In the end, what pulled me through was the fact that I was doing this for something bigger than myself. Images of the Maui’s and Hector’s dolphins’ rounded shape and Mickey Mouse colours passed through my mind. The fear of failure was replaced with a resolve that I had to succeed. That it was right that I succeeded. This calmed me and, most importantly, emptied my mind. So it was that my desire to help the dolphins ended up helping me on that day, by silencing the negative thoughts in my mind.
I got back in the water, and started shivering again almost immediately; I paid it no attention. My mind was eerily empty. My body was operating on autopilot as I performed my final inhale, started the dive, and swam to negative buoyancy. I remember relaxing as I entered the freefall, and telling myself to ‘relax even the potential for contraction’. I remember my depth alarm going off, and pulling the tag from the bottom plate, 100 metres below the surface. I remember keeping my eyes half-closed and telling myself to ‘relax’ and ‘flow’ as I set off on the long swim back towards the light. I remember actually enjoying the ascent, commenting to myself how fortunate I was to be able to have this opportunity, and to be able to express myself in this way. I remember coming to the surface, reminding myself to concentrate on doing the protocol correctly in order to ensure a valid dive. And I remember erupting into celebration with my team the moment the judges displayed their white cards. It was as if the sun had come out after a rain, and everything was glistening.
The moment the white card was shown to validate the first no fins dive to 100 meters. (Paolo Valenti)
The dive was valid but my surfacing had been tight, with a samba that made my hand tremble as I gave the okay sign. On the internet, some people commented that the tremble made it look as if I’d given the ‘okay’ sign twice, which would be cause for disqualification. I still had three days of the record window left, and I felt that two full days of rest would allow me to do a better job. I also wanted to demonstrate that round numbers shouldn’t define our limits, or give us an excuse to take a ‘tea break’, as it were. So, on 16 December I dived again to 101 metres, surfacing cleanly after 4 minutes and 8 seconds under the water for my fourteenth world record.
*
To this day, Project Hector remains one of my sweetest and most humbling successes, because it wasn’t just mine. Instead of just striving for myself, I was serving something greater. By making the dive about more than just me, it took my ego out of the equation; it also took the fear of failure out of the equation, and without that anxiety I could occupy the pure ‘flow state’ of subconscious command.
This lesson can be found not just in sport, but also in business and in day-to-day life. Goals and aspirations that are self-serving only take us so far. But when the incentive is something beyond yourself, it gives you the grace to go further, higher, deeper than you might be physically or mentally capable of. My example is rather mundane when compared with a mother who, in a fit of superhuman force, lifts a car off her child’s leg, or with the Fukushima 50, who worked 23-hour shifts with a one-hour nap each day to keep the nuclear reactor cool after the 2011 tsunami in Japan, knowing that it would probably mean an early demise through cancer. However, a goal doesn’t have to involve saving the world or a life. Whether making a new product or providing a service that you truly believe in, there’s no reason why you can’t tap into the same source.
Growing up in New Zealand gives the perfect environment to instil this kind of integrity. Until I travelled through other countries later in life, I didn’t realise how strong the Kiwi impulse to ‘do your best’ and ‘make a difference’ is. It’s not just about getting the job done, but about doing it to your highest standard. That’s why the All Blacks get heckled if they have a sloppy match, regardless of whether they win or not — Kiwis want them to be perfect, because they aspire to perfection themselves. I’ve noticed a worldwide recognition of this attitude; for someone applying to work overseas, a New Zealand passport is as good a reference as any.
The footage shot during Project Hector was edited by Matthew Brown into the short film Hectometer, which attempted to express what it felt like to swim to 100 metres below the sea and back. The words at the start of this chapter, spoken by my friend’s daughter Jessica Dinnage, were used as a voice-over and an original score was written by Christopher Ward. The film screened in 2011 at film festivals in Los Angeles, Seattle, Asolo and Camden, as well as at the Doha Tribeca Film Festival where it received a standing ovation when it played before the award-winning documentary Senna.
*
Shortly after setting the 100-metre record, in the NZ summer of 2011 I had the chance to meet Hector’s dolphins for the first time, at Banks Peninsula close to Christchurch. We watched them jumping and feeding only a few hundred metres from where a fishing trawler was passing, evidence of the overlap in their territory with commercial fishing. As we motored back into Akaroa Harbour we came across a small pod resting in the calm green water, and I put my wetsuit on and slipped into the water to spend time with them. The visibility was only a few metres, so I could only see the dolphins when they made passes close to me, but they were curious enough to do so regularly. Their tiny size, rounded-off fins and airbrushed grey-and-white colouring made even the adults of the pod look like miniatures — pocket-sized orcas, perhaps. They never stayed still long enough for me to see the intelligence and awareness in their eyes, the way I had with dolphins in the Caribbean, but I could feel their inquisitiveness in the way they twisted and played around me, like fidgety water-pixies.
A Hector’s dolphin’s joyful leap, off the coast of Akaroa peninsula, New Zealand.
There is almost no similarity between a voluntary breath-hold and drowning. If I were to become hopelessly entangled during a dive, then all my training and ability would count for nothing. Of course, I would try to stay calm and free myself, but once I realised that all hope was lost then I would experience the same terrifying panic as anyone else in that situation. There’s no reason to expect that it is any different for dolphins when they are trapped in nets — the signs of desperate struggle on the bodies washed up on beaches, swathed in netting, is clear evidence of this. Not only are the populations of Hector’s and Maui’s dolphins being destroyed by commercial fishing in their territory, but this is taking place through slow and brutal deaths while the rest of the pod can only watch in confusion and distress.
Other than three species of bat, Hector’s and Maui’s dolphins are the only mammals that are found exclusively in New Zealand. Yet to date, none of the campaigning, not only by me but also by a host of conservation groups, has resulted in any significant increase in the protection of the species.
CHAPTER 8
MIS-TRIALS
Hamstrung by a nose clip
Sometimes uphill, sometimes downhill, resham firiri, resham firiri.
Words from a traditional Nepalese song
IN 2015, WHEN I SPENT 20 DAYS hiking in the Himalayan mountains with my father and brother, our guide and porter (both named Narayan) taught us the famous Nepalese Sherpa song that starts with the lines above. Diving is the same: sometimes descents, sometimes ascents; sometimes smooth easy dives, sometimes hard-fought battles on a dwindling reserve of oxygen. You can extrapolate the idea as far as you want: our lives are a constantly changing terrain of hills and valleys, and we do our best to navigate through it. From the top of a peak we sight an even higher peak in the distance, but inevitably our path there will lead through gullies and over ridges, across meadows and through thick bracken.
*
The Vertical Blue event of 2011 was a fairly sedate affair, with only 18 athletes competing. A month before, the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami had devastated Japan, and the Japanese freedivers (who are normally the most numerous at the competition) had to pull out. In a show of solidarity that is not uncommon in the sport, the other athletes pulled funds together to reimburse two of the women competitors, Misuzu’s and Megumi’s Vertical Blue fees. One of these generous athletes was
the indomitable Natalia Molchanova, who was about to become the first woman to break the 100-metre mark in Constant Weight. A competitive swimmer in her youth, she retired after having children and didn’t pick up freediving until 20 years later, at the age of 40. Throughout the next 12 years Natalia was the queen of freediving, reigning over all six disciplines in the pool and sea. Other athletes would focus on a single discipline, and with immense effort they might finally exceed her record; but at the next event she would simply win it back again, with grace and ease. It wasn’t that competitiveness was her lifeblood, either. A small and soft-spoken woman, with a kind smile and a love of poetry, most of the time she was simply breaking her own records, amassing a total of 41 during her career. The 100-metre record was one of the few times she faltered, making three attempts all ending in blackouts before she finally overcame the milestone at Vertical Blue 2011.
That Natalia kept on dominating the sport into her fifties, showing no sign of letting up, is a testimony to her mental and physical strength — but also to the nature of the sport, which perhaps favours the slower metabolism and emotional stability that comes with age. I’m often asked how much longer I can expect to continue competitive freediving, and I normally cite Natalia’s example of the longevity of athletes in this sport, even though there’s no way I could ever match her level of dominance at such ages.
*
As well as Natalia’s 100-metre CWT record, I set a new FIM record to 121 metres at that year’s Vertical Blue. There was a moment of panic at the base plate when I fumbled with the tag and lost the line for a moment. A quick kick of my legs brought me back within reach, and from there I hauled my way back up to the surface for a total time of 4:13.
After my by-now-customary base-training period in Tenerife over the summer, I travelled to Greece at the start of September for the other main fixture on that year’s calendar, the AIDA Individual World Championships. It was held in the oily-calm waters of the Bay of Messinia, offshore from Kalamata. The hills that shelter the bay are dry and dusty rubble slopes, but the waters they contain are among the clearest and calmest in the world. When we caught the shuttle boat from shore to take us 2 kilometres out to where the platform was moored, it felt as if we were sliding across a mirror. Those morning trips gave me time to reflect on how privileged I was to be able to make a life playing in such a beautiful element.
I would have cause for a different kind of reflection during a warm-up competition before the championships, in which I had the second-worst blackout of my career. It was a CWT dive, with an announced depth of 116 metres that should have been routine, but it fell on the one day that the winds stirred the bay up into a choppy mess that played pandemonium with the competition zone. Two-seater paddle-boats were being used to provide the athletes with ‘dry zones’ where they could store equipment and relax out of the water to avoid becoming too cold. All well and good, but now the waves were breaking clean over the top of these small square rafts, and two of them had begun to sink. By the time it was my turn to dive I was cold and soggy, and not at all relaxed. To add extra insult, the safety crew was slow to move the previous athlete off the line and change the depth; when my lanyard was finally clipped onto it and I heard the call of ‘One minute 30 to Official Top!’, I couldn’t believe that I was being expected to prepare in such little time. I yelled back, ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ from where I was lying in the water. There was no reply, so I guessed they weren’t. I was livid. Waves were breaking over my head as I tried to condense my final 4 minutes of preparation into just one . . . I should have known that there was no way I was going to make the dive; I should have called it off. Anger feeds stubbornness, however, so off I went.
At some point on the way up, my finning speed went from sluggish to swimming-in-molasses. It was 0.69 metres per second: about half of what I should have been averaging in the ascent, and slower than I normally move without fins. Despite the narcosis, I could still perceive that something wasn’t right and managed to pick up speed a little, but when I met the safety divers and saw how slowly they were swimming to keep up with me I realised that I was in trouble.
At 20 metres I looked towards the surface (bad sign); at 9 metres I started pulling desperately on the rope (all hope is lost); and at 5 metres I blacked out entirely. Once brought to the surface I remained unconscious for a further 15 seconds, then began breathing but wasn’t fully aware for another minute. The lesson was one that I knew already, but obviously needed to be reminded of: if you can’t calm the water inside you, how will you move calmly through the water below? Since then I have been more vigilant regarding those moments when it is better to leave that tag hanging where it is, and save the dive for another day. And, although I have had near-misses with brief blackouts after taking my first breath on the surface, that dive in 2011 was, as at the time of writing, my last blackout underwater.
I rested for three days, did two more easy training dives to build back my confidence, and then the World Championships began. The first discipline was CNF, and my announcement of 93 metres was well clear of the rest of the field. Conditions were good, and I was feeling calm and relaxed. Maybe a little too relaxed . . . 5 minutes from my Official Top, I tipped my head back into the water to purge the bubbles from my swim cap and smooth out any ruffles in it. Normally I have my nose clip in place when I do this, but on that day I was still holding it in my hand. Seawater quickly found the twin drains of my nostrils and eagerly set about filling up every cavity connected to them. My nasal chambers, sinuses and Eustachian tubes were all flooded; I jerked my head up, spluttering, to the surface and spent the next several minutes trying to blow the water out from inside my face. Salt water inflames the lining of the airways, causing it to produce mucus, and this had to come out too. Any liquid can cause an obstruction to the flow of air, which leads to equalisation blocks during a freedive. Two minutes before my dive I tested my ears, to see whether they were going to equalise. Rather than the pneumatic ‘shhht’ sound they usually give, I heard and felt a wet crackle in my middle ear as bubbles of air forced their way through soggy Eustachian tubes. It was over. There was no way I was going to be able to equalise through all that snot and salt water. I abandoned the idea of a gold medal dive, and decided to just ‘go and see’.
As expected, equalisation was terrible. Normally I can open my Eustachian tubes spontaneously, allowing air to communicate with the middle ear and equalise its volume, but this time I was having to generate pressure, using my tongue as a piston in a manoeuvre called the Frenzel, in order to pry the tubes open. The air would then shoot through whatever mixture the tubes contained, creating a different variety of fart noise on each occasion. However, after I had settled into the freefall and was squeaking and popping my way down past 40 metres, something happened. Whether it was the movement of all the air that dried the tubes out, or their contents simply drained into a bigger cavity, but equalising started to become easier — and quieter! By the time I was nearing the target depth it was almost back to normal, and when I turned and tore the tag from the base plate I knew that everything was going to be okay. I settled into a dreamy ascent, feeling completely at ease and unhurried. In the final drift upwards from 10 metres I made a cryptic hand sign to the cameras. It was in the bag.
In Constant Weight I had announced 118 metres, which ranked together with Alexey Molchanov’s AP, for the same depth, as the deepest announcement for the men. Alexey blacked out on the surface, while I turned early at 112 metres when I ran out of air for equalisation. (Shortly after this event, I would switch to a different method of equalising, called mouthfill, that more reliably ensured available air at depth.) On surfacing, I was so frustrated at having seen the chance of a second gold medal slip from my grasp that I didn’t bother with the surface protocol, earning myself a red card (disqualification) instead of a yellow (penalties). Later, when I did the maths, I discovered what my arrogance had cost me. Athletes who turn early are penalised by the difference between their realised and t
heir announced depth, plus one extra point for not collecting the tag. My dive, which at 112 was 6 metres less than the 118 I had announced, would have earned a penalty of 7 points and brought my score down to 105. Which, as it turned out, would have meant a bronze medal.
Lesson number 358: always follow through, even when you’re pissed off and don’t see the point.
That year the World Championships concluded with Free Immersion — the first time that this discipline had been included in the competition. When the announcements came in, I saw that my 112 metres was well clear of the next diver’s target, Polish up-and-comer Mateusz Malina, who had posted 106. I could turn at 110 and still earn gold. I did set an alarm for this depth, but it was easier to sink the extra 2 metres to the plate, although I didn’t bother messing about with the tag, which is only worth a one-point penalty.
At the closing ceremony on the beach that night, the two gold medals slung around my neck clinked together as we celebrated and danced next to the Mediterranean. Months of disciplined and abstemious training had come to an end for all the athletes, and with plentiful alcohol on tap the result was carnage. Swedes toppled like pine trees from the stage-turned-dance-floor. Couples and trios found inspiration from Eros in the water and on the beach. Mateusz spent an hour searching the sand for the silver medal that had slipped from around his neck.
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