Scuba Diving: channeling your inner Funky Chicken

Patty here…

My dad never treated me like a fragile princess. Around our house it was, “The lawn needs mowin’. Have at it.” So I grew up thinking if he had confidence that I could cut the grass with a push mower and a ten-year-old’s determination, then by god I could do anything. Maybe that’s why I did a lot of risky things in my youth (Didn’t we all?). I’d tell you about them but I don't want to scare you.

I eventually grew up (sort of) and moved to California where I met a guy who asked me to take scuba diving lessons with him. I said sure. There was only one hitch to the plan. I’m afraid of the water. See, here’s the deal…you can’t breathe under water and I know this. Did I share my fears with my guy? Nope. I figured I'd have air tanks. How hard could it be?

We signed up for the class. So far so good. Then I read the fine print. I couldn’t take the course without demonstrating water proficiencies—like swimming. Hitch number two: I can’t swim. It’s not that I don’t know how to swim. I’ve taken lessons. But me moving through water is not swimming. It’s more like a wet version of the Funky Chicken.



As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. The pool was teaming with eager students thrashing around like dolphins in a squid-feeding frenzy. The instructors couldn’t distinguish my one Funky Chicken lap from the ten required laps completed by dozens of other students. I passed the test by default.

Then came the diving test. The idea of it was laughable. They actually expected me to swim to the bottom of the deep end of the pool to fetch a ten-pound weight. I calculated the depth. It was over my head. Plus, I’d have to open my eyes under water, which meant that I could see that it was over my head. No way was I going to do that, not even for my guy. So, as foreign as it was to me, I attempted a fragile-princess smile and turned my hands upward toward the heavens in an earnest plea.

“I’m very buoyant in the water,” I said, “so I can’t do that exercise.”

Obviously my performance failed to impress, because a moment later the instructor dropped a ten-pound weight into my open hands, and I shot to the bottom of the pool like a torpedo.

It gets worse. Are you ready?

In order to become a certified PADI diver you have to eventually leave the relative safety of the swimming pool and go into the ocean. It was February and Los Angeles had been rocked by winter storms so fierce that one had washed away the Santa Monica pier.



Our first beach dive took place on a stormy day at Redondo Beach. Our mission—should we choose to accept it—was to swim out to a buoy and back without our tanks. If we survived that, we were to make a second foray with our tanks, submerging at the buoy and performing some exercises.

The surf was around six feet. I was wearing only a wet suit, mask, snorkel, and swim fins each as large as the USS Kitty Hawk. I stood on the shore watching the waves pound the sand with a force that made me question if the relationship with my guy was going to last till summer.

I made it out to the buoy the first time, but the surge was so strong I had to hold on to the chain or be swept away. Then I Funky Chickened back to shore. I was tired. Some of my fellow students had lost masks and fins in the raging water. Some had refused to go. Those people obviously didn’t have a father who made them cut the grass with a push mower.



The second time out I donned full scuba gear, including a tank and twenty pounds of weights around my waist. I could hardly walk, but I made it over the surf and out to the buoy. I submerged, but the water was so murky with churning sand I couldn’t see anything. I completed the required exercises as best I could. By then, I was exhausted. When I surfaced I heard a man screaming for help. Hearing the cry of a person who thinks he’s drowning is an experience I never want to have again. Nobody but our scuba class was in the water. I began quiet reflection. WHAT WAS I FREAKIN’ DOING OUT HERE?

I had no idea where my guy was. I hadn’t seen him on either of the dives. I spotted one of my instructors and Funky Chickened up to him. I tried the fragile-princess ploy one last time.

“I’m really tired,” I said over the roaring wind. “I’m not sure I can make it back to shore.”

“Deal with it!” he shouted. “Can’t you see there are people out here who need help!”

I was on my own. Just like mowing the lawn. So I activated those two aircraft carriers on my feet, and used every ounce of strength I had left in my body. The sea finally pushed me onto shore about a mile down the coast. But my fight wasn't over yet. When I reached the beach, I struggled against the scuba gear to keep the surf from pounding me into the sand. Each time I tried to get up, the waves beat me down again. I finally made it upright with all of my equipment intact. Only four out of twenty students completed both dives that day. My guy and I were two of them.

I keep reminding myself of the lesson I learned from that experience. One might say it's a Naked Metaphor About Literature and Life. If I want to get from here to there whether it's back to shore, finishing the book I'm working on, or doing what it takes to build a writing career, I have to marshall all of my strength and push through my fears. What say you?



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Congratulations to our Pauly!!! His novel The Deep Blue Alibi was just nominated for a "Thriller" Award for Best Paperback Original. The winners will be announced at Thrillerfest, July 12-15, 2007, in New York City. Of course, we already know who the real winner is. To see all of the nominees, click here.

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