The Great Barrier Reef

Looks like Boston Harbor....500 years ago.

OK, we’re back to the blog after a little hiatus to catch myself up from the jetlag. And also because it was hard to type with tears in my eyes knowing that my vacation was ending, but no need for you to dwell on that image. Due to the widespread clamoring for more blogging—seriously, for some reason, people have been asking when I’m going to write again—I’m going to jump ahead a bit to my day on the Great Barrier Reef. Why, you may or may not be asking? Because it’s the Great Barrier Reef. It’s the size of California. It has 1,500 species of fish (depending on who you ask). And because it’s a World Heritage Site—and I’m a sucker for World Heritage Sites. And because it’s my blog. I’ll do what I want.



There are roughly 7 languages being spoken at this moment.

One of the things I’ve been telling people who asked about my trip to Australia is that I’ve experienced a number of “firsts” on this first trip to Oz. First meat pie (as previously stated). First time watching a crocodile eat a dead chicken. First kangaroo sighting in the wild (more on that later). First kangaroo being hit by a golf ball (more on that, too). First flight next to a South African-born female massage therapist (previously stated and widely commented on by male friends). And, now, first scuba dive. As locations go, taking your first scuba dive on the Great Barrier Reef is the equivalent to playing your first round of golf at Augusta National or losing your virginity to an adult film star. Although, the dive did last 30 minutes, so maybe that’s a bad comparison. 

So, with great expectations on the brain, not to mention the possibility of coming face-to-face with a shark, I took an unsettlingly bumpy plane ride to Cairns. Far less polished than Sydney or Melbourne, Cairns is a popular backpacker city on the northeast coast of Australia and an easy jumping off point for The Reef. An honest-to-God rainforest sits in the mountains above the city and the climate is humid. Florida style. Aborigines and tourists stroll the streets and the waterfront is the highlight of the city. Several large hotels overlook a healthy sized marina filled with tour boats that haul visitors to and from The Reef. 


I woke early and (this is important) APPLIED MY FIRST LAYER OF SUNSCREEN, then strolled a mile or so along the waterfront. After a brief stop for a tasty plate of scrambled eggs and toast, I found my boat, the Ocean Freedom, and met the crew. The first paying customer I met onboard was a 23-year-old guy from Galway, Ireland, named Alan. Alan had just landed in Australia earlier in the week with his friend Rebecca, and both were looking for work for the next year. Yes, that’s how economically bad things are in Ireland, folks. The whitest people on the planet are packing up and moving to a place where they dole out sunburns like there’s a hole in the Ozone layer (which there actually is, as locals will remind you). “Make sure you put sunscreen on, mate! We have a hole in our Ozone layer. No, seriously, a HOLE in our Ozone layer.” 

After a 45-minute ride out to the snorkel/dive spot with about sixty people from all over the planet, the majority of them in their 20s and 30s, we all popped on our masks, PUT ON MORE SUNSCREEN, and jumped in. This seems like a good time to point out that I was well aware of the fact that I would be spending much of the day face down in the ocean in an area of the world where the sun is particularly, umm, potent. I was not going to get sunburned today. 

The first few minutes of snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef is a little bit surreal. On one hand, it feels odd to just hop in the ocean so far from any land and swim around without knowing what’s down there, but there’s comfort in the fact that someone around you must taste better than you do. Hard to believe in this case, I know. The colors of the reef were like nothing I’ve ever seen before and the coral and tropical fish seem to have no end. You swim 20 yards and think you’ve seen all there is to see. Then you swim 20 yards farther and see something totally new. It’s one of those experiences that cause you to somehow heighten your senses and really try to process everything you’re taking in. In the back of your mind during all of this is the realization that you are looking at The Great Barrier Reef, something that always seemed so far out of reach. You don’t think of anything else in life. You just soak it all in. Those moments are pretty rare in life, I think…you know, without alcohol.

It was from this blissful state that I was abruptly jolted when a small watercraft buzzed by me with the boat captain at the helm yelling, “Tim! Tim! Where’s Tim?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m Tim.”

“It’s your turn to dive, mate. Didn’t you hear us yelling for you?”

“Umm, no…because I’m SNOR-KO-LING. You know, with my head in the water?”

“Oh, well, we’ve been yelling for you for a while now. You couldn’t hear us?”

“No, sorry. I had my head in the water. You know, where it’s hard to hear anything above the water when you’re, you know, a human.”

“Right. No worries, mate. Hop in the boat.”



Note to self: Cut back on Beer...

...tomorrow.

With 59 people peering up from the water to look at me, we commenced the short and marginally embarrassing two-minute ride back to the main boat in what they had earlier termed the “rescue boat.” I suited up for my first scuba dive, trying to remember the details from the 20-minute safety chat we’d been given earlier. So, let’s go back a couple hours to this group safety lesson and recap what we learned about scuba diving in the Cliffs Notes version for something that takes weeks to be officially certified for: 

If you get in trouble, do this.

Hold your nose and pop your ears on the way down.
This means “OK.”
This means “Up.”
This means “Down.” 
Go like this to remove water from you goggles.
And this means “shark.”

Me (thinking to self): Umm, pretty sure if I see a shark, I will have my own signal and it will look a little bit like me sitting in the boat before my guide diver realizes I’m gone. But, ok, got the signals. What’s the bunt sign?

There were several other important tips to digest, all of which would ensure that my lungs would not explode upon resurfacing, resulting in a lonely, painful death in front of 59 tourists with no one around that I even remotely know, approximately one entire ocean from home. Pleasant thoughts, pleasant thoughts. The most important tip was a simple one: remember to breathe. Got it. Evidently, lots of first-time divers have a habit of holding their breath because that’s what your brain tells you to do under water. Your lungs fill with air when they shouldn’t and bad things happen. Noted.

Underwater camera: well worth the $25.

Both dives were with a guide and I have to admit that any nerves I had went away immediately when I jumped off the back of the boat. It was very cool. The first dive was over a large coral reef with vibrant colors and schools of multi-colored fish swimming around us. My guide, a Kiwi dude named Alastair, inspired plenty of confidence. Once I got settled, he showed me bits of coral, picked up things along the ocean floor and handed them off to touch and feel. At one point he handed me a sea cucumber. (That’s right, I just told you I did a tandem dive and the guy handed me his sea cucumber.) We only went down about 20 feet on the first dive, but it really did provide a totally different perspective than snorkeling did. I came back to the surface wanting to do it again. 

Between dives I applied MORE SUNSCREEN and enjoyed an amazing meal provided by the boat. After lunch, a pretty French girl named Natalie offered to apply sunscreen for me and I said yes, because I’m not stupid. When we got to the next dive spot, which was a deeper area with less coral and reef, Alastair told me we’d be looking for some reef sharks that hide out in one area of the reef below us. Twenty minutes of diving under my belt and now we’re seeking out sharks? This sport has a steep learning curve. When he assured me that things would be safe, I dropped a line about only having to be second slowest in order to be safe, telling him, “Well, if the sharks get ornery, I only have to beat you out of there, right?”

To which he smiled and said, “Yeah, but I could just pull out my knife and cut you. They like that sort of thing.” Fair enough, Alastair. Fair enough.

Yep, 20-minute safety class. 

In a weird way, I found myself wanting to see a couple of sharks, figuring this opportunity would probably not come along often. We never saw any, but Alastair gave me a little more freedom on the second dive, allowing me swim around on my own and stay close to him, which was pretty cool—the swimming on my own part, not the staying close part. We went down about 30 feet and swam into a couple of caves and checked out some sea rays that were busy minding their own business, celebrating how their big brother took out the Crocodile Man a couple years back. Alastair snapped his fingers over a couple of small organisms living on the reef that were no bigger than my thumb, and they immediately shut closed when he did. Now he’s just showing off.

On the ride back to port, I applied MORE SUNSCREEN and spoke with the woman who was second in command onboard. She told me that they’ve seen plenty of hammerheads, tiger sharks and even crocodiles in the area where we were diving and snorkeling. Evidently, they rely on the helicopter tour operators to let them know if a large shark or croc is swimming in the area. In which case, they will cancel their stop and move along to another location, which seems like the responsible move in that situation. All indications are that those bastards (crocs) are just mean.

At the end of the day, I did what everyone else did on that boat—went home to nurse my brutally sunburned back. Freakin Ozone hole.

Stay tuned for my next report on the most insane Irish bar on the planet. And, yes, that statement that was verified by my new Irish friends from the boat, who—having not seen actual sunshine since they were seven years old—were slightly more sunburned than I.