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Moon Pool
The True-Life Story of a Global Adventurer
By Jim Broman iUniverse
Copyright © 2014 Jim Broman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-5039-1
CHAPTER 1
Moon Pool in Cyanide Creek—North Queensland, Australia
Over the course of time, I have come to see that life is a series of moon pools. I say this as both an experienced deep-water diver and a man who has sought and found lifelong adventure. My own life has been more exciting than even my wildest dreams, set against the backdrop of some of the most magnificent, exotic locales in the world: North Queensland, Australia (and various other parts of Australia too); Territory of Papua, New Guinea; Mozambique, Africa; Singapore; Japan; South Korea; Taiwan; Mexico; Southern California; and on and on. Always my experiences juxtaposed danger and deep beauty, excitement and tranquility—whether in the midst of African wildlife or immersed in the underwater mysteries of the Great Barrier Reef. I've led an incredible life.
Some of my moon pools have brought me to the face of death; others have shown me the true meaning of life. They've all been life-altering experiences, each in their own way: challenges, opportunities for growth or change or healing, incredible moments of varying duration that were nonetheless filled with deep and far-reaching significance. I've gone from one moon pool to another, always believing that the best moment was the one I was living in that very instant—because we never know how many moments we will have beyond that very instant. Relishing the preciousness of every single moment is the only way to live life to the fullest.
Those of you who are divers already know what I mean when I refer to moon pools. For you nondivers, a moon pool is an opening in a ship's hull (or in a specially designed platform or chamber) that allows access into the water. Marine technicians and researchers work with their tools and instruments in a sheltered environment by means of the moon pool. Moon pools offer protection from the elements; they are a safe harbor out on the open sea.
Early on in my career as a deep-water diver, I discovered the value of moon pools. Later in life, I came to see them as a metaphor for where we go internally to make our decisions and choices in life. The moon pool is the still, serene place within each of us. It is filled with wisdom and insight but only when that is what we seek. When we crave excitement and danger, the moon pool can be deceptively tranquil, as inviting, beautiful, and serene as a South Pacific lagoon—until we discover a raging whirlpool in its depths that threatens to pull us underwater and drown us. The surface of a moon pool may sparkle like diamonds or shimmer like pearls, but that gleaming, crystalline clarity is a mirage. Life is much the same: calm, untroubled times can become fraught with worry or stress or anguish or grief on the turn of a dime.
If only we could really go to an actual moon pool every time we encounter trouble or pain! Life would be so much simpler. But in our minds we can always access that center of serenity. This is the place where we each go to make our choices in life, whether we realize it or not. We each always have the power to choose which way to live, whether to go shallow or deep.
Moon pools are not always completely reliable sanctuaries for divers. Like any harbor, there are forces beyond the control of each moon pool. A moon pool may change at a moment's notice, with no warning, just as life can ... and often does. Moon pools may suddenly become rougher, uglier, or murkier; they may suddenly turn dangerous, threatening, or dark. A clear moon pool can quickly develop zero-visibility conditions that will cause great harm.
What do you do in the midst of a suddenly dangerous moon pool? You always have the choice to abandon ship, to withdraw, or to hold the course and wait for calmer seas to return. It's the same way in life. It's always your choice where you go, in your actions, in your mind, in your heart, in your decisions. Things are always a mix of risks and rewards. You find yourself at the crossroads more often than not, and that is a moon pool too. Do you go where you have never been before, or do you play it safe and risk spending the rest of your life wondering, what if? You'll be tested through the choices you make in life, and the moon pool offers a way to prepare. Do you take the risk required to be courageous, or do you settle for being a coward? Do you stand up to speak the truth, to be a person of candor, dignity, and integrity, or do you take the easy way out, lying and manipulating to get what you want? Risk is always exciting; it's part of life, and courage and integrity are what you will carry with you until you draw your last breath. When you face your last enemy, death, wouldn't you rather say, "Go on and take me. I'm brave. I'm not afraid of you. I've lived full and well, so you don't scare me." When you say that, though, you have to mean it.
I invite you to journey with me now through the course of my life and its many moon pools—from nearly drowning in a flooded creek in North Queensland, to fighting potentially fatal swells during deep-water dives in the Pacific, to winding up on life support as the result of a car crash. I'll give you a glimpse of one of my moon pools that was both actual and metaphorical. When I was the lead deep-water diver for an oil-drilling operation in Port Moresby, Territory of Papua, New Guinea, our contract was for the parameters of zero to five hundred feet. I entered the ocean through a moon pool—a thirty-by-thirty-foot opening in the center of the ship. It was a potential life-or-death situation, just as it would be for any hard-hat deep-water diver. Sitting on the edge of the moon pool in Southeast Asian Pacific waters, with swells bursting all around, it was truly the perfect storm. The seas were like the waves of Mavericks, California, during my youth.
I knew from the get-go that poisonous sea snakes swarmed in those waters, as did tiger sharks cruising to the ocean floor and looking for a meal. (They are second only to the great white in reported attacks on humans.) So the moon pool was my safe place but only relatively speaking. I hit the water, bounced up to the surface, dumped the air in my suit, and headed for the sea bottom through powerful currents so formidable that I could barely hang on to the guide wire that I clutched. (Guide wires are attached to the baseplate on the ocean floor, in this instance, 340 feet below the moon pool.)
The rest of this book will be like an exciting ride on a wave from Mavericks, California, as I share with you some significant moments from my journey through life. From a fifth-grader who brought a pickled octopus in a jar for show-and-tell, to a high-school dropout who joined the military tactical fighter squadron, to a deep-water diver, international entrepreneur, adventurer, wild man, and lover of women, I have pretty much done it all, seen it all, and lived it all. You will never forget my story because all I am about to tell you is absolutely true.
The Mistake—North Queensland, Australia (1975)
It was the wet season in North Queensland, Australia. Torrential rains had been pounding the area all day. Cyanide Creek had flooded, overflowing its banks. As I attempted to cross it in my Toyota Land Cruiser, I realized just what an out-of-control current it had become, as dangerous as any raging river. I had already committed to the crossing, so I had no choice but to go on. The problem was that the raging river had caught me off guard, which was not like me. Not like me at all.
Keep it together. You'll get through this, I told myself inwardly, drawing upon all the inner strength, resilience, and practiced calm that a life spent in extremely dangerous situations can give you. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus and stay calm.
Crossing the flooded creek was a situation of extreme danger, but, for once, it was not one that I had chosen. I had received a cable in my private mailbag (PMB 20) delivered to me by boat at the Cape, via Hayles Company, the same outfit that operated the cable ferry crossing the Daintree River. The cargo/passenger/mail boat left from Cairns and stopped in our cove. We would go out with our boat and get our mailbag and supplies at Cape Tribulation, and the supply boat would continue on to Cooktown. The supply boat would unload at Cooktown and leave for Cairns the following day. On its way to Cairns, the boat would briefly stop at the Cape again, this time to pick up our mailbag. This procedure occurred once every week.
Earlier that day, the supply boat had brought a cable. It was an emergency: I needed to call California immediately. This was serious enough for me to make the twenty-eight-mile trek through the rain forest to the Daintree River, take the cable ferry across, and drive to Mossman.
As a result of the call, I discovered that I needed to fly back to the States to take care of some urgent business related to property I owned along the California side of Lake Tahoe. (This is one of the most beautiful, crystal-clear mountain lakes in the world, and my property offered the most incredible views of the magnificent lake that anyone could imagine. Long story short, I risked my life to purchase that property, making dangerous deep-water dives for years in order to pay it off, and Governor Jerry Brown had put a moratorium on all building of properties along South Lake Tahoe. Litigation ensued between the state government and the property owners. Although environmental issues were at stake, and certainly I supported the moves to prevent Nevada casinos from destroying the pristine lake and its environs, property owners who sought to live in natural beauty—and to preserve that beauty—should not have been penalized.) Suffice it to say, that was a heartbreaker. I was in a state of shock afterward, and on my way back to the Cape all I could do was think about that call. I wasn't really paying attention to the weather conditions.
As I started down the bank, with the emergency call to California still consuming my mind, it was pouring in sheets, but I was pretty oblivious. There was hardly any visibility, so I didn't realize the magnitude of the raging water in the creek. It was about to engulf the Land Cruiser with me in it; I would be a goner, just like that.
In the instant that I knew I had made a mistake attempting to cross, I also knew that I couldn't turn back. The bank was so steep and slippery from the incredible amount of rain coming down that I had no choice but to go down the bank and try to cross the creek. As soon as I hit the water, I knew I had to get out of the vehicle; otherwise, I would be trapped inside ... I would drown in the creek that now was a savage, raging river.
As the vehicle was rolling underwater, I got out. The raging water turned the vehicle over multiple times, and I managed to get out on the passenger's side. I was underwater, under the vehicle, and then the current hurled me through the water.
For a split second I almost laughed, thinking I was really up a creek without a paddle. My deep-water experience, dangerous as it was, always came with top-notch equipment. Now I was at the mercy of the water. Huge boulders crashed into me, and I worried that they would crush me. The current sucked me under, but I fought to stay above water as much as I could. Somehow I managed to get to the bank without being crushed. I saw a tree root, grabbed it, and pulled myself up the bank. After what seemed like eternity, I lay exhausted on the rain forest floor.
* * *
Meanwhile, my longtime girlfriend, Ali, was back at our place on the cove at the Cape. She was upset and very concerned because she knew I was out in the middle of this horrific storm, deep in the rain forest, on my way back to the Cape. Before long, she got on the remote radio to contact the Royal Flying Doctor Service (RFDS) that we belonged to, reporting that I had not yet arrived home from my trip to Mossman. (The RFDS is well known in rural and remote Australia as the provider of aero-medical retrieval and transport services, remote medical consultations, and RFDS medical chests. As members, we had a chest that contained a range of pharmaceutical and other items that provided us with the ability to administer health care in emergency situations. Aero-medical retrieval and transport services are able to respond to calls twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Cairns was one of eight bases in Queensland, and it was the one closest to us at remote Cape Tribulation.)
The thought of a saltwater crocodile attacking me terrified Ali; she knew that they came out during and after the big storms of the wet season in North Queensland. One of the most feared animals on earth, the saltwater crocodile has honed its hunting techniques for two hundred million years. No man is a match for this fearsome beast.
All these thoughts ran through Ali's mind while she waited for me to come home—or be brought home. I'm not a mind reader, so I couldn't have known it at the time, but she told me about it later. The weirdest part is that she couldn't have known how right she was to be afraid of my encountering a croc.
* * *
As I was crossing the Daintree River on the ferry, on my way back from Mossman before the storm got so intense, the ferry operator had pointed to the Cape Tribulation side of the river where there was a huge croc close to the bank.
These crocs can grow up to eighteen feet in length in Northern Australia, and when they are that long, they weigh about two thousand pounds. They have been known to take down water buffalo, and they attack at least a couple of people every year. They are usually well camouflaged both underwater and on dry land, which is what makes them such efficient hunters; they strike at an amazing speed. The most powerful croc attack—the death roll—consists of grabbing the prey, rolling powerfully, and then dragging it under water until it dies. Don't confuse them with alligators; crocs are so much more aggressive and far more dangerous. They are cunning and smart and super quick. Although its jaws are the croc's weapon, its success depends on patience and the ability to ambush its prey. A crocodile will stalk a target for hours, even days if necessary, and an eighteen-foot, two-thousand-pound croc can hide in two feet of water and never give itself away. You can be close to shore and think you're safe, but you'll never see the attack coming. The crocodile explodes from the water, takes you under, and you're gone. It's over in seconds.
One almost took my good friend Wyatt, who'd bought close to three thousand acres in Bloomfield (farther north and up the coast from Cape Tribulation). I'll tell you more about Wyatt later. He lived on the property with his wife and children, in pretty much total isolation. It had been a really heavy wet season. He was and still is an expert fly fisherman, and there was a break in the heavy rains, so he headed out to one of the many streams flowing through his property. (These streams all flowed to the Bloomfield River and then on to the Coral Sea.) Fishing one of the streams, he caught a small trevally, and as he was bringing it in, a barramundi took it. There he was, with a barramundi hooked! He was thrilled because they are one of the primo sport fish in Australia.
The fish put up a savage battle, but he got it close to the bank. But then, from out of nowhere, a huge saltwater crocodile burst out of the stream, coming right at him. He told me it was no more than half an inch from his face, and he reckoned it was fifteen feet long or so. According to Wyatt, the bank behind him was about six feet high. He turned and scrambled up the bank as the croc lunged again, just missing his foot. As he kept on crawling, the croc's attention went to the barramundi still hooked and flapping on the beach. The croc devoured the barramundi. That was the only thing that saved Wyatt's life. There he was in remote North Queensland, with no neighbors for miles, and a fifteen-foot crocodile less than an inch from his face. He was still in shock when he told me about it, and I could relate.
I knew a lot about crocs because I had hunted them while living in Port Moresby (Territory of Papua, New Guinea) and later on in Darwin, Australia. My divers made extra money on their time off by hunting crocs and selling their skins for excellent money. After killing the first one, I stopped. I really didn't like killing animals. I had many opportunities in Africa, but I just photographed them. No killing for me except to protect myself and to provide food when necessary (like pig hunting for the Aborigines).
Wyatt's story stayed with me, and I guess it must have stayed with Ali too. There have been numerous reports of deaths in the Daintree River from crocodile attacks over the years, so I knew how important it was not to step close to the riverbank, to stay within the confines of boats, and to absolutely never swim in the river.
Mountains and deep valleys surround the river. Because of the climatic conditions of the area, the river is prone to quickly developing floods with little warning. Heavy rainfalls in the high mountain ranges (altitudes of 3,280 feet) around the catchment and the influence of the cyclonic forces in the adjacent Coral Sea all contribute to the river's propensity for flooding.
But never forget: crocodiles inhabit these waters. While Ali was worrying about my encountering a deadly croc, I caught a glimpse of one in the Daintree River—a little bit closer, I'd have been dinner. Soon after, I was fighting for my life in the torrent of the flooded creek and then lying exhausted on the rain forest floor. An extreme situation, to be sure, but a world apart from the magnificent rush of deep-water diving. It was more my jet-fighter training that got me through—that and the rescuers who answered Ali's radio call.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Moon Pool by Jim Broman. Copyright © 2014 Jim Broman. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
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