Diving beyond Gone are the days when we looked like phenomena, supermen. Now commonplace, diving is accessible to all. So many amateurs have taken it up, so many professionals, that we can say it is less dangerous, far less dangerous than we thought.
As long as you know the laws and, of course, follow them. The short film Ten Fathoms Deep goes like this: a German U-boat spots a freighter, dives, launches a torpedo, and scores a direct hit. The SS Radames becomes a wreck. Fade to black. In full sun, a slight man swaps words with two others. His face drips mirth and his hair shines wet. At dock, they unload two torso-sized frames that bear three gas tanks topped with gauges, hoses, and straps.
They load a camera into a metal case on a wooden arm and fill it with gas. Two don goggles, flippers, shoulder the gas contraptions, and jump into the water. One disappears behind the camera to film the other, who glides among barnacles, algae, and schools of fish, then through a sunken ship by way of openings both intended and fortuitous.
The diver sifts the wreckage and retrieves an ewer with Grecian lines. Throughout, bubbles stream from his head, enveloping neck and shoulders. Diver, camera, and water move in unison; the dock is a world away. The activity seems puzzling: a willing departure from the terrestrial condition, the body given over to technics as a disorienting milieu inundates the senses. And yet, the dive leads to a recognizable achievement: the resurfacing of something brimming with value to a community above.
This picture of diving predates the Aqualung, remains familiar, and carries over into metaphorical use. A person dives into something mysterious in order to fathom its depths, the better to resurface intact and bearing new insights. To dive is to extend the human reach beyond its present domain of knowledge and action. What makes underwater diving possible? What are its uses? How do changes in diving technics interrupt or sustain its promise of recovery and discovery?
