<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></SPAN></span></p>
<h2>V</h2>
<h3>IN WHICH THE AUTHOR PUTS ON A DIVING-SUIT AND GOES DOWN TO A WRECK</h3>
<div class='cap'>ONE day I asked Atkinson, as master diver of the
wrecking company, if he would let me go down
in his diving-suit; and he said yes very promptly,
with an odd little smile, and immediately began telling
of people who, on various occasions, had teased to go
down, and then had backed out at the critical moment,
sometimes at the very last, just as the face-glass was
being screwed on. It was a bit disconcerting to me,
for Atkinson seemed to imply that I, of course, would
be different from such people, and go down like a veteran,
whereas I was as yet only <i>thinking</i> of going
down!</div>
<p>"There's a wreck on the Hackensack," said he;
"it's a coal-barge sunk in twenty feet of water. We'll
be pumping her out to-morrow. Come down about
noon, and I'll put the suit on you."</p>
<p>Then he told me how to find the place, and spoke
as if the thing were settled.</p>
<p>I thought it over that evening, and decided not to
go down. It was not worth while to take such a risk;
it was a foolish idea. Then I changed my mind: I
would go down. I must not miss such a chance; it
would give me a better understanding of this strange
business; and there was no particular danger in it,
only a little discomfort. Then I wavered again, and<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></SPAN></span>
thought of accidents to divers, and tragedies of diving.
What if something went wrong! What if the hose
burst or the air-valve stuck! Or suppose I should injure
my hearing, in spite of Atkinson's assurance?
I looked up a book on diving, and found that certain
persons are warned not to try it—full-blooded men,
very pale men, men who suffer much from headache,
men subject to rheumatism, men with poor hearts or
lungs, and others. The list seemed to include everybody,
and certainly included me on at least two
counts. Nevertheless I kept to my purpose; I would
go down.</p>
<p>It was rising tide the next afternoon, an hour before
slack water (slack water is the diver's harvest-time),
when the crew of the steam-pump <i>Dunderberg</i> gathered
on deck to witness my descent and assist in dressing
me; for no diver can dress himself. The putting
on a diving-suit is like squeezing into an enormous
pair of rubber boots reaching up to the chin, and provided
with sleeves that clutch the wrists tightly with
clinging bands, to keep out the water. Thus incased,
you feel as helpless and oppressed as a tightly stuffed
sawdust doll, and you stand anxiously while the men
put the gasket (a rubber joint) over your shoulders
and make it fast with thumb-screws, under a heavy
copper collar. Next you step into a pair of thirty-pound
iron shoes that are strapped over your rubber
feet. And now they lead you to an iron ladder that
reaches down from rail to water. You lift your feet
somehow over the side, right foot, left foot, and feel
around for the ladder-rungs. Then you bend forward
on the deck, face down, as a man would lay his neck
on the block. This is to let the helpers make fast
around your waist the belt that is to sink you presently
with its hundred pounds of lead. Under this<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></SPAN></span>
belt you feel the life-line noose hugging below your
arms, a stout rope trailing along the deck, that will
follow you to the bottom, and haul you back again<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></SPAN></span>
safely, let us hope. Beside it trails the precious black
hose that brings you air.</p>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus17.jpg" width-obs="399" height-obs="550" alt="THE AUTHOR GOING DOWN IN A DIVER'S SUIT." title="" /> <span class="caption">THE AUTHOR GOING DOWN IN A DIVER'S SUIT.</span></div>
<p>Now Atkinson himself lifts the copper helmet with
its three goggle-eyes, and prepares to screw it on. The
men watch your face sharply; they have seen novices
weaken here.</p>
<p>"Want to leave any address?" says Captain Taylor,
cheerfully.</p>
<p>I admit, in my own case, that at this moment I felt
a very real emotion. I watched two lads at the air-pump
wheels as if they were executioners, though both
had kind faces, and one was sucking placidly at a clay
pipe. I thought how good it was to stay in the sunshine,
and not go down under a muddy river in a
diving-suit.</p>
<p>"Wait a minute," I cried out, and went over the signals
again—three slow jerks on the life-line to come
up, and so on.</p>
<p>Now the helmet settles down over my head and jars
against the collar. I see a man's hands through the
round glasses crisscrossed over with protecting wires;
he is screwing the helmet down tight. Now he holds
the face-glass before my last little open window. "Go
ahead wid de pump," calls a queer voice, and forthwith
a sweetish, warmish breath enters the helmet,
and I hear the wheeze and groan of the cylinders.</p>
<p>"If you get too much air, pull once on the hose,"
somebody calls; "if you don't get enough, pull twice."
I wonder how I am to know whether I am getting
too much or not enough, but there is no time to find
out. I have just a moment for one deep breath from
the outside, when there is no more "outside" for me;
the face-glass has shut it off, and now grimy fingers
are turning this glass in its threads, turning it hard,
and hands are fussing with hose and life-line, making<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></SPAN></span>
them fast to lugs on the helmet-face, one on each side,
so that the hose drops away under my left arm, and
the life-line under my right. Then I feel a sharp tap
on my big copper crown, which means I must start
down. That is the signal.</p>
<p>I pause a moment to see if I can breathe, and find
I can. One step downward, and I feel a tug at my
trousers as the air-feed plumps them out. Step by
step I enter the water; foot by foot the river rises to
my waist, to my shoulders—to my head. With a roar
in my ears, and a flash of silver bubbles, I sink beneath
the surface; I reach the ladder's end, loose my hold
on it, and sink, sink through an amber-colored region,
slowly, easily, and land safely (thanks to Atkinson's
careful handling) on the barge's deck just outside her
combings, and can reach one heavy foot over the depth
of her hold, where tons of coal await rescue. A jerk
comes on the life-line, and I answer that all is well;
indeed, I am pleasantly disappointed, thus far, in my
sensations. It is true there is a pressure in my ears,
but nothing of consequence (no doubt deeper it would
have been different), and I feel rather a sense of exhilaration
from my air-supply than any inconvenience.
At every breath the whole suit heaves and settles with
the lift and fall of my lungs. I carry my armor easily.
It seems as if I have no weight at all, yet the scales
would give me close to four hundred pounds.</p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus18.jpg" width-obs="378" height-obs="500" alt="THE AUTHOR AFTER HIS FIRST DIVE. THE FACE-PLATE HAS BEEN UNSCREWED FROM THE HELMET." title="" /> <span class="caption">THE AUTHOR AFTER HIS FIRST DIVE. THE FACE-PLATE HAS BEEN UNSCREWED FROM THE HELMET.</span></div>
<p>The fact is, though I did not know it, my friends
up in the daylight were pumping me down too much
air (this in their eager desire to give enough), and I
was in danger of becoming more buoyant <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'that'">than</ins> is good
for a diver; in fact, if the clay-pipe gentleman had
turned his wheel just a shade faster I should have
traveled up in a rush—four hundred pounds and all.
I learned afterward that Atkinson had an experience<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></SPAN></span>
like this, one day, when a green tender mixed the signals
and kept sending down more air every time he
got a jerk for less. Atkinson was under a vessel's
keel, patching a hole, and he hung on there as long as<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></SPAN></span>
he could, saying things to himself, while the suit
swelled and swelled. Then he let go, and came to the
surface so fast that he shot three feet out of the
water, and startled the poor tender into dropping his
line and taking to his heels.</p>
<p>Needless to say, that sort of thing is quite the reverse
of amusing to a diver, who must be raised and
lowered slowly (say at the speed of a lazy freight elevator)
to escape bad head-pains from changing air-pressure.</p>
<p>I sat down on the deck and took note of things.
The golden color of the water was due to the sunshine
through it and the mud in it—a fine effect from a mean
cause. For two or three feet I could see distinctly
enough. I noticed how red my hands were from the
squeeze of rubber wrist-bands. I felt the diving-suit
over, and found the legs pressed hard against my body
with the weight of water. I searched for the hammer
and nail they had tied to me, and proceeded to drive
the latter into the deck. I knew that divers use tools
under water—the hammer, the saw, the crowbar, etc.—almost
entirely by sense of feeling, and I wanted to
see if I could do so. The thing proved easier than I
had expected. I hit the nail on the head nearly every
time. Nor did the water resistance matter much; my
nail went home, and I was duly pleased. I breathed
quicker, after this slight exertion, and recalled Atkinson's
words about the great fatigue of work under
water.</p>
<p>I stood up again and shuffled to the edge of the
wreck. Strange to think that if I stepped off I should
fall to the bottom (unless the life-line held me) just
as surely as a man might fall to the ground from a
housetop. I would not rise as a swimmer does. And
then I felt the diver's utter helplessness: he cannot lift<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></SPAN></span>
himself; he cannot speak; he cannot save himself, except
as those lines save him. Let them part, let one of
them choke, and he dies instantly.</p>
<p>And now the steady braying of the air-pump beat
sounded like cries of distress, and the noise in my ears
grew like the roar of a train. All divers below hear
this roaring, and it keeps them from any talking one
with another: when two are down together, they communicate
by taps and jerks, as they do with the tenders
above. I bent my head back, and could see a stream
of bubbles, large ones, rising, rising from the escape-valve
like a ladder of glistening pearls. And clinging
to my little windows were myriad tiny bubbles that
rose slowly. The old Hackensack was boiling all
about me, and I saw how there may well be reason in
the belief of some that this ceaseless ebullition from
the helmet (often accompanied by a phosphorescent
light in the bubbles) is the diver's safeguard against
creatures of the deep.</p>
<p>Well, I had had my experience, and all had gone well—a
delightful experience, a thing distinctly worth the
doing. It was time to feel for the life-line and give the
three slow pulls. Where was the ladder now? I was a
little uncertain, and understood how easily a diver
(even old-timers have this trouble) may lose his bearings.
There! one, two, three. And the answer comes
straightway down the line—one, two, three. That
means I must stand ready; they are about to lift me.
Now the rope tightens under my arms, and easily,
slowly, I rise, rise, and the golden water pales to silver,
the bubbles boil faster, and I come to the surface by
the ladder's side and grope again for its rungs. How
heavy I have suddenly become without the river to
buoy me! This climbing the ladder is the hardest task
of all; it is like carrying two men on one's back. Again<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></SPAN></span>
I bend over the deck, and see hands moving at my windows.
A twist, a tug, and off comes the face-glass,
with a suck of air. The test is over.</p>
<p>"You done well," is the greeting I receive; and the
divers welcome me almost as one of their craft.
Henceforth I have friends among these quiet men
whose business it is to look danger in the eye (and
look they do without flinching) as they fare over river
and sea, and under river and sea, in search of wrecks.</p>
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