Sponsors

A Reef Called Knife

One dreamy morning in '64, a stranger showed up at the shop and asked if I would take him diving. In those early years, I was the only dive guide around.

He was a long, willowy fellow, the kind who usually swims like a snake; about fifty and seemed pleasant enough. I asked if he had ever dived before. He told me that he had, in Florida. I said that was nice and inquired how many dives he had. He told me seven, and I asked if he was certified. He asked what that meant, and I told him I really didn't know, but it was something new in the states that I intended to look into some day when I had time.

"I would like to dive someplace new and exciting; somewhere no one has been before."

"Well, now, I think that can be arranged." In those years, that could be any place on this island. "How about something over there?" I pointed to Klein Bonaire, the little island just across the bay from us. "I think we can find just what you're looking for." I studied him for a moment, then asked, " Are you sure you can dive?"

The stranger reached into a large sail bag, fussed about for a few moments, then pulled out a new single hose regulator. That really impressed me. Maybe he does dive.

We boarded the beat-up old Boston Whaler with its wheezing engine and fetched the island some 15 minutes later. I was mostly naked, but he was decked out in white woolen Long John's, butt flap and all. I was amused, but he at least would keep warm. We ghosted around the island a half mile or so and then nosed into a lovely little bight, rich with hard corals and a liberal sprinkling of gorgonians in the shallows.

I killed the engine and, while we slowly drifted toward the drop-off, I tied the anchor line to my wrist. I waited until we passed over a large solid plate, heaved the anchor as far out as I could and followed that piece of iron right over the bow and down into the rich corals some 30 feet below. I blinked several times, cleared my ears, then found the ledge and solidly hooked in the anchor as gently as I could. Saving coral in those days was not yet a part of my dive concept, but having that boat waiting for us on our return sure was.

I heaved myself up and over the shallow gunnel to flop into the bottom of the boat. In the brief moments that I was gone, my diver had geared up with everything but his tank and fins and was patiently waiting.

I guess the thing that caught my eye first was the woman's flowered bathing cap he wore. The kind that looks like a big nudibranch. He had hitched it tight with a string, giving his large-beaked nose and bulging eyes the look of a gargoyle.

I knew I was looking at a very determined fellow. He was grim and challenging, with the expression of a kamikaze peering from within his wraparound mask. The glued-in quarter-inch lenses and heavy gauntlet gloves just added to the effect.

And there were knives, lots of knives, an eight-incher on each calf, and a wicked-looking thin stiletto strapped to his right forearm.

Then, without warning, he eeled over the side and disappeared into the sea. I quickly looked down and saw him messing around on a coral head under the boat, leaving me above without my gear.

I clamped on my mask, quickly pulled on my fins, pulled the tank from under my sear, grabbed the regulator, and threw the whole mess overboard, following it all down just as I had done with the anchor.

And there, at about 60 feet, was my buddy, ambling along slowly, his legs grinding a bicycle kick, his fins knocking off the tops of brittle coral as he went. I swam alongside him, looked over his gear, cocked up his reserve valve, and took a closer look at that bathing cap. I had been concerned at how tightly the rubber closed over his ears, but then I saw that a neat hole had been cut just over each ear. My respect for him grew a little.

I was briefly distracted by a lame gorgonian which had fallen over, so I took the time to put it up-right and brace it with a sizable stone. When I looked up again, my buddy was still riding his bicycle just above the precipitous drop-off. Then I saw that his harness was riding loose, with his tank hanging like an airplane wing. I quickly finned over to straighten his gear.

All of a sudden he swung to the left, hung for a moment, then put his head down and pedaled vigorously over the wall, plummeting for the bottom and... beyond.

A new one for me. What the hell is he up to now? Then both hands flashed down to the sheaths on his legs, and knives jumped into his fists like magic.

Here, in a wink, were two eight-inch blades of hardened steel thrust out before him like swords. He continued to drop, down and down, into the waiting depth.

Oh, no. Down and down he goes, round and round he goes. Hell you get the idea. Legs jerking. Knives gripped in the gauntlet gloves. And all the while, his damned tank trying to eject. Thousands of safe dives, I thought, and here comes my Waterloo.

When I caught up to him at about 180 feet, he was still dropping like a rock. My red telltale ribbon had long since gone black, but he kept heading for deeper water.

Then suddenly he turned and came at me with the flashing knives. Instinctively, I threw my arms up in defense, and one of the blades flicked me on the forearm. When a bit of green passed my mask, I knew that I had been slashed, and I backed off.

Enough! I thought as I put my back to the wall and held my stranger tight in my vision. I had to coax him up from the deep.  No way was I going to touch him.

The knives came on, both pointing at my heart. God almighty, I'd found myself a ringer!

Somewhere around the 70 foot mark he calmed down and returned both knives to their sheaths. Then, coolly, he wandered along the reef and back to the anchor.

At about 25 feet my green trail of blood had turned to red and  I pointed toward the boat, indicating him first. At the boat, I helped him off with his tank, then helped push him up and over the gunnel. Then I shucked my own tank and muscled it into the boat.

"You okay?" I asked. He nodded and I turned to dive back down to unhook the anchor. It was a lousy way to get off the reef. My general rule was, never unhook until the engine was running so I could be reasonably sure that we wouldn't make a trip to Curaçao. In this case I made an exception.

I motioned to him to pull in the anchor and stow it under his seat. When we were underway he put his back to the wind and looked at me. His bathing cap was still in place, the mask still on his forehead.

"What happened to your arm?" he asked casually. I brought my attention back to him and studied him for a moment. He seemed genuinely concerned. "Coral - yeah - sharp coral," I slowly replied.

He never said a word to me about the knife incident. He cleaned up his gear, thanked me for the dive, and strolled off down the beach to join his wife. Never, never again will I trust a man who wears a flowered bathing cap.

Some time later, a guest asked me where we should go for a pleasant little dive.

l thought for a moment, before answering. "Knife," I said. "A reef called Knife."

< Previous | Next >

Content © Donal A. Stewart 1996 - Copyright © CaribSeek 2003 - All Rights Reserved - Web Published: September 26, 2003