The start of decompression...

We started decompression today at 4:00 PM. Right now we're at 27 feet, moving back to surface pressure at one foot every 22 minutes. We started at 48 feet deep so we're not quite half way back. The ascent slows during the course of decompression so we won't see the surface until tomorrow morning. The 17 hours we need to spend decompressing is the price we pay for the nearly unlimited diving we conducted over the last 9 days. Seventeen hours isn't that bad a deal, but it's 17 hours that are non-negotiable. Literally, we need to decompress to safely return to the surface. The alternative is unthinkable.

Gases (mostly nitrogen) dissolved in our blood under the increased pressure of the Aquarius living environment would slowly start to bubble, first causing aches and pains in our joints. Then, as the bubbles got larger and more abundant, all sorts of bad things would start to happen. Bubbles in the spine can cause paralysis. Bubbles in the brain can cause seizures. In a recent experiment, a doctor took blood from a saturated Aquarius aquanaut and before the blood reached the surface the doctor had a frothy mess on his hands as the vials frothed and bubbled over. We listen carefully as Mark Hulsbeck, Russ Lounsbury, and Lance Horn explain the decompression procedures. The procedure is safe and effective, but as they like to remind us, "Our lives are in their hands."

So what do we do against this backdrop of decompression? Everything is locked up tight and most of our equipment was packed up for transfer to the surface this afternoon. For me, I'm catching up on emails, reading, eating, and taking pictures and video of everything and everybody. And of course, watching the action out the viewports. There are several fish that constantly hang around the smaller viewports, looking inside. I have no doubt that they are watching us. I wonder if they're interested in the same way that we are interested in watching aquarium fish? The schoolmaster snappers are bold and look right in, but the groupers are shy. At first you only see a nose, then slowly an eye moves across the viewport. And then they stop. They dart away if they get caught looking.

The real action is outside the main viewport where we have nonstop combat among the various species of fishes. Thousands of baitfish attract predators, and we have predators - thirteen black groupers, too many barracuda to count, about a dozen snook, marauding bands of jacks and permits, and today for the first time two large (4 and 5 feet long) tarpon showed up. It's one skirmish after another. Predators lurk and probe the schools of smaller fish. The juvenile grunts and bogas are constantly on alert, keeping just enough distance from the predators to avoid attack. It's rare to see a successful attack during the day, but at night it's another story. An explosion of light and motion in front of the main viewport signals an attack and sparkling scales sprinkling downward mark success - and death. The outside lights attract plankton, the plankton attracts small fish, and the small fish draw bigger fish to the site. A classic story, but one that is all too real to the fish that let their guard down for an instant. That's all it takes.

Which reminds me, we are now coming up on 26 feet. Lance has the watch and is responsible for monitoring gauges, adjusting pressures, and keeping up with the logs. So far, no problems. There's more information about decompression in a Scientific American article - click here for the story. It's quiet as everybody is in their bunks reading and resting. We are tired. It seems like this all started yesterday, not a week ago last Monday.