Something different

I wanted to experiment a little with this post about the Yongala. I only did that once, with the tree, and I think it turned out well, but I had more time to revise that. I haven't revised this at all. It's straight from the gut, which means that it's highly probable that there's a bit of purple prose present. One reason I just pumped it out is this: I leave Australia tomorrow. Yep.

I don't know if I'll do a retrospective or anything--I certainly won't do one tonight, and likely will hold off until I've had some time to digest everything that's happened this semester. I do have a post in the tank that may or may not ever see the relatively dim light of this blog that addresses one thing in particular, but we'll see what happens. At any rate, expect some New Zealand updates, if not while we're in the country than immediately afterwards. Thanks to everyone who's been reading. Thanks especially to those that leave comments!

And now, the aforementioned short Yongala piece:

We moored, and the boat, relatively calm save a few jarring bumps on the three-hour ride out to the wreck, immediately began to roll and pitch. The divemasters had warned us of the likelihood of seasickness this far out on the water, but my stomach, notoriously weak, had never really been troubled by the movement of ships. But this time was different—my equilibrium was thrown off immediately, causing me to lose the physical composure that had allowed me to read (read!) on the moving boat. Waves of intense nausea overwhelmed me, making it nearly impossible to don my wetsuit, adjust my BCD, slip on my fins. John, a bald man with a Patrick Stewart face and disconcertingly large scar on his stomach who would be leading our dive, put me together: “Get this boy in the water!” No glasses, just a less-than-prescription mask the world was blurry sweat inched out my pores down my face shuffling along “Get him in!” can’t lift my feet (fins) “Stand here. Left hand on weights, right on regulator and mask. Go!” giant stride…falling…bliss. As soon as I hit the water, the nausea vanished, whisked away by the cool waters of the Pacific. I swam to the rope, and began my descent.

The S.S. Yongala wrecked in March 1911, en route to Townsville from Mackay. It was a large steel passenger and freight steamer, 111 meters long, 14 deep. Currently it lies 29 meters below the surface, an isolated monument three hours off the Townsville shore. Over the years, coral has slowly covered the ship’s frame, coating it in branches and fans of purple and yellow, a patch of anemones, and the occasional fire coral. (Worried passenger: “How do we identify fire coral?” Our guides: “Touch everything. When it feels like you just stuck your hand in boiling water, that’s fire coral”). The coral overcoat, combined with the isolation, is the reason people pay to dive the Yongala. The wreck, on its own, is not particularly interesting; divers are forbidden from penetrating what is left of the structure, and there are few remnants of whatever the vessel had been carrying on its last day. The coral, however, attracts marine life. It is the only coral for miles around, and that is made abundantly clear as soon as the wreck is reached.

I looked to my left, and almost lost my regulator. There—majestic, serene, enormous—was a manta ray. It glided through the water, probably six feet across, attended by dozens of cleaner fish feasting on the ray’s leftovers. It was alien. It was prehistoric. It made it all worth it. This summer I was perhaps reluctant to take the scuba certification class, I had a bad experience in Vietnam. But this…this manta ray made it all—the money, the nausea, everything—worth it. I will never forget that moment.

The ray was only the start of our amazing marine life adventure. A laundry list of sorts: a bull ray (almost as large as the manta), sea snakes (writhing away from John’s grasp or slithering vertically through the water), turtles (asleep), moray eel (motionless but alert), angelfish (vividly colored), giant travelly and Maori wrasse and grouper (large, four foot fish). It was the most diverse place we’ve dived in terms of marine life, and the coral wasn’t half bad either. Not as structurally impressive as the Great Barrier Reef itself, but what it lacked in stature it made up for in color and form.

The boat’s engines revved, and we started the trek back to Townsville. The nausea was gone, and I smiled an irrepressible smile.