I took my freediving very seriously. To be successful at this sport you need good lungs, acute powers of observation (if you want good fish) and considerable mental discipline. I could hold my breath for close to 4 minutes on a good day. The trick is to partially hyperventilate (completely emptying your lungs between several rapid, deep breaths) and then putting yourself into a light trance as you dive, swimming in slow motion to conserve oxygen. Many times I have swum over a 100 yards underwater (both ways in an Olympic pool) to prove this point to friends, and for training. This equals about 300ft, which is the same as making a 150ft dive straight down. I've freedived close to this depth many times, usually chasing fish or dropped equipment down a steep reef face.
Although we dived almost daily in summertime, and occasionally encountered sharks, I ran into a seriously Great White shark only once; what we call a White Pointer shark here in Australia. If you dive a lot in Australian waters, this is inevitable. It was a frightening experience indeed, and one I was lucky to live through. But it also had an immensely funny side.
I was diving alone about a mile offshore in open water, chasing some big old flathead and flounder on a deep sand bank in about 80 ft of water. That is a solid freediving depth, but not too difficult for an experienced freediver. If you divide up 3 minutes underwater breath-holding time, it takes about 60 seconds to get to the bottom, which gives you 60 seconds bottom time if you allow another 60 seconds to get back to the surface.
Anyway, back to my story... I got separated from my Dad, which was pretty typical for us, about an hour back. I tend to dive long and deep through underwater caves and overhangs, while Dad generally hunts around the reef tops and sides, so it's not hard to lose each other. Dad was an excellent diver and had been an English Channel swimmer in his youth, but was getting on in years and had a few health problems. He could still easily make a 50 ft dive at this time, but generally took it easy so as not to overstress his heart. We both scoffed at scuba gear, which in truth mean we were jealous because we could not afford the equipment. I have scuba dived and its a lot of fun, but there is nothing like the sheer freedom of diving with minimal equipment. It's about as close as you can get to flying, or of having an OBE while still in your physical body. One flick of the flippers and you soar like a bird. . .
I had a catchbag of bleeding fish strapped to my waist. I know this is a really silly scenario for any experienced diver, most especially in open waters where you are more likely to run into sharks. I usually towed a floating surface catch bag, but we were having problems with pilfering sea lions and leopard seals around this particular island. These huge marine beasties have big teeth, belligerent attitudes, and don't like taking no for an answer when food is involved.
I was in the middle of the hunt and thoroughly enjoying the day's diving. The water was brilliantly clear with about a hundred yards visibility. Then something caught my attention to seaward. It was just a vague, fleeting shadow in the corner of my eye at first, past the limits of vision where the sea turned into a shadowy blue wall. I stopped and hovered a few times to look at it, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me. It looked like the shadow a large boat cast, but when I broke surface there were no boats in sight. Our own boat was nosed up on the island beach about a mile away. Looking around, I suddenly felt anxious and my whole back tingled as if I were being watched. Yes, that was it; I was diving way too far off shore for common sense -- especially diving alone in open water with a swag of bleeding flounder. I decided not to push my luck further and to make my way back to the island.
But then, right at the edge of my vision, the big fins and deep, bloated gut of a big old Noah's Ark (a Great White shark, probably 18ft long) appeared like a submarine out of the deep-blue haze. It's mouth opened and closed several times as if it were yawning and saying, "Oh dear, tisk, tisk, tisk. It seems another silly diver has gotten lost in my territory. Hmmm, I wish I had not eaten all those seals for breakfast; but they were soooo tender and yummy. Now, I really must decide, am I hungry or am I not hungry? Shall I eat this little diver? Or shall we play a little game?" My body pumped itself chock full of adrenalin and my blood froze. Time stood still and my whole life flashed before my eyes, as I suddenly realized why so many Aussie spearfishermen wear brown underwear. I'd been diving for several years and had seen plenty of sharks before, but never a man-eater this big. It was bloody huge. I looked down at my pitifully inadequate speargun and thought, "Oh God. . . no. . .please. . .not like this."
I started swimming backwards as fast as my legs could propel me, trailing my loaded speargun with the safety off, rolling every half-minute or so to catch a few gulps of air. I dropped one fish but kept the rest in my catch bag because I knew the shark had already seen me. Comparing the size of the shark to the size of my catch, it would only amount to an appetizer. If I could see him, then he was definitely aware of me and I might just be able to use the other fish to distract him later, if he got too close. I kept my eyes glued on him, still swimming backwards as I made for shore. This was exhausting work and I soon found myself swimming in wide circles. He was circling me and I had nowhere to hide. The outer reef was about 500 yards shoreward. I had no choice but to head for shore, even if it meant swimming towards the shark at times.
My thoughts turned to my equipment. I had a good knife, although this would be totally useless against a shark. But I had a really excellent speargun. Made of a single piece of Marranti timber, I had carved it myself and rigged it Queensland style (meaning I had a single 3/4in jelly-rubber with a 4 to 1 stretch). I was the only person I knew who could load it. It held a heavy 5ft-6in stainless-steel spear with a slim tungsten-tipped killer spearhead, handmade by Dad. My gun had a range of 20ft and would take out anything it hit. I was pretty confident that if push came to shove I could spear the shark. But I would have to be able to see it to shoot it. And I would have to hit it in just the right spot, somewhere alone the lateral line, otherwise I'd just really, really, really piss it off and would probably get torn apart in the process. We had a homemade 12 gage power-head back in the boat (what we call a Smokey in Australia), but this was still in the experimental stage -- meaning it was too temperamental and dangerous to use.
Great White's are capable of good speed, but they usually swim fairly slowly along the bottom. Their primary food sources are seals and sea lions, but they will eat just about anything. They are renown for their cunning and have a knack of sneaking up their prey from behind and below. Their attack pattern is fairly well known: typically, they attack at a walking pace, rising from below to bite off a leg, and then diving to the bottom to eat it. They repeat this once more, taking another leg, and then they come back for the main course and take what's left to the bottom for a deepwater feast. Their bellies are white, but they have great camouflage on top. Like Tiger Sharks, they are incredibly difficult to spot when they are swimming slowly across a weedy or broken bottom - vague, ghost-like shadows in the corner of your eye. They always attack from below and/or behind, which is not a comforting thought for any swimmer. I had heard rumors that if you turn and face them they veer off. So I planned to always face the shark, re why I was swimming backwards.
My tactic seemed to be working and the outer reef grew closer, as the shark circled and steadily decreased the distance between us. By the time I got within sight of the outer reef, it had closed to about 25 meters. I could make out the scars that covered its body. It had an eye the size of a tennis ball that never shifted from me. Occasionally, its pectoral fins stretched down and it tensed and shivered and its movements became jerky, which are really, really bad signs. This means the shark is anxious and considering attacking. And the closer I got to the reef face the more anxious it became. I did not hate the shark, but was justifiably terrified of it. I would much rather we had gone our own separate ways in peace.
I spotted an opening or blowhole about 20ft down the face that I remembered swimming through a few weeks back. If I remembered correctly, this led to an underwater cave on the other side of the reef. Running out of options, I bounced off the reef and slid down its face to the blowhole. This meant turning my back on the great beast and my spine crawled and I had trouble moving, almost paralyzed by fear. I just fitted through the opening, dragging my trusty speargun after me, as I sensed the shark almost brushing my flippers as it swooped after me. The shark was too big to follow me in here so I was safe for the moment. But if I was wrong about this blowhole I was not looking forward to my kamikaze plan B.
I remember shouting, "I love this reef!" in my mind as I clawed my way into it. At that moment I loved it passionately, beyond anything else in the universe. It was my mother, my home, my spiritual savior and my one true love all wrapped up in one. My free hand tenderly caressed the rough weed and coral as I wriggled and clawed and swam deeper and deeper into its heavy blackness. Instinctively, I felt myself passing the point of no return. If I turned back now, I would not make it back to the surface before blacking out. It was not that deep but I was burning a whole lot of energy. Then hope flared as I saw a glimmer of light ahead, as the blowhole widened and opened into an underwater grotto. Luck was surely with me today, as I did not recognize this as being the one I thought I had so cleverly remembered.
I grabbed a few much-needed lungfuls of air and headed back down. I knew I did not have long before the shark found its way around the reef to where I was. I emptied my catch bag into a small gully and slashed open the fish to spread their blood through the water. This would hopefully attract the shark to my decoy. I was fully aware that I was being hunted and could not relax for a moment. I scarpered for the beach as fast as my fins would carry me through the towering reefs and valleys, sticking like glue to whatever cover I could find. I hugged reef faces and dived through caves and overhangs and slid through coral and deep patches of brown kelp, my eyes ever watchful for the hunting shark.
I had lost sight of the shark after entering the blowhole, but this did not make me any happier. It knew the ocean better than any diver and had amazing senses. I knew it was closing in on me fast. My fish decoy would only slow it down for a moment and I still had a solid swim ahead of me to get to the beach.
About 250 yards from shore I found my Dad's speargun floating in about 20ft of water. It had been fired and the butt was floating just beneath the surface. Time stood still and a big, dry lump formed in my throat. I spun around every few seconds, half-expecting the great beast to reappear behind me. I grabbed Dad's gun and loaded it (just in case) and swam full power for shore, my numb, cramped legs burning acid and my eyes darting everywhere as I watched for the shark. I also looked for more of Dad's equipment and visions of finding bits and pieces of his body flashed through my mind.
I half-expected the shark to suddenly reappear and my mind played tricks on me. I saw shark-like shadows and bits of bleeding flesh everywhere in the weed and coral around me. I was enraged, grief-stricken and terrified all at the same time; which is a peculiar mixture to say the least. If I saw the shark again, part of me planned to feed it both my spears and send it to a watery grave. Another part of me planned to survive by continuing our little game of cat and mouse. It was much bigger and faster than me, with keener underwater senses, but I was smarter and more agile and now had two stainless-steel spears for it to reckon with. My eyes scanned every cave and overhang and piece of cover available. My father was my best mate and I loved him dearly. Visions of stalking and killing the shark and then trying to cut Dad's body out of its bloated white gut flashed through my mind. So also did terrifying images of great chomping teeth, severed arteries and blood-foaming water. The madness of imminent death was most truly upon me and the memory of this still makes me shudder.
I finally got back to shore and dragged myself exhausted through the wash onto the beach. Kissing the hot sand, I vomited bile and salt water as I unhitched my gear with white, bleeding hands. (Clawing through a coral reef is not kind to bare skin). I got up and staggered towards our boat a hundred yards away, my legs feeling like lead and my stomach heaving. I fell to my knees and almost blacked out several times, and only my will and adrenalin kept me moving. I fell onto the boat, pushed off and powered out through the light surf, heading back to where I'd found Dad's gun. I circled and searched but found no sign of him or of any more equipment. We had no working radio, so I would have to head for the mainland, several miles away, to alert Search and Rescue.
I planed back to the island to grab our spare fuel off the beach, ramming the cruiser's nose up onto the sand and jumping out -- to find Dad sunbathing on the sand, swigging on a cold tinny of Fosters and scoffing a cheese-and-tomato sandwich. My vision went in and out of focus several times, doing a kind of boom-boom visual double-take. I wiped my eyes and sank to the sand to ease my trembling knees, thinking I was seeing things. But there he was as large as life, tossing me a cold tinny as if nothing had happened. I swallowed that tinny down in one go, and mate, damn that beer tasted good!
Apparently, Dad had got tired and hungry and had fired his spear into the sand to mark a good fishing hole, where he had seen some good-sized Skipjack feeding. He planned to come back with the boat and do some leisurely fishing later. However, after he left, the spear must have fallen flat on the sand and submerged the colored speargun butt, which he had used as a marker buoy. Dad said he had seen me swimming back to shore like a man possessed, but he could not catch me. And then, apparently, I almost ran him down with the cruiser as I headed back out to look for him. He thought I had gone totally nuts, so decided to head back to the beach and call it a day. When I told him what happened, we both collapsed on the beach laughing our heads off. Fortunately, Dad had not come back as empty handed as I did, bagging a couple of beautiful Coral Trout and Pink Wrasse, and a few lobster to boot.
We drank a lot of beer that afternoon (we always took plenty on diving trips, err, for medicinal purposes) and camped overnight on the island beach. It was a warm night and I managed to net a few Blue-Manna crabs off the beach just after sunset, and I found some edible-looking shellfish, seaweed and sea urchin-like thingies on the reef top. Rigging a makeshift BBQ from an old piece of tin we'd found, we feasted on fish and lobster and crab, and other less-identifiable but tasty stuff we broiled with dashes of Worstershire sauce and garnished with baby kelp. I still remember how wonderful it all tasted and how the night felt so warm and comforting. I don't know if it was my near miss with the shark or not, but this was probably the most alive-feeling moment of my entire life.
All in all, thinking back, this is probably the happiest and most vivid memory I have of my father. I think that evening was also the happiest we ever shared together. I even remember the conversation, which revolved around space exploration, UFO's and meteors, and how Dad played his mouth organ while I sang badly.
Epilogue...
I could not bring myself to go diving again for several weeks, and mostly stayed in the boat fishing while Dad dived. When I finally got tired of Dad's chicken noises, I went down alone at sunset to the seaward side of the causeway bridge to face my fears. There is a fierce current passing through this bridge and the ocean floor beneath it had been dredged to about 60 ft. This is a dangerous dive, but if you swam fifty-yards seaward, and then timed it right and dived deep, the ten-knot current catches and carries you flying along the bottom of the channel, where all the good fish are. I repeated this a few times with some success and, just before dark I bagged a beautiful 30lb Mulloway. These are a fast, open water fish and I don't know who was more surprised, me or the fish, when my snap shot connected just below it's neck on the lateral line and killed it instantly.
With my catch-bag strapped to my weight-belt and the big fish's tailfin occasionally twitching in my face (just nerves), I headed back to shore, using the causeway lights to guide me. Halfway back, about 500 yards from shore in 12 feet of water, it suddenly got totally dark as the lights on the causeway went out. It was probably a power cut, I thought. But the moon was up and I could see just enough to find my way back, swimming closer to the rocky causeway. All during the dive I had been suppressing the memory and residual feelings from my previous close encounter. I was (how shall I say it) reasonably anxious at this point, but was determined to overcome my fears. And then something very big and heavy hit my right hip and rammed me into the rock wall, knocking my mask off in the process. My first thought was "Damn, my leg's gone!" thinking a shark had hit me and taken my leg off. (I was glad I had my brown underwear on, I kid you not).
Time froze and everything happened in slow motion. I quickly replaced and cleared my mask with one hand, while I struggled to drag my speargun to bear with the other, as a huge black shape bore swiftly down on me. It was massive and I thought for sure my numbers were up. I remember thinking to myself "You idiot! What the hell am I doing out here at night!" If I could only slow it down for a few seconds, I could be up on the rocks in a moment. There was no pain, but I had no time to check my leg. If my femoral artery were severed, I knew I'd pass out in less than thirty seconds through blood loss, so whatever I did had to be really quick. The terrifying black shape veered, slowed and rolled over towards me, just as my speargun came level with it's head. When it was six-feet from the end of my speargun, aiming for where I thought the shark's mouth would be in the gloom, I roared and swore defiantly and prepared to feed it spear. And then my finger froze on the trigger as the huge face of a Leopard Seal appeared before me.
Lowering my gun and patting my intact right leg, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, hug it or shoot it. Leopard seals are quite dangerous, but after what I had just been through the thought of it biting me seemed trivial. I slipped on the safety and rattled my gun at it. Then it moved in, almost touching my facemask, and lifted its head clean out of the water. I glanced down and saw it was standing on the ocean floor, which was at least 10 feet deep. I hastily rethought the situation and decided that a bit of diplomacy would not go astray here. Reaching into my catch bag, I pulled out a couple of decent fish (but not my prized Mulloway) and pushed these towards him. I swear that Leopard seal raised its eyebrows and winked at me before it dived after the fish.
I made it back to the shore with no more trouble and quickly washed out my wetsuit. I should have been really shaken up, but could not help laughing all the way home. Dad totally cracked up when I told him what had happened. And at some point near the end of the bottle of Scotch we shared, I suddenly realized that I had lost my fear of just about anything I could imagine. Life's like that I suppose, sad and funny, traumatic and exciting, frightening and exhilarating, predictable and surprising, all wrapped up in one.
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