Echoing across the ailments and mortalities a voice called out for life to begin. A swimming schlep? Of course he was more, much more, with training and experience along with the life-and-death responsibility of a dive instructor to judge conditions and decide in the clutch daily. Yes, he could be cynical an hour before dawn, in prepping and checking. Then hoisting eighteen scuba tanks aboard and into the racks with no grunts because grunting means weakness. Each guest signs in and hands his dive bag aboard, from which the regulator, octopus, buoyancy compensator, and weights are set in place, with the fins, mask, and snorkel draped over the tank, so arrival at the dive site is like catered brunch. The guests have no worries because a sharp crew makes no mistakes. Because tourists can rest assured that their weights are correctly placed for proper descent and stability; that their air is on with buoyancy compensators slightly inflated so they don’t sink, sucking on a dead hose; that the tanks are full to three thousand pounds and not three hundred—Ravi Rockulz does not one detail take for granted. Playful and energetic as an otter, weaving, turning like a marine mammal who behaves for survival, he knows that vigilance in movement can avoid the unforeseen. Ravi looked, checked pressure, pocket zips, comfort level, ear clearing…
Are you okay?
Then he pointed out what tourists don’t see on a reef. They came so far and spent so much—and spent it here; they should see an octopus in a crevice, matching color and texture with the substrate. Or a dwarf moray or garden eels or a shark on the verge or resting on a ledge. Or a manta, whale, turtle, coral bloom, flame angel, pyramid butterflies in a hundred-foot column.
Are you okay? How much air do you have left? Okay, we go out and around to the right. Okay?
Water schlep? How about water doctor? Or water lawyer? Or water accountant? How about that? Yes, the schlep occurred at sunrise and again at the end when tanks and gear went back the way they came. So? Are not a man’s muscles defined by his labors? Does he carry a load with assurance, aplomb and dispatch? The short answer is yes—even if he grunts on the offload. The truth was: he was a waterman of first-caliber reputation among the fleet!
Beyond prowess, an evolving man becomes more. Ravi was also fearless in spending. He spent foolishly on friends who would go deeper than a dive plan to help him, as he would do for them. He tipped lavishly since waitpersons also needed to make ends meet. Every now and then a reasonably fresh waitress might turn her sparkle on he who spent so freely. She might assess the tip waiting in his heart. Or she might just dive in. Either/or was A-OK, but most waitresses had heard every line ever delivered by every Barnacle Bill or tourist wannabe who ever bellied up.
Indiscrete spending was an act of vengeance. Pissing it down the rat hole was a statement of life, liberty, and anarchy. Ravi’s greatest demonstration of liberation from the material world began one morning at Molokini Crater, a deep dive by necessity with swells banging the back wall and turbulence down to fifty feet. At ninety feet, divers could spread their wings and fly—not a novice dive but a real crowd-pleaser. The back wall got a few jitters churning among the intermediates, mostly accountants, insurance agents, business people and the most intractable social segment, doctors. Your average intermediate had twenty or fifty dives and often compensated anxiety with good cheer. Never mind; Ravi would take care of them, beginning with a little humor to ease the tension: the wall went four hundred feet to a ledge and then down to eight hundred, making it a bottomless dive, but don’t worry because the second dive would be much shallower, and topless. How they loved his joie de vivre in the clutch! It was just another day at the office for him—and us too, come to think of it, out here on our own in the deep blue sea.
On this particular morning, a tourist handed Ravi a severely expensive camera in an underwater housing with a huge glass bubble in front—the dome port over the lens. It wasn’t for keeps but for some excellent photos of the tourist and his new wife. Did he say excellent photos? “Don’t worry,” the tourist said, pointing out a button on top. “Focus. And shutter. Get very close. Okay?”
Okay.
The shots were excellent, but the process felt mechanical till the tourist said Ravi had a gift. A moray peeked in from the right, and a curious jack cruised in from the left with a wink. “You can’t hire shots like this,” the tourist said, tipping the crew a hundred dollars.
Ravi dismissed the praise according to habit. Yet he savored the view for a week or two, reframing the eel and jack and newlyweds in his mind. He could have framed the eel and a coral head or the jack and hundreds of pyramid butterflies. He could have done it several ways, all perfect because he saw what others didn’t. Swimming schlep? Why must she use such degrading language? Would she be happier if I wore a suit and got fat? Yes, she would, so let it go.
So he let it go, until another dive prep soon after. Snugging his cummerbund, clipping in his waist and chest straps, humping the rig higher onto his back and cinching his front strap D-rings, he paused. “Those are butterflies you’ll see in the water column, not with wings and little antennae, but butterflyfish, as you’ll see in their amazing color and grace.” Oh, they loved him, plunging to the depths for the magic he so sprightly conveyed.
The next week he spent two of his three grand on a camera, housing, lens, and port—used. He could wait on the strobe, though it came the next day for another six hundred, to correct the blue-green fuzz at depth, to restore color and focus. For a week he shot tourists until the owner approved ten bucks per shot with two bucks going to the boat.
In six months Ravi Rockulz sent a portrait study of a giant moray eel to a well-known natural history magazine. With clarity and compelling detail, a personality came forth. The editor called it the best portraiture ever of the elusive, nocturnal giant moray. Ravi said, “Pshh… those guys and their lavish praise.” He tingled for days. He’d gone after dark to the pinnacles off Black Rock near the Sheraton Hotel. Friends scolded him for diving alone. At night? Are you nuts?
But maybe a tad whacked was part of artistic fervor. Besides that, safety is best but is often forgotten. Only a fool would dive without a buddy, given a choice. But a photographer at depth will soon be alone anyway. And if his buddy is shooting too, they’ll drift to different subjects. At night, twenty feet apart might as well be solitude. If a buddy isn’t shooting, separation will be quicker. No buddy wants to wait on a photographer, waiting for the fish to open up and socialize, to pose in its moods. Ravi snorkeled out to the pinnacles off Black Rock that night to save his tank. He knew of night beasts who hear splashing as the sound of injury and an easy meal. So he descended on rationale; yes, he could be with a buddy. They’d drift to separate pursuits and meet on the beach, which would be no safer and could be more worrisome if either was late or came out elsewhere.
Beyond that, it was a moderate swim to the pinnacles off the point, even if the point was a bit farther out than the rock. It felt manageable with no shore break. And things began smoothly. A camera requires two hands, leaving no hand for the flashlight in the inky darkness. Not to worry, Ravi’s flashlight revealed some lovely coral, a sleeping parrotfish, and a few ghastly conger eels. Then he wedged it inside his buoyancy jacket to free his hands for the camera. He worked switches by memory until the flashlight squirmed to shine up under his chin, blinding him and falling out—till he grabbed it, camera in the other hand, gaining a valuable lesson underwater, that something dropped can be retrieved with presence of mind and an easy reach. But this felt awkward, till he turned and gasped, nose to nose with a giant moray eel.
The eel wasn’t so much bigger unless they went back-to-back on tiptoes. The eel would have won by a foot and a half with similar girth. Worse was the moray’s presumption. Opening wide on an obtrusive display of long teeth in many rows crowding the fleshy maw, the eel assessed plausibility on swallowing the prey before him. Ravi cooperated, as it were, cringing to more palatable size.
As heart and sphincter went peripatetic in the face of death, he turned away, one hand for his light, th
e other on his camera and no hand for the knife strapped to his calf. What could he do with a knife anyway, stab a giant moray? He might discourage it, but bleeding could encourage others. Or an attack might trigger response in kind. Then Ravi would bleed and feel discouraged. Dousing his light to see how things might look, he stayed deep and turned the light back on.
In flight over fight, his muscles jammed into overdrive on adrenaline. He sensed survival and made a note to buy a spare light. But he slowed on realizing practicality in the sea, its nature based on need, not greed. Small fry gobble plankton. Boxfish eat small fry, and so on up the menu. Gill breathers don’t kill for sport, status, or compensation for lesser attributes—or mental derangement or photo-ops. Hunger and defense drive the system. He suddenly stopped. Some people are naturally friendly, engaging and curious. Some seem like old souls who know their way around, who comprehend compassion and a soft touch. This so-called giant hails from forebears and a social order more orderly than my own! So?
So the flight stopped a long but short way back. Ravi turned as the giant also turned, perhaps lured by the light now shining his way. Ravi turned the light askew then shone it on himself so the giant could see: no harm intended, and a diver could not be prey without severe risk of indigestion and heartburn on so much neoprene, nylon, plastic, and steel. Giant moray snaked gracefully back to proximity as the camera rose on an emotive subject lit in dramatic overtone and nuance… et voila! Aiming one-handed, flashlight in the other, Ravi held his breath so noise and bubbles would cease. And off the point in faint glow, a tableau formed. Two tentative beings assessed the nature and intention of each other on a chance meeting in the dark.
The big galoot came on like a stalker with eye contact and intense curiosity. They scanned. One sniffed the strange, glass dome. The other made a soft clicking noise, from eyes to mottled skin to dilating nostrils, four of them, and scads of teeth defying a neat tuck into the maw, some in need of flossing. The eel opened wide to push water over the gills and purse a word, Aaaloha. Giant moray eased into communion as yet unseen through a lens.
“Photos by Ravi Rockulz” in National Geographic changed life for three days. With greatness came cash for better camera stuff with more functions a pro might need. Cash remained for celebration into the wee hours, with more cash plunked down on the waitress tray and reciprocal gratitude into the night, no cash required.
Life changed. Here was vision and purpose instead of monotony. Here was the ephemeral nature of greatness; it fades unless fed. So he stepped up. He’d cleared the outfield wall and could do it again, though he feared the eerie air of invincibility. What if he couldn’t? Development requires error. What if he failed?
So he practiced humility until a great photographer said he used the same strobe as Ravi because of the focus-light setting that let it serve as a flashlight, freeing things up. “Don’t you love it?” Ravi blushed. Who knew? So many buttons!
The old pro saw—“Oh, man! You held a light out to the side!” Ravi did not deny it, and greatness got boosted again.
The bad news was that he couldn’t share his success with Basha Rivka. Or he chose not to; it was so premature. Maybe he held back in self-defense against her inevitable critique: So what? You’ll retire now? So now what do I tell them? You took a picture of a fish and retired, except for the swim schlep every day of your life?
The questions could sting or itch. Best to keep it under wraps until one more magazine credit, or maybe three more.
When You Least Expect It
But futures form up with minds of their own. No matter how many photos of exquisite beauty Ravi sent off, they came back with rejection forms. He called to ask why, when his shots were clearly superior to what appeared in the magazine, not that those shots are bad, Sir, it’s just that… And he got the news:
1. We’re not your personal gallery.
2. You got lucky on some eel shots. Your white balance was off, and your water was a bit turbid. You warranted coverage, and we hope you enjoyed the exposure.
3. You were good to send us your photos. They are, for the most part, well done, but…
4. We don’t build stories on photos. We commission photos to go with our stories.
“Okay, then. Perfect! Give me a commission.”
5. Have your agent make contact.
“I don’t have an agent.”
6. Get one. If you’re good enough for us, you’re good enough to get an agent. We can’t answer individual inquiries. Thank you. Good luck with your search elsewhere. Good-bye.
At least he wouldn’t hear his mother’s lament. But he could hear the voice within. It was no use sending his work to New York in search of an agent. He proved it, soliciting fifteen agents. All said no in three stock forms:
1. You’re very talented, but how would I market your skills?
2. Your skills are greatly apparent, but we’re not taking new clients at this point in time.
3. You’re very good to send us your pictures, but your work does not fit our current needs. Please feel free to stay in touch, and best of luck on your search elsewhere.
Low expectation helped soften the blow. It would be tough enough on iffy photos, but what could be wrong with flawless work? Oh, sure, a speck might show up on scrutiny, or maybe the New York highbrows didn’t know that larvaceans are a pelagic tunicate and not digital noise. Nothing mattered east of the Mississippi, where all was known. So a world-class photog reeled on rejection coming quick as a lightning left jab every time he looked up.
Rejection takes a toll. Without hope, fatigue gains momentum. So a hard-working dive instructor again felt the weight of sundown. A man can relax over a beer and some bud, can ease off at last. Disappointment in the mix, however, can hinder easy transit to middle age. Not that thirty-something was middle yet. But times got heavier on tough topics, like vigor, self-esteem, and waning youth.
It got worse when an independent producer called one evening to praise Ravi’s work: “Nobody has captured pelagic tunicates in a casual reef context as well as you.”
At last!
Who was this guy? “I’ve done very well the last three years with a docudrama on three Civil War skirmishes and a scathing look at health care in the Piedmont. But never mind all that.” Albert Huffman was on to reefs, in the news and dying fast. Highlighting their demise could get media play all right. “What do you have in mind?”
Ravi laughed. “I’m sitting here drinking a beer.” And smoking a joint. “I don’t have anything in mind. I could think of something. What do you have in mind?”
“I can tell you this, Ravid…” Albert Huffman rhymed it with “David,” suggesting an animal unhinged. But Ravi let it go; better to bag big game than swat at gnats. “Danger gets their attention. This should be easy. You’re out there every day, in a world of danger. We need to focus on threats. We’ll ring the bell. Guaranteed. Putting the ingredients together is my specialty.”
“I don’t sense the ocean as threatening.”
“Of course you don’t. That’s why you’ll be the hero of this thing because you look death in the eye and go on about your business. Death is like a… like a water cooler or a coffeemaker to you.”
“I’m afraid as the next guy. If I sense death or danger, I leave.”
“You know what I mean. Take sharks. You see sharks every day.”
“No. Not every day. But I see them.”
“Bingo! Sharks. Death and danger. We’ll open on everyone’s worst nightmare, what people fear! Eaten by sharks! Perfect.”
“But they’re mostly whitetip reef sharks.”
“How big?”
“Some get ten or twelve feet, but—”
“Perfect! Can you get close to them?”
“They’re whitetips, like puppy dogs. You can put your arm around them. We had a baby out at Molokini we named Oliver. He lived on a ledge. He grew up, and he’s still out there and checks us out every time. No death. No danger. He’s a friend.”
“He’s
a shark, right? He’s got teeth, right? Shark teeth in rows, right? I got the working title: Vicious Killers of the Deep. But I’ll tell you what, bubby, I think that working title should make it all the way, if you catch my drift.”
“Pshh. Oliver? Vicious? He’s friendly. Wait! I got it! I was afraid! Deathly afraid! I almost walked on water!”
“What! What is it? Better than sharks? More teeth? Bigger?”
“Shit!”
“No, what? It’s okay. Tell me!”
“Shit! I’m telling you! I saw shit! It’s a problem here, with so many people flushing number two, and the sewage treatment plant so small; it overflows, and they post in the newspaper that back in May you swam in shit. And the charter boats dump their shit too. I’m telling you, no tiger shark or white shark or any shark scares me more than turds. You know they can make you very sick!”
“Oh… Man…”
“What? You want danger? I’m telling you: turds! That’s danger, and they’re showing up in shoals. You can be out there in so much beauty, and next thing you know, you’re surrounded. This is a terrific idea! Hey, Turdfish Killers of the Deep! Yes?”
“Look. You want to do the vicious killers thing or not?”
“Yes! Blind mullet! Turdfish killers! Of the deep!”
“God.” Then came silence. Was it a religious moment, a moment of insight and gratitude? Or exasperation? Albert Huffman murmured, “I’ll run it by the execs. But they won’t buy it.”
“Who are the execs?”
“You know. The producers.”
Reefdog Page 5