As I surface from a beautiful dive with two guests and my videographer, I find out there's some sort of medical emergency involving one of my instructors who was out on a fun dive (no guests). She's just gone to 366 feet (111 meters) and shot to the surface.
For reference, after one hundred feet, you start feeling a little drunk. At two hundred feet, you've just pounded the ugly half of a bottle of Jack Daniels. Past two hundred, the oxygen in the air you're breathing becomes toxic. You start losing control of your extremities; your arms and legs twitch uncontrollably. Keep going, and you lose vision and hearing. Then you have a seizure and drown.
Apparently she panicked when she went blind.
So I'm still wet from my dive, and I'm arranging emergency evac for this girl who can't feel her arms and legs, and is drifting in and out of consciousness. There are so many reasons why she should be dead, I'm actually pretty surprised she's still twitching.
An hour later, we're putting her in the hyperbaric chamber. But they need a diver to go in there with her in case she seizes during recompression. The normal tender is on holiday in Bali. The nurses don't dive. Guess I'm going in.
It's a two person chamber: a metal tube about seven feet long and five feet in diameter. It is not big. Quite the opposite, it is very very small. Over-sized coffin is just about the right image.
No synthetic fibers, no electronics allowed inside; compressed 100% oxygen is serious combustion risk. In fact, there's a hose system to partially flood the chamber in case of fire. A tiny metal tube, pressurized, with a fire inside? Not cool.
We get all cozy, locked in nice and tight. Down to sixty feet we go (pressure-wise), sealed up for a few hours.
It wasn't so bad in the beginning. Mostly just chilling out, being mildly bored (I had forgotten to grab my book when I was arranging the emergency evac, silly me).
Your voice sounds different in there. It's the density of the air, I think. Sound travels faster, everything is more high-pitched.
After a while, you start to feel like you could really go all-the-way insane in there. You completely lose track of time, except for the doctor's voice over the ancient staticky radio telling you how many hours left. Nothing to do. No space. Sit. Lie down. Fidget. Sit up. The witty banter dies out. You need to pee. But you're stuck in the chamber. Fidget. Lie down. Sit up. You're hungry. There's no food. Lie down. Sit up. Fidget. Dust off the dried salt crystals on your legs from the morning's dive. You need a shower. Lie down. Fidget. Sit up. Try not to have a seizure. Fidget. Fidget.
On the bright side, cigarettes and beer are remarkably effective after you've been chambered. Of course, if you were actually sick when you went in, those things are forbidden, so it's a benefit reserved for tenders. Zing!
Epilogue.
The girl is still having motor function difficulties in her legs, but otherwise, she's made a decently miraculous recovery, considering there's a grocery list of reasons why she should be hanging out with Davy Jones right now. She was chambered again today for five hours; I was locked out for 24 hours, doctor's orders, so some other lucky sucker won the tender prize today. But it looks like I might be headed back in tomorrow. Doh.
And one more final note for those thinking about learning to dive: please don't let this scare you; this girl didn't have an accident. She fully intended on going that deep. She didn't tell anyone beforehand (because we would have stopped her), but it wasn't an accident (except maybe for the panicking part). I suspect some serious preexisting mental health problems or unprecedented stupidity, which I guess are the same thing. She's definitely getting a psych eval before getting discharged. Whatever, the story's about me anyway, not her. Focus!
Diving is fun and safe. Seriously.
Wish you were here making funny faces in the tiny chamber windows.
