Like the radiation off hot coals, the August Texas heat hovered over the rocky lakeside. It was only 11:00 am and the thermometer read 97 degrees. Fluorescently colored gear littered the spaces between bodies prudently covered in light, drapey clothing, sunscreeen, and hats. A few teenage die-hards lay basking - er, broiling in the sun - properly buttered and seasoned with coconut oil and iodine, and tenderized in briny perspiration. 200 feet out in the lake, two small buoys bobbed and tossed, waving red flags with a diagonal white stripe running right to left. I sat slightly off the shore, in the shade, with a Sprite in one hand and a snorkel at my feet. The advanced dives were not scheduled until noon. By then we would be ready to escape the fiery sun to cooler waters and more scaly company.

The breeze was blowing a good 15 mph from the south -- nice to have wind, but it was coming from the even hotter Chihuahua desert of Mexico. The water visibility had plummeted to a mere 6 inches. Navigation through the silt promised to be interesting.

Surprisingly, my navigation and compass dive went through without a hitch, save for "getting lost" one foot from the safety line at the bottom of the test area. My buddy, Joe, was first rate as far as dive-mates went - we stuck together, communicated well, and anticipated each other's next moves.

My second dive, unfortunately, was not as easy. I was paired with a new buddy -- Mikey. I sat on a rock practicing my knots -- the next dive was search and recovery and required a few rope skills. Three wives sat gossiping around me -- they were also tying knots, the cross-stitch kind. "WIVES": a specific connotation, something I hope not to be, a spouse, maybe, but not WIFE.

Mike, my new partner, toddled up the hill. His dive skin unzipped to his navel revealed a pouch most kids outgrow at age four or five. Mikey's moustache and height gave away his age, though; he looked to be mid-twenty. Mikey's PADI diving manual lay in shreds in his hands -- he was madly searching for the chapter on search and recovery. Reaching me, he looked up and said that he didn't know that we had to learn knots. "It's in the chapter, Mike," I replied. "I didn't get to that chapter yet," he answered. "I've got to get my tank refilled before we dive," he said. I apprehensively looked up at him, having refilled my tank an hour ago during lunch when most intelligent people would refill a tank. I sighed, in temperatures now over 100. The air station was a good 15 minute drive one way and I had been hoping to get into the cooling water immediately. "OK," I said, "But I will be the boss on the dive since I have read the chapter and can do the knots. You will listen to my briefing when you get back and will do as I tell you." "That's fine," he said with a distinctive listhp, "I'll listhen to you." He waddled off to his car.

An hour later he arrived back. (what? he got lost on a straight and narrow road? I should have anticipated our dive outcome then.) "OK, dude," I said, "Let's get going." Entering the water, I must admit, was the most challenging task of the day. Steep rocks with green slime oozing into the lake, and here I stood with a 30 lb. tank, 8 lb. weight belt, mask snorkel, fins, and diving buoy (actually a milk carton on a rope) to be carried down. Most suckers put their gear on above the rockline and somehow manage to pick through the rocks without busting their asses. I attached my tank, aired up my B.C., and heaved it into the water, strapped on my weights and mask, and eased down the slope. Infinitely better than a broken tailbone, I assure you. Mikey, of course, dragged his gear down, slipped twice and conked his tank against every rock in his way. No fish was going to be surprised to see Mikey. Three instructors finally helped him with his tank and B.C. and lowered him into the water.

I pulled a Doctor Pepper can weighted with rocks out of my B.C. pocket and hurled it into the murky lake inlet. "Ok, Mikey, let's go get 'em!" I thought to myself.

We started down, er, I started down. Mikey couldn't get the air out of his B.C. since he was trying to dive head first into the water. Rule number one forgotten. He descended by some miracle and decided that HE was going to navigate with his superior skills. Head down, arms in front of him, with his gauges and compass dragging behind him, he bolted off into the murk. I caught a faint glimpse of his red fin flapping past my knee. I pivoted, grabbed his fin to alert him to stop, and was yanked like a lead line attached to Moby Dick. The guy was oblivious to me. I pulled my way up his leg and yanked at his arm. He stopped! Amazing. I gave him the best distressed buddy look and indicated that I could not see him if he swam more than a foot away and that we needed to communicate our moves to each other. I think Moby Dick would have understood a bit better than he.

After 20 minutes of following him around what seemed like the ENTIRE lake while searching for the Dr. Pepper can that I had dropped, I sensed that we weren't where we should be and indicated that we should surface. He seemed to be relieved (another bad sign), so we began ascending. I heard an increasingly louder boat sound. Not good. I stopped, but he kept going. Visions of torn flesh and blood-coated propeller flashed before my eyes. Engine noises were not my idea of surface greeting, but Mikey didn't seem to care. Let him get munched I thought. I waited. No body parts floated down. OK, time to go up. I saw increasing brightness and then sunshine, in the middle of the lake. I thought so. "God, that boat almost ran over me! How'd we get here?" Mikey bellowed. (Small wonders never cease.)

"How much air do you have left?" I asked. Mike squinted at his gauge. "About 300," he replied. That didn't sound right. I looked at my gauges again. 1200 lbs. Hmmm. "Do you have a leak in your gear?" I asked. Mikey grinned and gave me a guffah. "Nope, I always suck air like that." 300 lbs, I mused. He is a major reason for having an octopus in training dives, I thought.

With me in the lead, we headed back toward the training area, still searching. At this point, I began regretting not finding our Dr. Pepper can, but in 6" vis, it seemed impossible. We finally floundered to the shore on snorkels, since Mikey was out of air. (His swimming abilities matched his diving skills). We lugged ourselves up the slime and grime. "Where's your object?" asked the instructor. Mikey hummed a tune and shuffled his fins. This was a dilemma time for me. Do I tell the truth or do I say we found it and dropped it? "We couldn't see ANYTHING out there!" I went for the truth approach. The instructor said "I don't know, you may have to repeat the exercise..." I looked at Mike and back at my instructor, gave my best drop dead expression and climbed up the hill. My first dive buddy, Joe was relaxing in the shade when I reached the camp out. "How in the world did you find your object so quickly?" I asked him. "We didn't -- we carried down an extra Dr. Pepper can ... who's going to know?"

The rest of the day was quite good. We did a night dive, and that time poor Joe got stuck with Mikey. Incidentally, I took Joe home with me. (Not what you think). He tried out my new sofa bed, thank you very much. No hotel rooms in sight, and he hadn't planned on diving so late. I may have a solid dive buddy out of him, at least. He said that his old diving buddy got married off to a damned independent wife who carries her SCUBA gear, not needlepoint, to dive sites. Good woman! I like her already.

Copyright (C) 1996 CORINNE L. MCKAMEY