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A tale of two sisters
The Challenge
We have three days to dive the Brac but only one must-do dive: the MV Capt. Keith Tibbets, the 330-foot Russian-made destroyer purchased by the Cayman government from Cuba and sunk 10 years ago. After plenty of wall dives -- no matter how awesome they’ve been -- a big wreck sounds like a lot of fun.
Placid conditions the next morning are reason enough for Dive Tiara to send the boats to Little Cayman where Eagle Ray Roundup and Coconut Walk Wall are welcome additions to our logbook. We finish the day back at the Brac, at a site called Charlie’s Reef. Enormous barrel sponges sculpt an Alice in Wonderland set where instead of a white rabbit, mock turtle and Cheshire cat, we see scrawled filefish in their clown makeup, a stranded conch inside a sponge, tank-like lobsters patrolling their territory and tons of schooling fish. Sand chutes are rides that spit us out into the otherwordly blue.
We still have two days to dive the Tibbets, and we make sure the crew knows our wishes. But Max has another idea. “Dive it from the shore,” he suggests. “Hardly anyone ever does it, but I’m telling you, that’s my favorite way.” And in that moment, the adventure we didn’t realize we’d been waiting for takes shape. We know we want to save it for last.
We spend the next morning diving the Brac. The East Chute Wreck of the Cayman Mariner is a broken-down barge that’s been housing marine life for 20 years. Lime-green pipe sponges splash color across the fractured frame. A French angelfish takes cover. Out in the sand flats, a bar jack rides the curled lip of a stingray’s wing, the two performing an act of symbiosis that allows one to hunt in safety and the other to eat the leftovers. Between the wreck and the ledge is a hillock of coral that we explore from base to tip. An iridescent goby hovers over its shell-lined hole in the sand like an angel, and a spotted eel is an apparition that I never see again after turning my attention away to signal Erin. There’s so much marine-life gold in this hill that the dive stretches out to an hour. On our way back, Capt. Scott, a cool Canadian from Nelson, British Colombia, gives us an extended briefing to help prepare us for our next day’s dive. He slows down directly over the Tibbetts to describe its position in relation to the three mooring buoys. “Swim on the surface to the first, he says, “then begin your descent. The second buoy is over the rear deck which you’ll hit at 45 feet.” Scott points out the landmark on the shore. “There’s a big pool in front of that pile of rocks. Do you see it? Giant stride in there, but watch out for urchins.” And finally, he gives us his entire diving briefing, eraser board and all, so we’ll be ready for our shore dive the next day.
Last Dive
There’s a diver-down flag attached to a buoy and reel waiting with our tanks when we stop by the dive shop in the morning. It’s nice to know the crew has prepared for us, even though we aren’t going out on their boats today, our last on the Brac. We load it all in the trunk of our car and head directly across the island, beyond the airport, and turn down Robert Foster Lane, just as Scott had directed.
I pull over on the shady side of the road where we set up our gear and pull on our wetsuits, then walk down to the dredged-out pool. From here, the buoys seem a long way out. Erin cut her teeth as a PADI divemaster doing shore dives in La Jolla, California, so this is child’s play to her. But I’ve got maybe 20 shore dives in all and though I’m stoked that we’re here on our own and will have the entire wreck to ourselves, I’m a little reserved. I’m not certain how to gauge the distance or how much energy it will require to reach the dive site. In other words, will it kick my butt before we even get there? But that worrying voice cycling through my mind evaporates the moment we’re in the cool water kicking out to the site on our backs, the sun on our faces and seabirds making the only sounds.
We take our time, and when we reach the sailboat tied to the first mooring buoy, we spot the next one that marks the stern of the Tibbets. “Ready, Sister?” Erin shouts out. I give the OK and stick my face in the water for my first look. The viz is as clear as could be and the ship’s port side is a wall of iron before me. But what takes my breath away is the spotted eagle ray directly below us, the sun glistening off its white-ringed back as it continues its hunt, cutting lazy circles interrupted only when it burrows into the sand after its prey.
We continue down to the deepest point of the bow at 85 feet and work our way up to the anti-aircraft guns then penetrate the decks at the fore. Erin rubs her belly when we see a entrée-sized scallop, and she points out the purple sponge-like circle of sergeant-major eggs. The eagle ray passes over the deck and disappears around the stern. I’m more curious to follow it than continue my inspection of the deck. Erin falls in line too as the ray leads us into another world. Before us a field of garden eels fills my view clear to the horizon. I’m reminded of the sea of sunflowers we’d once driven past in Spain, their long necks extended just as the eels are. I look to Erin and spread my arms wide and then cut the air for emphasis. “I’ve never seen so many in my life,” I’m saying.
Erin points at herself, “Me neither!”
It’s finally time for our safety stop, and we swim about halfway back to shore underwater. Back at the car we slip out of our gear and set everything out to dry while we sit out on the rocks to recount the dive, what we saw and how we felt each step of the way. It’s peaceful out here and I’m reveling in the confidence boost of this experience, trading in the luxury of the dive boat for this DIY adventure alone with my sister.
She and I sit out on those stones under the sun, watching the chitons cling to the edges of the tidal pools and reminiscing about my first dive trip. She’d challenged me to get certified and join her in Bimini. I remember thinking how lucky I’d be to do my first certified dives with Erin, because only she could know me well enough to read the subtleties of my body language underwater.
We talk about her wedding, and she tells me the stories I love to hear about her three-year-old daughter. I share with her my hopes and dreams about my career, my husband and the family I hope to have one day.
And in this moment, I realize that this isn’t the last dive at all. It is only the beginning.
As the official publication of the PADI Diving Society, Sport Diver is the magazine divers turn to each month to find out what’s going on in their world. Sport Diver is the ultimate source for up to date information on dive culture, equipment, travel, training and PADI Diving Society activities.
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