My simple dive trip was to Grand Cayman, British West Indies for a week-long “Total Submersion 2002.” PADI (Professional Association of Diving Instructors) sponsored the trip and I wrote about it for the editor, Ty Sawyer of Sport Diver Magazine.
The trip was anything but simple, unless you call having too much fun, simple.
Weather interrupted the diving mid-week. During the storm days I toured the island with a newlywed couple and editor Sawyer. I drove. My first time driving on the left side of the road. “Think left,” said the bride Mary, a dozen times before I had even turned on the ignition.
With my heart pounding at record speed, I pulled the van cautiously into traffic. It was surreal, but we made it safely to the island’s famous blowholes and to Pedro Saint James “castle,” which was the first 3-story home built on the island (by a wealthy Englishman using slave labor from Jamaica, at a time when most Caymanians lived in tiny, thatched houses). We braved a Cuban cigar shopping spree in George Town and slipped inside the Queen Elizabeth II Botanical Park at closing time, promising park authorities we’d only stay minutes, we saw jaw-dropping flowers and plants, a mere taste of the park’s 65-acre beauty.
Nightly we hit the island’s fabulous dining spots. My favorite was Bed; the restaurant.
Imagine; I went to Bed with five men and four women. Troublemaker Sawyer caught it all on film. There were lots of bed jokes, laughter, famous Cayman Tortuga Rum and dive stories. Even the waiter, dressed in silk PJs joined in the fun.
The wildest dive was the last one at Stingray City, a sandbar located off the Northwest end of the island where fishermen once took refuge to clean their catch in the calm waters. Stingrays quickly discovered the easy source of food and soon gathered there by the hundreds. During the ensuing years fishermen were replaced with divers and cruise boat snorkelers. Feedings at Stingray City became a daily event.
Diving in 15-feet of water, we were to circle around dive master Jamie, who carried an underwater bucket of bait. Stingrays feed by smell, he told us. Other fish feed by sight, so we were warned to keep the bait hidden in our hands. “There’s a 6-foot moray eel named Psycho who, if hungry, will make an appearance,” he said. “I’ll feed him, but don’t you. Circle your hand overhead, with the bait inside, and the stingrays will follow you anywhere.”
Easier said than done.
The underwater surge made it impossible to keep a circle around Jamie. Psycho showed up immediately – at my side – ready for lunch. Luckily he took off after bait-toting Jamie. I watched the crowd and when I finally got a chunk of bait, stingrays clamored around me for the goodies. Two small yellowtail snapper fish bit my hand, leaving small marks. I clenched my fist tighter and hid the bait completely. Or so I thought.
With five stingrays overhead, I relaxed for a mere nanosecond. Big mistake. Suddenly I was struck from the side, hit hard by a two-foot long silver mutton snapper fish. The dirty bastard! My regulator blew from my mouth as I screamed in pain. Looking first at my hand, with its tooth-scored flesh flapping and ribbons of blood floating upward, I looked down to retrieve my regulator and saw Psycho, the green monster, between my legs.
What was a girl to do? I jetted 15-to-0 in less than a second!
Stingray City was the dive of all dives. Everyone came up wounded. You couldn’t hear for all the laughter and war stories being shouted out. Lots of “My-wound-is-bigger-than-your!” bragging.
Of course my wound was the biggest but no one took pity on me – they couldn’t stop laughing long enough. Dive buddy Michael said I was swallowed by stingrays. He could only see my flippers flipping. The Kansas boys swore they’d caught my Psycho reaction on film and Terry, the newlywed groom, insisted his weenie little stingray hickey hurt worse then my mutilated hand. Jonesey, one of the cute, blue-eyed Welshmen staff members, summed it up later when he saw my wound. “Hey mate,” he said, “that’s the best one ever. You’ve got a great story there!”
That night at the last barbecue, when the PADI Travel people surveyed who wanted to go on the next PADI excursion to Routan, Honduras (another simple dive trip), everyone cheered and raised their hands. Bandaids and all.
What did this girl do?…I raised my damaged hand – the one sporting the biggest bandage!
Lucy Llewellyn Byard is currently a columnist for the Record-Bee. To contact her, email lucywgtd@gmail.com
