The constant rumble of the diesel engine is the dream of the introverted reader. No matter how noisy others may be, everything is muffled by the dull, guttural hum that beats in a 2/2 rhythm on the lowest octave of a double bass. In the open sea, with long waves, the engine noise turns into a synesthetic experience as the boat begins to pitch in unison with the cylinder's beat. After a few hours, you find yourself nodding in perpetual agreement with the ship's movement and the engine's throb.
After hours of night sailing, this synesthetic experience sinks under your skin to the point where you almost feel a sense of dizziness when the engine is suddenly turned off, and you instantly realize you have reached your destination. You leap onto your bunk to look out of the porthole and see the zodiacs darting toward the cliff, towing the powerful mooring ropes. Before you stands the unmistakable profile of the reef, bare and burnt, marked by the lighthouse that periodically appears in diving magazines as one of the world's most coveted destinations.
And so it begins... the plunge into the world of serious diving. The first dive is at 7 AM, and during the briefing, we are immediately warned: there's a strong current. Ashraf can't contain his enthusiasm as he recounts that the line with the weight thrown from the boat to indicate the divers' position underwater was spat back to the surface by the sea in defiance. From now on, all dives will be from the Zodiac, and with some apprehension, we glance at the stern, where two-meter waves make the Blue Horizon's dozens of tons pitch noticeably. Boarding the Zodiac with all the gear on is only possible thanks to the crew's skill, who manage to help a bulky middle-aged Westerner onto an inflatable boat with such ease that they make a quintal of laziness seem like a feather floating in the wind. Equally skilled are the Zodiac pilots who steer the inflatable through the waves with the apparent nonchalance of someone who has done it all their life. My partner looks at me with the glassy-eyed stare of a marine ready to land at Omaha, gritting her teeth, but I am irresponsibly enthusiastic, watching the spectacle of these imposing ocean waves flexing their muscles without showing aggressive intentions. I look into her eyes and read, "Where the hell have you brought me?" and she looks into mine and reads, "To Brothers!!". And it's time for the negative buoyancy entry, the first. During the course, they explained it to us like this, "Well, yes, it's that water entry you do with the BCD deflated so you immediately sink like a lead weight" but we never tried it, and you wonder if we'll be able to do it correctly. The goal is to ensure that all divers on the Zodiac enter the water simultaneously and find themselves at 5 meters depth within a couple of seconds, at a safe distance from the motor's propeller, allowing the boat to quickly move away from the cliff. However, the maneuver requires certain conditions to be executed well. Firstly, the weight calculation must be optimal; otherwise, the diver will tend to float too much and struggle to overcome the upward force, which is stronger in the first few meters below the surface. Secondly, the BCD must be perfectly emptied, as even a tiny bit of air inside will enhance its buoyancy. Finally, the diver must not lose orientation once in the water, finding the direction downwards without hesitation and starting to fin towards the abyss. If all this is not executed correctly, the diver risks floating where they shouldn't, near the Zodiac's propeller, which is spinning furiously to avoid being pushed onto the cliff by the waves.
So the question, "Will I be able to make a negative buoyancy entry?" is more than just performance anxiety or a rhetorical question. Adding the strong currents described, it's enough to feel like Navy Seals ready for a mission. The Zodiac pilot raises his hand with three fingers exposed and yells, "Ready!! 3, 2, 1, go!!" and a second later, I am head down, finning towards the abyss, and yes, thank God, I'm managing to descend. All senses are alert, ready to catch the first signs of the infamous current that could drag you out to sea or slam you against the cliff. But no, upon reaching ten meters depth, where the surface current is less strong, everything is calm. And then you can relax a moment, open your eyes wide and admire what you came for. Diving at Brothers is truly impressive; on one side, there is the high wall covered in coral as far as the eye can see into the abyss, teeming with typical Red Sea fauna, from Napoleon fish to tuna, to batfish. Just turn 180 degrees, and there’s the deep blue, with a uniform, intense shade that dilates the pupils; it is from there that you expect to see the big oceanic creatures. While I float in the blue, admiring the pristine beauty, a shape heads towards me, initially indistinct and then increasingly defined; it is a giant barracuda coming right at me. It stops two meters away, scrutinizing me with its grimace like a villain from '40s Hollywood, and then, deeming me unworthy of its attention, moves away with poorly concealed disdain. The image of that magnificent predator against the formidable blue backdrop is now printed in A3 among my favorite photos, and the memory of that moment is an emotion I will carry within me forever. A few days later, anchored in calm seas, I will marvel at the barracuda hunting like underwater arrows in the water illuminated by the Blue Horizon’s position lights.
At Brothers, we will do three dives, the first on the east side heading south, where the Zodiacs picked us up to bring us back to the Blue Horizon; the second, a drift dive on the west side, where the current was noticeable but not worrying; the third again on the east side, though without the emotions of the first dive. The second dive, like the first, involved a negative buoyancy entry, but while the first, as the bubbles cleared, revealed the great blue of the abyss, the second, as the curtain lifted, threw the spectator into an explosion of life and color; dozens of tropical species, there just centimeters away, indifferent to the diver’s presence. You didn’t have time to get your bearings before finding yourself swimming literally amidst trumpetfish, triggerfish, butterflyfish, and every other species a tropical sea offers on its menu. The feeling was literally of being thrown into an explosion of life, which you could only surrender to, letting yourself be carried by the current.
And so the first day passed. In one day, I did two negative buoyancy dives, one ascent back to the boat dragging myself along a line in the current, and two ascents onto the Zodiac tossed by the waves. Is this really me? If only my mother could see me...
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