Terrible Laughter

By Howard Hall

   Fifty-two degrees. That's what my dive computer read as I ponderously swam over the field of tube anemones. But my computer has always read two degrees warmer than true. That fact made me feel a bit better because it sure as hell felt colder than just fifty-two degrees! Of course, I had a dry suit on, but this was my fourth dive and each of the preceding three had lasted more than an hour. And in those three hours I had accomplished exactly nothing. I knew who to blame for that. Even now I could hear him laughing - a sort of barking, croaking laugh. How I'd love to get my hands around his sleek neck and squeeze and squeeze...

   Alright! Here we go. On the sand below I see a foot long rainbow nudibranch. It's slowly moving toward one of the fourteen-inch tall tube anemones. I fin on past and turn a broad circle approaching the nudibranch from down slope. The silt on the bottom is so fine that just looking at it causes a silt storm. And with my 16mm movie camera, heavily weighted tripod, and battery powered lights, I move only slightly less gracefully than an inebriated elephant. The laughing sounds distant now, but I know he's still out there, somewhere.

   As gently as possible I set the tripod on the bottom and mount the camera and movie lights raising a small cloud of silt, but not enough to trash the scene. Then I look through the zoom lens and focus. Undisturbed, the nudibranch continues its slow creep toward its prey, the tube anemone, which is about eighteen inches away. So far so good. I pan the camera over and take a thirty-second shot of the anemone. Then I push in with the zoom lens for a tight shot of the anemone's tentacles. Then I pull wide again and shoot thirty seconds of the nudibranch approaching the anemone. Then I take a close up of the nudibranch's head. If the predation sequence comes off as I hope, I'll need all of these various shots to tie the sequence together in editing. If, however, something goes wrong, I've just wasted $50 worth of film. The previous three dives have already cost me over $200 in film costs and resulted in nothing really usable. With the costs of boat, crew, and accommodations, I'm spending over $1,500 per day for the privilege of shivering underwater in Monterey California on a cold winter day. And so far that money has been uselessly pissed away all because of that furry devil with the irritating laugh!

   Thirty minutes later I've shot all the cutaways and the nudibranch is getting really close. It's time to pull the lens wide and begin rolling to capture the complete sequence. The nudibranch will climb the tube anemone, rear back and extend its proboscis, and then with a lightning fast lunge, grab the anemone's tentacles. The anemone will instantly withdraw in response pulling the nudibranch's head down the tube.

   The nudibranch begins to climb the anemone's tube. The camera is rolling now. If everything works it's like rolling money into the bank, but if it's ruined again it's like writing a check to the IRS. Twenty dollars per minute, thirty-three cents per second. The camera is rolling. The nudibranch continues to climb the anemone. Oh no, not again! The laughing is suddenly louder now. Please no! Just stay away just a little longer! Give me a break! The camera continues to roll. Five minutes shot so far - $100.

   Aaaagh, *&$#%! Through the side window of my mask I see a shadow pass quickly overhead. I feel a slight wash of turbulence pass over my back stirring up a small cloud of silt to my right. Damnation, he's back! The nudibranch is half way up the anemone's tube now. It's so close. AAAAGH! Ten feet to my left the sea lion settles to the bottom. I see him out of the side window of my mask. His head moves back and forth as he makes that barking, croaking, laughing sound. The nudibranch is rearing up now, its proboscis is extending. The sea lion has raised a small dust cloud and it slowly drifts toward the anemone. It's still ok, not bad enough to ruin the shot. Croak, croak, croak, laugh, laugh, laugh. I know he's not going to just sit there croaking he's going to do something. He's going to bloody well ruin it again just as he's ruined every shot I've attempted today. Please just sit there a little longer, just another twenty seconds. How much joy have I taken in watching sea lions perform their underwater ballet during the last twenty years? How much fun have I had swimming with them, playing their games, photographing them? I reach for these thoughts, these good memories. But they won't come. My jaw hurts and I realize that I'm biting through my regulator mouth piece. I try to think good thoughts but all I can think of is how I would love to see a great white shark swim up and bit his furry little head right off! Yeah, then it would be my turn to laugh!

   The nudibranch pounces on the anemone. The framing is perfect. The exposure is perfect. The sequence is almost complete. Perfect, perfect. No! NO! NOOOO! The sea lion rockets off the bottom rushing past the anemone and nudibranch, missing them by inches. A great whirlwind of silt explodes from the bottom and swirls toward the anemone. It strikes the scene like a tornado. The nudibranch is swept away and spirals up toward the surface. No! NO! AAAAGH!!

   Having lost all control, I vent my frustration by pounding my fist repeatedly into the silt covered bottom. Then I lay on the bottom shivering. I can't tell if it's from cold or anger or both. I check my film counter. 375 feet. Well, great. Twenty-five feet left. I can throw the whole bloody roll away. I look at my computer. More bad news. I'm looking at a half-hour of decompression. That's a cheerful thought. Fifty degree water, I'm already shivering, and I've got to decompress holding all this bulky camera gear for 30 minutes!

   I start swimming back to the boat. Bark, bark, croak, croak. I can still hear him laughing. If a white shark would just eat that sea lion right now I'd offer my left leg for dessert!

   Bob Cranston is under the boat and sees me coming. He takes the camera gear from me allowing me to decompress unencumbered. I notice that his mask is half full of water. He's been laughing so hard that he can't keep his mask clear! He was watching the whole terrible show! Watching as I pounded my fist into the silt covered bottom until visibility was absolute zero!

   But in the reflection of his mask and tear filled eyes, I couldn't help but see myself. A pissed off fish photographer. Homo sapiens made to look like Homo erectus by a pinniped. And, well, it was indeed a pretty funny sight. And so, finally, I just had to laugh too.