There has been a large shift in ecological consciousness around the planet, but it seems as if meat is this decade’s ‘inconvenient truth’. There’s no ‘smoking gun’ like there is with a car exhaust, and people get more enjoyment out of meat than they do out of transport. It’s also an intensely private matter — people can take things personally no matter how delicately you inform them about the damage meat farming is doing. All of this has created a kind of taboo around the subject that extends even into conservationist groups, who don’t want to scare away their funders by telling them what they ought to eat (as exposed by the documentary Cowspiracy). Proselytising about the topic only seems to make people bare their (mostly herbivorous) teeth and dig their forks deeper into their steaks. For this reason I normally limit myself to being a passive example of my opinions on the subject, and answering any queries that come my way. It seems to me that regarding what we put into our bodies, change must come from within.
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From the water in Roatan on 28 May 2013, I watched Nick’s attempt to be the first American to dive 100 metres CWT. In tough conditions (the rope descended on an angle due to the current), he made the dive in 2:45 with a clean protocol. Upon surfacing he was breathing quickly, but when someone in the water yelled out ‘Hook! Hook!’ (meaning take a hook-breath), he indignantly replied ‘I’m not a hooker!’ The judges showed a white card and Nick shook the line with all his might, letting out a cry of triumph towards the skies.
There wasn’t a huge difference in appearance between those euphoric displays and the releases of vehement frustration that occasioned his failed dives. In both moments, the intense passion that fuelled him would be purged in a great flood. A month later, for example, when we were both at the AIDA Indoor World Championships in Belgrade, Serbia, I was pulled from my pre-performance relaxation by the sound — heard from clear across an Olympic swimming pool — of an expletive-laden disgorgement that Nick was directing at himself after being disqualified due to a small blackout. It was not the kind of outburst we were used to hearing in a freediving event.
For me, that Indoor World Championship was one of the few strong points in an otherwise mediocre year. The competition was in June, soon after the Caribbean Cup, but despite minimal pool training I managed a competition personal best of 187 metres in the discipline of Dynamic No Fins (DNF). Afterwards, Nick, Brittany and I embarked on a road trip north through Hungary, with a night in Budapest before driving on through Slovakia to the Czech Republic where we explored the quaintly ordered city of Brno. Needless to say, we stretched out the grace period of indulgence that follows a championship event to be able to sample the fabled draught beers of the region, and they didn’t disappoint.
We parted ways with Nick in the airport at Vienna; another memory, that of the bulging, amorphous, yellow fin bag over his shoulder and a gaudy red rollaway case at his feet as he waved from the departures concourse. Two months later, in early September, we were both back to competing at the Depth World Championships, which were being held in Kalamata for the second time. Nick’s travelling, frequent competitions and frenzied work schedule in Brooklyn, New York, to pay for it all, were starting to take their toll on him. During training he suffered several lung squeezes, writing about it in his blog, which ended: ‘Last night I read a proverb that changed me, “As a dog returns to his own vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.” I am tired of being a fool, I will not make the same mistakes and expect different results and, more to the point, I will not push my body until it breaks anymore.’ For the rest of the competition he managed to hold himself back, and ultimately reaped the rewards of his circumspection.
My own training had been going well, with a strong dive to 98 metres without fins — my deepest outside the Caribbean. However, when championship day arrived, the 96 metres I’d announced proved to be slightly too much and I momentarily blacked out on the surface. Once again, my posted depth had been well clear of the field and I could have turned at 93 and won despite the penalty points; but this time there had been no indication that I wasn’t capable of 96. Frenchman Morgan Bourc’his won gold, with a strong dive to 87 metres. A string of other blackouts and early turns meant that the next-deepest diver was Nick, who, with 65 metres, tied with an Israeli competitor for silver. He wasn’t any more content than I was, however, declaring that he didn’t deserve the medal; eventually he gifted it to judge and mentor Grant Graves, who had helped him with advice and mental coaching during the event.
In Constant Weight, I dived to 120 metres for the silver medal, behind Alexey who had made a strong recovery after a harrowing incident a week before the championships. A reverse block occurs when, during the ascent, expanding air is prevented from naturally exiting the middle ear back into the nasal chambers, and can cause vertigo. Alexey had experienced one of these and had become alarmed and disorientated, swimming in a spiral around the rope. This led to a very deep blackout 10 metres below the point where safety diver Stephen Keenan was waiting at 30 metres. Luckily Stephen was an incredibly strong diver: he was able to swim down to 40 metres, retrieve Alexey and bring him up to the next safety diver, although he nearly blacked out himself in the process.
Although there was no rupturing of Alexey’s eardrums, he had suffered a serious lung squeeze and took days to recover before gradually returning to diving. Many believed that his announcement, only a week after the incident, of a record attempt at 128 metres CWT was rash, but Alexey proved them wrong and made the dive for the gold medal. Afterwards, however, word started to spread that he had made a mistake in the surface protocol. I hadn’t seen it myself, but those who had, including crew members and official judges, believed that he had made the ‘okay’ sign twice before saying ‘I’m okay,’ which warrants disqualification under AIDA rules.
At that time, the only way for the judges’ decision to award the dive to be reviewed — through analysis of the surface camera footage — was if a rival athlete lodged a protest. We (me and two other athletes who would be affected by the decision) decided to give Alexey a heads-up first, as a courtesy, and to give him a chance to exonerate himself if his team had recorded video of the dive. This precipitated a debate, mostly with Alexey’s mother, Natalia, and another very vocal member of the Russian team, about the ethics of protesting a fellow athlete. It was easy to see their point — being an agent in the disqualification of another competitor is always going to create a rift. However, protesting was then the only route for correcting a mistake made by a judge that favoured an athlete. Neither protesting nor letting bad judging stand was a satisfactory outcome. We decided that it was the system that was set up poorly, and instead of protesting Alexey’s dive made a submission to the judges for a rule change. We stated that quality control for the judging panel shouldn’t fall on the athletes’ shoulders; there should be automatic review of the surface footage of all performances that were eligible for a medal position. Our submission was accepted (for future events), and now, thankfully, freedivers can concentrate more on what they do best and less on having to look over each other’s shoulders.
Two days later, during my Free Immersion gold-medal dive, I literally did have someone looking over my shoulder: the vocal Russian team member we’d had discussions with about the protest was filming my performance from inside the competition zone, where other athletes are normally not allowed. Whether this was to try to throw me off, get video evidence if my surface protocol was borderline, or just to take holiday snaps was not clear, but once I’d finished the protocol for the judges I did one for his camera as well, for good measure.
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Soon after the World Championships, athletes began converging on the Bahamian islands to train in advance of Vertical Blue. Nick was one of these early arrivals, coming directly from yet another competition (his sixth of the year) in Curaçao, where he had taken first place overall. If he had been tired already in September, by this point he was hitting a wall, both with the mental burnout that comes from constant competing and with the
recurring physical damage to his lungs that wasn’t being given adequate time to heal. Nick was sharing a house in Clarence Town, Long Island, with fellow Kiwi freediver Jonathan Sunnex, who would become an integral part of Vertical Blue in years to come. Johnny Deep, as he is known in freediving circles, was brought up in Hamilton and escaped a life as an electrician for one beneath the waves. Picture a Tarzan-like physique with a mane of brown ringlets and a streak of Māori in the blood, and you wouldn’t be far off. The three of us often trained together, and before the event began I watched Nick execute a strong and confident dive to 70 metres No Fins, which equalled the US national record he was hoping to break.
The weather took a turn for the worse just before the event began, with the first of the winter’s cold fronts slipping off Florida’s mantle to flare out over the Bahamas. The water temperature dropped a couple of degrees, and incessant onshore winds turned the Blue Hole into a milkshake that light could not penetrate. Against this contingency I had ordered a shipment of waterproof penlights that the athletes could mount on the sides of their heads so they could at least see the line in front of them. We felt like astronauts as we flew downwards through the liquid night, with only a small porthole of light with which to see our world.
There’s a scene towards the end of the movie The Big Blue, in which the character of Enzo (played by Jean Reno) pushes himself too far in his quest to beat Jacques. He surfaces and, while dying in his rival’s arms, says, ‘You were right. It’s much better down there. Push me back into the water.’ This scene makes little sense to a freediver. If you are conscious and able to talk after a freedive, there is really no conceivable way that your death would be inevitable. On 14 November, the day that the competition was postponed due to bad weather, Nick posted a YouTube clip of this scene to his Facebook feed.
There was already an air of frustration about the event. I had failed another world-record attempt at 123 metres FIM due to incorrect surface protocol (this time I forgot the nose clip), and Alexey had blacked out attempting 94 metres CNF. But of all the athletes, Nick’s frustration was the most evident. Twice during the few days of competition he had turned early when attempting 72 CNF to break the US national record. On 15 November he attempted 95 FIM, but thinking that he had blown his eardrum (as he had the previous year), he signalled the safety divers to assist him to the surface. Sam, who was platform coordinator, would later comment that ‘he howled his anger, banged his head against the competition line, and refused any consolation or advice from fellow athletes, medics, and team. He also had a lung squeeze, evidenced by a small soup-spoonful of blood that he spat out at the surface.’ This time, however, the ear was intact. On his Facebook feed that evening, Nick wrote: ‘Ego is damaged that’s all, frustration oozing from my wetsuit this afternoon causing me to be stupid.’
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‘I don’t know; I think he’ll either turn early again, or black out,’ I said in response to a question from Jonathan Sunnex. We were standing on the beach, our toes in the water, looking out towards the platform, where Nick had just begun his third attempt at 72 metres CNF. I hate myself now for making that comment, but I doubt whether anyone present on that day doesn’t have at least one thing they regret doing or not doing, saying or not saying . . .
It was Sunday 17 November, and I had driven down to the Blue Hole shortly before noon to watch the second half of the day’s dives (I wasn’t competing myself that day). The weather was improving, although the water remained silted and green from the ground-swell that was pounding the reef. The session was relaxed, with the lowest average depth of the competition to date. On the platform, Nick had been in a good mood while he chatted with Japanese contestant Junko Kitahama before his dive. She was flying out that afternoon, and Nick had given her a warm hug and said, ‘I hope I see you again.’ Those words would haunt her later.
He had slipped off the platform to start his final phase of breathing before the dive, lying on his back with his feet draped over a swimming noodle and his head supported by an inflatable haemorrhoids pillow (the butt of many jokes — probably why Nick was so attached to it). The dive had started cleanly, and now Nick was on his way down, with the depth readouts Sam was announcing all indicating that he was making good speed. Watching from the beach, we willed him on, knowing that if he didn’t have difficulty equalising and made the base plate then he was capable of completing the dive.
‘60 metres! Ohhh, turn . . .’ announced Sam from the platform, to groans of disappointment. ‘No, he’s going again!’ Sam added as he saw the tracer on the depth sounder dip back downwards. ‘Come on, Nick,’ murmured Carla-Sue Hanson, one of the AIDA judges.
Far below, Nick had turned so that he was feet first, so as to be able to equalise better (it’s easier to get air to move into the ears when the direction of movement is upwards). He had done so while avoiding touching the line, which would have disqualified him. The position is extremely awkward, however, and Nick started to fall to one side, moving further away from the line as he drifted slowly downwards. He was also facing in the wrong direction, and when he finally reached the target depth of 72 metres he had to turn and use the narrow beam of his headlight to locate the plate, before tearing off a tag and slipping it inside the hood of his wetsuit. Although he appeared calm throughout, the whole operation took an extra 20 seconds of time in those last 10 metres before the plate.
Back on the surface, Sam was on the point of activating the counterballast to hoist Nick up when he saw him moving again on the sonar. After planting both feet on the base plate, Nick had pushed off with his legs before starting to swim upwards with rapid strokes. On the beach, Johnny and I were shifting from one foot to another. We knew that the extra time at depth could be critical in determining the fate of the dive, but we were willing our friend on. ‘Come on, Nick,’ we both said in unison. ‘Be ready for this one,’ Sam warned the safety crew, who were preparing to dive to meet Nick.
After being under for 3 minutes 32 seconds, Nick broke the surface. He had returned from the marathon dive completely under his own power. Air had been escaping his mouth at the end of the ascent and the safety divers were ready to intervene, but he kept on swimming. Even though he surfaced away from the line and so couldn’t use it to support himself, he kept on treading water until he could reach out and grab it. As he reached, he made an ‘okay sign’, and said what would be his final words: ‘I’m okay.’
The brutality of that obligatory phrase. Nick was not okay. After grabbing the line he blacked out briefly, but only for a few seconds. When he came to, still holding the rope, the people around him were consolatory: ‘You were almost there, buddy,’ said a safety diver. ‘Sorry, Nick,’ said Carla-Sue as she showed the red card. Nick continued staring ahead, mostly unresponsive, and it started to become clear that he was having difficulty breathing. His head tilted back, and with a groan he blacked out again. This time, he would not recover consciousness.
Nick was immediately moved onto the platform for resuscitation to begin, but neither Johnny nor I standing on the beach, nor anyone present on the platform, suspected that he wouldn’t wake up within the space of a few seconds. Like Enzo’s death in The Big Blue, it was something that no freediver deemed possible. When the seconds became minutes, and pure oxygen was having no effect on him, I swam to the platform and joined the efforts, helping to maintain the seal around the mask placed over Nick’s face, and later preparing a shot of adrenaline for the medic. Nick’s heart had stopped beating.
The next phase in the emergency plan was set in motion: Nick was transported to shore and rushed to the emergency van. I drove it as fast as prudence would allow, blasting the horn on every corner; in the back, the safety divers continued their resuscitation attempts. Nick was a car enthusiast, and might have enjoyed that final ride. I overtook a police car at 110 kilometres per hour; its occupants quickly got the picture and overtook me in turn to escort us the remainder of the short journey to the clinic.
Cardiopulmonary resusc
itation was continued at the clinic, but Nick’s pulse did not return. When I returned to the emergency room after making a phone call to arrange an air ambulance, there was no longer anyone crouched over him giving chest compressions. Nick was declared dead at 1.48 p.m.
I returned home in a daze. I had never before witnessed death, and neither had I ever lost a close and present friend. In my mind I was still going over everything that had happened, trying to work out what had gone wrong. And what would happen next. I knew that I needed to be the focal point of managing the enquiries, the legalities, the disbanding of the event, the organisation of a tribute, and anything else necessary. Through all of this, there was one recurring question that might never be answered: ‘How can someone be here one minute and gone the next? How can consciousness just end?’
Before freediving, Nick’s passion had been acting, and he had starred in the independent film Exist as a squatter in New York’s protest movement. His character, Top, delivers one especially memorable line: ‘I have faith in the fact that we never really die; pieces of us live on in the memories of others.’ I suspect that this line was one of his own (the director allowed actors to write part of their script), as he had also once consoled a friend suffering a loss by saying ‘True friendship isn’t affected by death — it remains intact.’
Ever since that fateful day in 2013, Nick has continued to live on in the hearts and minds of all those he met. Among those closest to him, the phrase ‘What would Nick do?’ is often used to channel the generosity and selflessness he exhibited.
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AIDA had overseen close to 30,000 dives in the two decades since its inception, and Nick’s death was the first in competition during this period. Neither, for that matter, had there been a mortality in supervised training for any of the three depth disciplines. This track record was often touted as proof of freediving’s relative safety compared with other so-called extreme sports such as base-jumping or white-water kayaking. Yet, given the nature and severity of the lung squeezes experienced by many freedivers in the years leading up to November 2013, it is perhaps surprising that Nick was the first to die. Divers were surfacing unconscious, with orange foam issuing from their mouths and requiring tens of minutes on pure oxygen before they started to regain their colour. Others had to be hospitalised. Despite this, there was still a general attitude of complacency towards the problem. ‘Take a day or two off and then get back into it,’ was a common mentality.
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