most experienced divers.
Shortly after entering the wreck, at a depth of about 200 feet, one of the valve-regulator assemblies on Drozd’s back became tangled in a ninety-foot yellow polypropylene line left as a landmark by another diver. Under perfect conditions, a diver would ask his partners to untangle him. At 200 feet, narcosis humming, conditions are never perfect. Drozd reached for his knife; he would simply cut himself free. But instead of using his right hand, as was his custom, he grabbed the knife with his left hand, likely because the entanglement was behind him on that side. The awkward reach to cut the tangled line put pressure against the exhaust valve on his dry suit, a result he likely never expected. As Drozd cut at the snagged line, the air in his suit began to vent, making him negatively buoyant. He began to sink. Depth brings harder narcosis. His narcosis began to pound.
Dropping, Drozd hurtled toward his mental meniscus. Every time he reached to cut the tangled line, he vented more air from his suit and got heavier. His narcosis built, the kind that blocks good ideas, such as changing knife hands. His breathing quickened. His narcosis gained. In the growing urgency of his situation, Drozd breathed dry the first of his two double tanks before switching, mistakenly, to his pony bottle instead of his second full-sized tank.
A few minutes later, Drozd freed himself from the tangled line. At around this time, his two partners realized he was in trouble and swam toward him to help. With narcosis raging, his dry suit constricting tighter, his body sinking farther, he breathed dry what he believed to be his second primary tank.
His two partners reached him. One grabbed Drozd and tried to swim him up and out of the
Doria,
but Drozd was leaden from losing the air in his dry suit. The divers would have to do something to keep Drozd from sinking farther. One filled his own suit with extra air, increasing his buoyancy so that he might grab Drozd and more easily ascend with him out of the wreck. But by now, starved for breath and believing both his primary tanks to be empty, Drozd spiraled into full terror. He flailed against his helpers until the diver who had grabbed him lost his grip. That diver, now overly buoyant and without the heavy Drozd as counterbalance, rocketed out of the wreck and toward the surface of the ocean, unable in the violence of the ascent to vent his suit, which expanded, making him more buoyant with every foot he ascended into shallower, lower-pressure waters. Soon, that diver was at 100 feet and still shooting to sunshine. If he broke the surface without decompressing, he would either suffer serious central nervous system damage or die. He could do nothing to vent his suit in this explosive ascent. The anchor line was nowhere in sight. He kept rising.
Back down at the
Doria,
Drozd spat his regulator from his mouth, a physiological reaction in blind panic. Icy salt water choked his lungs. His gag reflexes fired. His tunnel vision narrowed to blackness. His remaining partner offered Drozd his backup regulator, but Drozd, knife still in hand, slashed wildly at the man, his mind spraying in a million directions, his narcosis pummeling. And then Drozd turned and swam down the wreck, a full tank of air on his back, no regulator in his mouth, still slashing, still cutting the ocean to shreds, and he kept swimming until he disappeared into the blackness of the wreck, and he never came out.
His second partner, also ravaged by narcosis and the terribleness of the moment, was now in danger of panicking himself. He believed both Drozd and his other partner to be dead. He checked his gauges and confirmed what he feared most: he was over his time limit and should have already started his own decompression. He began his ascent believing himself the only one of the three to survive the event.
In fact, the first diver had caught a miracle. At about 60 feet, he finally managed to vent the gas from his
Shortly after entering the wreck, at a depth of about 200 feet, one of the valve-regulator assemblies on Drozd’s back became tangled in a ninety-foot yellow polypropylene line left as a landmark by another diver. Under perfect conditions, a diver would ask his partners to untangle him. At 200 feet, narcosis humming, conditions are never perfect. Drozd reached for his knife; he would simply cut himself free. But instead of using his right hand, as was his custom, he grabbed the knife with his left hand, likely because the entanglement was behind him on that side. The awkward reach to cut the tangled line put pressure against the exhaust valve on his dry suit, a result he likely never expected. As Drozd cut at the snagged line, the air in his suit began to vent, making him negatively buoyant. He began to sink. Depth brings harder narcosis. His narcosis began to pound.
Dropping, Drozd hurtled toward his mental meniscus. Every time he reached to cut the tangled line, he vented more air from his suit and got heavier. His narcosis built, the kind that blocks good ideas, such as changing knife hands. His breathing quickened. His narcosis gained. In the growing urgency of his situation, Drozd breathed dry the first of his two double tanks before switching, mistakenly, to his pony bottle instead of his second full-sized tank.
A few minutes later, Drozd freed himself from the tangled line. At around this time, his two partners realized he was in trouble and swam toward him to help. With narcosis raging, his dry suit constricting tighter, his body sinking farther, he breathed dry what he believed to be his second primary tank.
His two partners reached him. One grabbed Drozd and tried to swim him up and out of the
Doria,
but Drozd was leaden from losing the air in his dry suit. The divers would have to do something to keep Drozd from sinking farther. One filled his own suit with extra air, increasing his buoyancy so that he might grab Drozd and more easily ascend with him out of the wreck. But by now, starved for breath and believing both his primary tanks to be empty, Drozd spiraled into full terror. He flailed against his helpers until the diver who had grabbed him lost his grip. That diver, now overly buoyant and without the heavy Drozd as counterbalance, rocketed out of the wreck and toward the surface of the ocean, unable in the violence of the ascent to vent his suit, which expanded, making him more buoyant with every foot he ascended into shallower, lower-pressure waters. Soon, that diver was at 100 feet and still shooting to sunshine. If he broke the surface without decompressing, he would either suffer serious central nervous system damage or die. He could do nothing to vent his suit in this explosive ascent. The anchor line was nowhere in sight. He kept rising.
Back down at the
Doria,
Drozd spat his regulator from his mouth, a physiological reaction in blind panic. Icy salt water choked his lungs. His gag reflexes fired. His tunnel vision narrowed to blackness. His remaining partner offered Drozd his backup regulator, but Drozd, knife still in hand, slashed wildly at the man, his mind spraying in a million directions, his narcosis pummeling. And then Drozd turned and swam down the wreck, a full tank of air on his back, no regulator in his mouth, still slashing, still cutting the ocean to shreds, and he kept swimming until he disappeared into the blackness of the wreck, and he never came out.
His second partner, also ravaged by narcosis and the terribleness of the moment, was now in danger of panicking himself. He believed both Drozd and his other partner to be dead. He checked his gauges and confirmed what he feared most: he was over his time limit and should have already started his own decompression. He began his ascent believing himself the only one of the three to survive the event.
In fact, the first diver had caught a miracle. At about 60 feet, he finally managed to vent the gas from his
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