6

“Check My Air, Check My Air!”

W hile I was waiting for topside to answer my distress calls, I continue to twist and turn my free flow valve, hoping I had accidently bumped it to the off position. During this brief few seconds of panic, I’m trying to have positive thoughts; surely my air is about to come back on and I can continue with my work . This was wishful thinking.

All of a sudden, an unfamiliar voice comes over the com speaking loudly, and I could hear the panic in his voice, shouting over and over, “GET BACK TO THE JET SLED, GET BACK TO THE JET SLED”!

I am standing down inside the excavation at the end of the fourth pipeline joint, some 160 feet from the jet sled, when I receive an alarming communication. As the message echoes in my head, my heart begins racing as I realize the other sound I’m hearing is my air pressure slowly fading away. The intoxication of nitrogen narcosis has now saturated my entire body and I’m finding it hard to make decisions. Standing in total darkness and confused, I realize I don’t know for sure what direction the jet sled is. I can tell from reaching down and touching the pipe, it has to be either to the right or to the left. This simple decision has to be made immediately, because I am running out of precious seconds.

I quickly turn to my left and begin running as fast as I can go in deep water, wearing heavy dive gear. The loud voice on the com has stopped and all I can hear now is the last bit of air pressure coming from an exhausted system. As I lean into a forward direction heading for the sled, I suddenly have a horrible thought. What if I run into the back of the sled and break the glass in my helmet? I quickly stick my hands out in front to avoid slamming into this huge machine. By this time, I am heaving on the oral nasal for the last bit of air in the system. Even though I’m in the best physical condition of my life, I suddenly have to make the hardest 160-foot run in dive history.

On my arrival to the jet sled, the first thing I feel is the knotted rope hanging from the machine. I have to admit, making it back to the sled gave me a bit of relief. However, this small fragment of comfort didn’t take away the fear from knowing that I am almost totally out of air.

Getting a good grip on the knotted rope, I begin climbing out of the ditch and suddenly remember I have a small bailout bottle on my back - this bottle held extra air in case of an emergency. How could I have forgotten this? Being drunk from the effects of nitrogen narcosis, along with a measure of panic, would be enough to confuse anyone.

I immediately reach up with one hand and start to turn the valve on my bailout, while holding onto the rope with the other hand. Suspended still hanging over the ditch, I have another simple task. I was to turn the valve to the open position. Is it to the left or to the right? Now almost to the point of passing out, I begin twisting the bailout valve to the left… I keep turning and turning, but nothing is happening. It can’t be! I believe when I first discovered my air problem, when all the chaos began, I must have accidentally turned on my bailout bottle. This whole time, I was using up my emergency air. I have to face the fact that my last few pounds of air are just about spent.

My energy is beginning to fade. I am now struggling for every breath, trying hard to inhale the last bit of air remaining in the system. Against all odds, I continue to climb up this two-story monster, thinking if I could just make it back to the top, somehow, some way, they would get my air back on. Surely, by this time a standby diver is on his way down.

As I concentrate on these positive thoughts while scaling this huge machine, my forward motion is halted. I suddenly realize my dive line has snagged somewhere behind me. My heart sinks.