans gastrointestinal problems are only the vanguard of a host of more-sinister disorders such as severe headaches, muscle aches, weakness, paraesthesia (pins and needles) and, most interestingly, cold allodynia, which is where contact with a cold surface or liquid produces a burning sensation. Most of these symptoms were experienced by me and Timo, and some by Mike (who had become tired of eating fish for every meal so hadn’t consumed as much of the toxic species). Over a period of several days, my training became taxing and unfruitful. I was having sambas on dives that had previously been straightforward, and feeling lethargic for the rest of the day. Something was definitely off, but I couldn’t pin down the cause so we continued to eat fish while I tested different theories about the lapse in performance. Several days of complete rest didn’t help at all, and the idea that it might be iron deficiency was ruled out by taking several different natural supplements like spirulina and chlorella, as well as eating the raw and still-beating hearts from the grouper we caught! It wasn’t until I mentioned my symptoms in passing to our landlords that we discovered the truth.
‘Ohhh, you got it too then!’ exclaimed Ivan, an elderly sponge fishermen who had been blinded in one eye when he fell into a crab pit. ‘That’s ciguatera, that is! We had it too, y’know, from the fish you gave us, but I didn’t want to say nuthin’ to make you feel bad!’
Unfortunately, there is no cure for ciguatera. Only time can remove the substance from the body, in a gradual process of detoxification. At this point there were only a couple of weeks remaining before I was committed to travelling to Egypt for the record attempt. I tried my best to find a balance between the rest required to rehabilitate from the sickness, and enough training to try to maintain (or ideally improve) my performance before the attempt.
There were more failed dives, and a few good ones, including the last dive before I left the Bahamas: a clean and lucid 82 metres. This dive gave me hope that I might be starting to overcome the ciguatera, but by then I had already committed another serious error. My flight arrived in Sharm El Sheikh on Saturday 6 May, with the record attempt scheduled for the following weekend. I had thought that a week would be enough time to acclimatise and recover from jet lag, but when the first two dives to (only) 74 metres resulted in a samba and a surface blackout respectively I realised that I had vastly underestimated the effect that the two days of travel and the change in climate, conditions and time zone can have on performance.
I took a step back and dived 68 metres, then 74 the following day, this time clean. With two days to go I set the mark at 78 metres, for what should have been my last dive before the attempt. However, a sled (used for weighted descents in training) had been left at the bottom of the rope, and when I turned at 78 metres one of its crossbars knocked my mask, flooding it with water. Unable to see, I had no choice but to abort the dive and pull myself up the rope. This meant that instead of resting on the twelfth, the eve of my attempt, I felt I needed to retry 78 metres to give myself confidence for an 81-metre dive on the thirteenth. I did so, and the dive was the easiest yet. I felt strong and positive even though I hadn’t had a rest day since I’d arrived. It was clear that I was starting to adapt and recover from the travel, but was I ready to add another 3 metres, not to mention perform in the pressure-cooker of tension that results from an official attempt? The following day I would find out.
I was shuttled by launch to the dive boat, anchored in front of Sharm Club Resort in 200 metres of water. I had to be under the judges’ surveillance for at least 45 minutes before the attempt, so I went to the top deck to listen to music while I waited. Umberto Pelizzari had agreed to be my deep safety diver, and he would meet me at 45 metres on my ascent. My other two ‘safeties’ were my most loyal training partners, Mike Lott and Jimmy Montanti. Michael, and Nic Rowan, my two best high-school friends, had travelled from Spain and England to support me, and their familiar presence did have a calming effect. Nic was warm-hearted and staunchly loyal, and although he had gone to university in Dunedin the three of us had remained close companions. He had the build of a sturdy rugby hooker, and despite being almost a head shorter than Michael he wouldn’t concede that as any kind of advantage in the friendly rivalry between them. He was Costello to Michael’s Abbott, and their constant banter lightened any occasion, even the preparation for a record attempt.
The time finally came, and I pulled on my new wetsuit, entered the water and swam the few metres to the rope, which was suspended from a boom over the port side of the boat. I tried to ignore the cameras, judges and many attentive pairs of eyes that watched me from the boat. But there was no way to remain unaffected by a situation that was completely new to me in freediving. I could hear my heartbeat striking a rapid staccato of alarm against my ribcage. My mind was racing, too, like a wheel spinning without grip, flinging out random pointless thoughts. I knew that the risk in such occasions was to over-breathe, ridding the body of too much of the carbon dioxide that is necessary for triggering the dive reflex and consequent oxygen conservation. So I laboured to drag my attention time and time again back to my breathing, resisting the temptation to take bigger or quicker inhales.
Finally I felt it was now or never, took one last breath and duck-dived to start my descent. The water soothes, and removes the stress of earthly worries, even in the most trying circumstances (such as a first-time world-record attempt). I felt at peace as I kicked and pulled the water on my way down towards the plate at 81 metres. Yet the damage had been done. My body was still recovering from the insults of ciguatera, travel and jet lag, and this, combined with the heightened level of excitement before the dive, meant that on a physiological level I had started the attempt firmly on the back foot. It might have been that no matter how well I swam, I literally didn’t have enough oxygen molecules in circulation to complete the dive. Despite this, I felt good when I pulled the tag from the plate at the world-record depth. I still felt good when I met Umberto at 45 metres, and greeted him with a smile. But we don’t feel the effects of oxygen depletion until towards the end of the dive. Soon after meeting Jimmy and Mike at 30 metres, the contractions started to rock my torso with urgency. At 20 metres from the surface my swimming style deteriorated and my pace increased as I frantically tried to cover the remaining distance separating me from the air my body craved. Just below the waves I took a last futile stroke and flailed my legs several times, which was enough to bring me to the surface — but I had already blacked out and the movements were unconscious spasms. Umberto supported my head above the water, removed my mask and blew across my face to stimulate the nerves that tell the body it is okay to breathe again. When this didn’t work immediately, he covered my mouth with his and blew hard to force air past the spasming glottis and into my lungs. He had just surfaced himself from a dive to almost 50 metres, and later he commented that ‘there couldn’t have been much oxygen in that breath I gave you!’ — but whether it was the thin trace of oxygen or the surprise at locking lips with another man, the effect was immediate and I quickly regained consciousness and started normal breathing.
The audience of concerned faces and their conciliatory applause reminded me of the time 18 months previously when I had blacked out among my peers at the end of the instructors’ course, attempting a dive that I should have left for another day. The video crew who covered the attempt made a generous short film that was shown to a crowd of Italian freedivers attending the jamboree that evening. It discreetly cut the footage of my brief rescue on the surface, and ended with the caption: ‘Next will be better.’
‘Not all sporting careers debut with success,’ I told myself. ‘If I break the record on the next attempt then I can still go on to great things.’ What I didn’t ask myself was what would hap
pen if I was unsuccessful again the second time around.
*
The planning for that second attempt began almost as soon as I returned to Sardinia and resumed training. It seemed almost self-evident at the time that with the ice broken by that first record attempt, then provided that I recovered fully from ciguatera the second time should be a charm.
Throughout June, July and August I trained long hours in the pool and in dry sessions of weight training, yoga and exhale static apnea. The harder I trained, the more rest became important as well. Our bodies need time to respond to training stimuli and make the physiological adaptations that improve performance, but they can’t do that if new stimuli are already being piled on. I generally trained in a pattern of three days on and one day off, and on the rest day I looked for activities that gave the body a pause while distracting the mind. Writing, painting, playing chess or reading a book on the beach were all ways I could recharge my batteries for another round of pushing my body to its limits of tolerance for oxygen desaturation and carbon dioxide saturation.
I envisaged that if I kept all the conditions the same for the next record attempt, then the months of hard training (and ciguatera detoxification) would fill the gap between my last dive and a world-record dive. So in mid-September I travelled back to Egypt, in excellent physical shape and brimming with confidence. I started well, with two strong dives taking me straight to 68 metres, but on the fourth day I was appalled to detect the tickle of an itchy throat and the throb of achy legs, both telltale harbingers of a viral infection. Training was suspended, and I visited the local doctor to ask for whatever medicine might hurry the virus on its way. Anti-histamine and anti-inflammatory drugs along with 3 grams of vitamin C and a decongestant nasal spray were prescribed. They say that if you do nothing a cold will last a week, whereas if you take every possible medicine then it will last seven days. Sure enough, seven days later the tubes and chambers of my upper airways were clear once more, and back in the water I went.