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Snorkeling Bonaire: CAPT DON'S BEST SNORKELING
Bonaire Talk: Snorkeling Bonaire: Archives: Archives 2008: CAPT DON'S BEST SNORKELING
Top of pagePrevious messageNext messageBottom of page Link to this message  By Captain Don (Experienced BonaireTalker - Post #294) on Wednesday, June 18, 2008 - 4:40 pm:     Edit PostPrint Post

Willemstoren
The lighthouse

November 1962 WDS 1936

It really surprised me that Percy and I were still on this rock of an island. Six months on Bonaire was like six months on "no where." However, there was something about the place that held us like a mat of tangle foot. We were eating, making friends, meeting no hostility from any quarter. It seemed like we had been here forever.

Karl Mayer was an Austrian left over from the WW II concentration camp days. He had married local and had two kids, Suzy and a younger brother named Leo. Karl ran the Ford Service Station on island, and considering that Bonaire had only a few autos, his was a very impressive station
.
I had met his daughter Suzy while we were a short time in Curaçao. She worked for a travel agency that had sold several sailing trips for us. Therefore, Karl must have felt some special friendliness toward Percy and me, two wind-blown ruffians exploring the reefs of his once tranquil island. On one stifling hot afternoon, muggy to the point of suffocation with the weather suggesting a hurricane in the making, he offered Percy and me a tour of the southern end of the island. He owned one of the few automobiles on island. It was a 1951 sedan and ran fine but seemed to be missing the floorboards, which had rusted completely away. Rather interesting; I could watch the road pass beneath as we drove along.

The southern tour, Karl told us, lets you view the famous salt flats, flamingos, slave huts, the Willemstoren lighthouse, and whatever else might be discovered that day. It was fortunate that he was the island mechanic because that trip to the saltpans added some years to his already old car. Every rut, sinkhole, and pile of coral rubble wanted the axles and wheels of that automobile.

Karl proved to be an expert on flamingos. This was before I had become involved in bird watching myself. But even then I was impressed at the massive flocks of pink bodies wading out there on the mud flats. Here and there I saw small earthen mounds with a single egg sitting on top. Also, fairly large piles of dirty salt were piled at the head of what seemed to be large earthen trays of evaporating seawater.

"Salt pans," Karl said. Feeling talkative, he went to some lengths describing how the slaves of the eighteen hundreds were forced to harvest salt from these pans using picks, shovels, and wooden wheelbarrows while working all day standing in the salt brine with bare feet. Percy had been listening with appalled anger written across his face.

Instinctively, I detested the concept of slavery and it was difficult for me to understand that these extraordinary people who were my hosts came from a slave culture.

"You mean the Macomba’s (Dutch) did that to the slaves and made them live in them little mud houses? Never letting them have any fun or women?"

Karl turned serious. "I wondered about that too, but being a slave was serious business." He studied Percy for a moment. "Where you from, Percy?"

"Aruba! " Percy proudly announced, his handsome face puzzled. "My parents are from British Guyana."

Then Karl slipped into Dutch with Percy. I knew not a single word. They spoke together for a few moments, then Karl slipped back into English and apologized saying, "Sorry. I am not goot met English and Percy’s Dutch is very goot. " He watched me for a moment then continued." There is a story that the slaves went home to Rincon every weekend. That’s a fifteen-kilometer walk each way. And, met salt soaked feet." He looked at Percy. "Vot you think?"

Percy looked out across the pans, at his feet, to the little houses and finally to the mountains far to the north. "Bull s--t!"

I snickered. Percy was starting to sound like an American. I loved it.
Karl went on to explain that he thought the crew of salt diggers lived here during the entire harvest period. The best behaved were shipped back to the village of Rincon to be with the ladies when the harvest was over to make more babies and work the many aloe fields around the village. Aloe was always in big demand.

Percy had lost interest in the salt flats and was staring out toward the furthest end of the island at the lighthouse that was the most prominent thing of any height to be seen on this flat land. "We passed that when we were coming in."

I looked up saying, "Yes, we passed it and thank god for its being there or we would be sailing around in this salt pond about now!"

Karl moved into the conversation saying, "Many big ships never got by and wrecked on der beach over der."

Both Percy and I became instantly attentive when hearing the word "wrecks" and looked to Karl for more details. We explained in great detail that we were both deep-sea divers and those wrecks sounded just the job for us. There never was any mention of treasures with gold and silver in great amounts, but the seed had just been planted.

It was several weeks before Percy and I were able to pry Karl loose from his automobile venture and talk him into hauling us out to the Willemstoren lighthouse. We had aspirations of becoming rich even after splitting with our chauffeur. For pay, Karl agreed to accept some fish that we intended to shoot.

Geared, with our tanks topped with all the air we could muster, about 800 psi, we walked along the beach looking for a suitable entry. We were on the extreme apex of the island, and as we moved east the waves became larger to a point that entry would have been very difficult. This hiking around on a coral encrusted beach with bare feet used to wooden decks was torture.

Choosing waves over more walking on the coral beach, we entered, staying on the surface and putting the beach behind us. The terrain was somewhat different than what we had been seeing so far. The shelf was long and shallow. Small sea fans covered the flat, much like a lawn. We had been watching for telltale shipwreck debris. There was no mass of corals, that is until we reached the drop off some distance off shore. The surface wasn’t comfortable as there was a heavy chop running. We had made our snorkels for flatter water, and they were flooding. My gunnysack was starting to drag, and since no gold bars were lying about, the dive itself was becoming a drag too.

Percy smoked more than I did but was nevertheless a better breath holder. He was below me at maybe twenty feet, cruising out toward the drop off. There was no shortage of fish around him but nothing worth a shot. Then at the drop off, maybe in sixty feet of water, Percy, without any warning, kicked up his feet and plummeted vertically downward. I lay watching him. Then I saw it. He had targeted a large grouper. The coral had become very profuse and he was snacking through the tall gorgonians with his gun at the ready. I watched him settle amongst the hard corals, waiting. The fish was swimming his way. Then thunk, the spear was on its way. Percy never missed. It must have been the killer instinct in him. The spear caught the grouper just behind the gills, passing completely through the body.

I continued watching, absently reaching for my bag. The fish was putting up a fierce fight and Percy was having trouble fetching it. Then I saw him look up, waving at me, and I knew that he was being cheap. All he had to do was use his air and he could have scrapped on. But no, he wanted me to finish the mess. I was reasonably comfortable at eighty feet while he could do one hundred

I started doing my hyperventilating, and in this chop it wasn’t easy. It was my turn to get into the tussle. I dropped quickly, pumping all the way down. I was clearing my ears quickly and slid in alongside of him. I took the gun from him while he turned, patted me on the head and started for the surface.

Mr. Grouper was a whopper and was worth spending a little air. But no, Percy was being cheap and wanted me to get involved in this dirty work. I put my attention to the kill and was surprised to still find so much fight left in the fish. Then the grouper took off for deeper water with me in tow. I struggled with that fish as he dragged me down. Now at eighty feet, that fish had me on the line and was heading straight for he-l.

I was determined not to lose that gun or that fish and tumbled down some more. I was having trouble clearing and my need for air was getting serious. Time was up and Percy should have been there to take his turn. Then I chickened and grabbed for my Snark, my rubber band regulator. The first breath was a drag and I knew I was at five hundred psi. Three hundred psi must have leaked out past the brazing I had used to close the holes in the tank. I yanked the J valve rod, and the fish took me to a hundred feet.

My ears were killing me, and with only one set of fingers available, I couldn’t clear. I have come to learn that physics will always prove itself true and the pressure in my inner ears was equalized as my eardrums burst. I felt myself being pulled through the corals and instinctively knew that I was going deeper. I fought to go up but was disoriented because of my damaged ears. For some crazy reason I would not release my grip on the gun, and I fought for the surface by going down. Then Percy arrived and I saw he was on air. God, what a powerful diver he was. He took the gun in one hand, me in the other and made for the surface.

Once on shore I was not really aware of much of anything except the terrible pain that had taken residence in my head. Karl had his fish, though, and Percy was grumbling at having to use some of his air. I was wondering if there was life after death and if it was worth all the effort it would take to get me back to my ship and a good bottle of cheap Curacao Rhum. Still, I was contemplating our next trip out to the lighthouse to look for treasure.

The damage to the ears was awful and kept me from diving for the next several months. Even snorkeling was painful. During that period of healing I sought the help of Dr. West, known by the locals as the man that lived in the doctor’s house. I found that an aspirin and plenty of good Curacao Rhum eventually did the job. It just took longer than I had expected. However, something good did come from that single meeting with Dr. West. I met a young boy named Winn Evertz on the porch of the doctor’s house, and he became a fast friend for life.

We never did find any treasure, but the Window called Willemstoren was opened and is still a challenging dive today. Just don’t shoot any groupers!

-79-

 

Top of pagePrevious messageNext messageBottom of page Link to this message  By Traci (BonaireTalker - Post #17) on Saturday, June 21, 2008 - 10:21 am:     Edit PostPrint Post

Another great story, thanks Captain!

 

Top of pagePrevious messageNext messageBottom of page Link to this message  By elaine sculley (Experienced BonaireTalker - Post #192) on Monday, June 23, 2008 - 3:14 am:     Edit PostPrint Post

thank u captain don. keep the stories coming.
es

 


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