The Bahama Mama

Sometimes I think of THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER and think that was what inspired me to take up scuba diving, but deep in my heart I know that is not true. The simple truth is that I was bored one summer and took up the sport on a whim.In the last several years Brother-in-law Tim and I have been on several adventures that range from the swims amongst reef sharks to Stingray City to furtive glances at scantily clad damsels on diesel clouded dive boats. Get on a dive boat with 20 other divers and everybody starts sizing each other up. You can tell the rookies by their bright colored dive skins,bcds ,and even their fins and masks. Everything matches in hot pinks, lime greens or vivid yellows. Old Tim has all different colors(he has difficulty matching things), and mine are mainly black. I felt that black gear meant serious diving. Another fact of diving that is inescapable is that regardless of how attractive a man or woman is, that when they climb back on board the swim platform and hand their fins to the deck hand there will be a strand of clear snot hanging from their nose to the fiberglass deck. If you go down a couple of atmospheres you will surface slinging clear snot . It happens-get over it! One of our memorable trips happened in Aruba . We had gone out to a shipwreck and we were getting the briefing from the dive boat captain which includes conditions, depths, and bottom times. This morning there happened to be on board a little lady from Boston, Mass. who was only too happy to tell you her life story, even while the Captain was trying to go over the dive. She told me , like everyone else, that she was from up north and had just completed her open water certification, and immediately had gotten on a plane and headed south to apply her newly acquired skills. You know the "Delta is ready when you are " syndrone. She also said "You can call me THE BAHAMA MAMA". Now I would have suggested that we were on Aruba ,a long ways south of the Bahamas , but I realized Aruba doesn't rhyme with Mama. I also began to think that this little matronly, short ,school teacherish woman was probably 65 years old , 50 pounds overweight, and knew nothing about diving. I did catch the final warnings of the Captain who said there was fire coral in profusion on the wreck and to watch for it. We all took our giant strides and descended into beautiful, gloriously clear water. Down below I could see the first divers already exploring the deck of the scuttled ship as Tim and I tried to clear our ears. Tim couldn't clear and signalled he was going back to the dive boat. Smart divers dive with a buddy , but since the water was so clear I immediately descended to attach myself with the group 90 feet below. On the way down who should I happen upon but the Bahama Mama entangled in an old rail of the deck. She couldn't see where her Octopus(spare air line and Regulator) was ensnared behind her. She was also dragging her exposed skin through a healthy patch of fire coral. I helped her get out of the entanglement, but not before she dragged me into the stuff. The reason it's called fire coral is that any contact with flesh causes excruciating pain and large red lesions on the exposed skin . As soon as I helped free her she took off like a waterborne banshee to careen off all the other divers like a mad waterbug, or a soggy pinball as it tried to rack all the points on the machine. I'm trusting that the dive master has her under his watchful eye, yet I see something above me and , guess who? You got it. The Bahama Mama is completely upside down , struggling, and her air tank is totally out of its straps and velcro secondary bindings. I grab her and pull her down and reattach her tank. Thank goodness the dive is over as we head up the anchor line. Once aboard the Bahama Mama streams the mandatory discharge out of her nose and immediately starts telling everyone what a lovely dive she had just had. She didn't seem to notice that her legs were painfully red from fire coral.I certainly felt it across my shoulders, but Tim the drug guru gave me ibuprofen out of his gear bag and told me to be a man and suck it up. We ate our orange slices and pineapple wedges as the Captain fired up the roaring diesels, and cranked up the Bob Marley. I think the Bahama Mama was singing "I shot the Sheriff" as we roared to the next dive sight.