The tears stream uncontrollably. The same sad words— “he’s dead”— reiterate through convulsive sobs of sorrow.

The rescuer thrusts violently against his chest, the movement of her lips a verbal metronome against which the compressions are delivered. “One-and-two-and-three-and…”

“You’re doing it wrong! He’s turning blue!”

“Take care of this guy!” she shouts. “You, calm him down. Keep him away and watch him for shock.” Her count reaches thirty and she seals the victims nose for two more breaths. The chest rises, falls, and repeats. She traces his ribcage with her hand, places two fingers on his sternum, and strikes the heel of her palm in place. The count resumes as she channels 130 pounds of force through her locked arms, her body becoming the artificial lungs and heart of artificial life.

“No, not Chucky,” the bystander cries. “Not again. No, no… he’s my best friend.” His words are drown by his mournful hiccups.

“Is the O-2 ready? Good. Open it, continuous flow, fifteen liters per minute. Hook it on the pocket mask right… now. Alright, two breaths.”

“Dammit he’s dead! No, no, no…”

“Lay him down, turn him over! …and fourteen and fifiteen and sixteen… Get him out of his wetsuit! …and nineteen and twenty and…”

“That’s not how they do it on House! You’re killing him!”

She laughs briefly before administering two more rescue breaths.

“And cut!” I shout.

We collapse on the deck, chuckling between our gasps of air. The blue mannequin is covered in sand-encrusted handprints compressed into the foam from cardiovascular resuscitation. Dive gear is scattered across the boat deck. A freakish doll, eyes blacked from rust and body orbited by an obscenely over-weighted belt, rests upsidedown on the stern, seawater streaming from its plastic dreadlocks.

Exhausted from completing the final scenario of the PADI Rescue Diver course, we exchange congratulatory smiles. “The worst is over,” I say, suppressing my smirk betraying the truth. “Great job. Catch you breath and break down your gear. We’ll debrief in a few minutes.”

Based on over a decade’s experience as a professional lifeguard and scuba diving instructor, I can personally assure you that emergencies are never convenient.

Every PADI Rescue Diver course I teach begins with two rules:

1. Never give up: that is the only way to fail.
2. Murphy’s Law is in effect: anything and everything can and will happen.

The rest, I assure my students, is up to practice, good judgment, and determination. The practice I will supply. The judgment I can help refine. The determination, however, comes from within.

Of course, a healthy dose of paranoia helps too.

The flashlight shimmers in my right eye, diverting my attention to the figure illuminated at the watchman’s feet. He’s curled in the fetal position, left side down, motionless. Not another drunk, I think. Get him in the recovery position and monitor his breathing.

Another glimmer of light. White light reflected from black pools on the soft earth. And there’s lots of black pools. All from one source. Him.

“Muerte?” I ask the watchman.

“Si, muerte.”

“Dame la luz.”

I scan the watchman’s flashlight over the corpse and count six puncture wounds peppered across the back of his flannel shirt. His eyes are locked open, his pupils permanently fixed slightly upward, his dark Honduran skin already waning taut over his slender face. His throat, neatly slit from ear to ear, lays exposed to the humid night air as sticky pools of bodily fluid coagulate beneath his lifeless corpse.

A white taxi coated in bloody handprints is crashed on the sidewalk. A crimson trail extending from the ajar car door marks the path along which he took his final steps. The Anthony’s Key Resort medical clinic lies a cruel one hundred meters from his body.

It exactly looks like a scene from a slasher film. What Hollywood omits is the acrid metallic aroma of a fresh slaughter.

A fellow Coconut Tree Divers Instructor stands beside me. “Shit, this is bad,” he understates. “We need some barriers.”

This is one helluva bathroom break, I think. Bloody Murphy’s Law.

I stick my head in the Anthony’s Key Resort classroom. Forty PADI Instructors turn to face me. The PADI Regional Director stands in front of the projector. A Powerpoint slide displaying tips for teaching effective PADI Rescue Diver courses is projected on the canvas screen.

“Excuse me guys, but I need some barriers fast,” I feebly state. My words fall on vacant stares. “Can I get some barriers? Gloves? Something? Hello?!” No movement. They must think I’m kidding!

“What’s going on?” the Director asks.

“There’s been an accident. I just need some gloves.” And I don’t need forty instructors running out to see a dead guy.

My coworker bursts in the classroom. “Where are the barriers?” he asks me. Our bewildered audience sits silently, staring at our blanched faces. “Where are the fucking gloves?” he growls. “There are forty fucking instructors in this room and none of them know where to find some fucking gloves?! We need some gloves right fucking now! NOW! MOVE!”

Minutes later, I touch my first dead body. Mere millimeters of latex separate my warm fingers from the sticky cold of his severed carotid artery. There’s no need for CPR: he doesn’t have enough blood left in his body.

An avalanche of Honduran onlookers spills from the hills of neighboring colonial. They congregate around the corpse. Hysterical shouts in Spanish declare the victim to be one of their own. Anthony’s Key Resort management shepherds the bystanders away.

We safely strip the bloody latex gloves away from our trembling hands. The adrenaline crash is nauseating. “Screw the PADI meeting,” I say, “let’s find some tequila.”

Based on nearly five years of living on Roatan, I can personally assure you that emergencies cannot be anticipated.

The current Honduran Constitutional Crisis has served a severely ill-timed blow to tourism on my beloved island. As international condemnation of the Honduran coup has mounted through the misinformation perpetuated by the international media, the Bay Islands— despite having operating semi-autonomously for centuries— have felt the sudden backlash of canceled flights, cruises, and vacation reservations. Tourism-based bars, restaurants, and nightlight suffer under the current curfews.

Fortunately for Roatan business owners, the curfews have been relaxed back to 10pm. A 6:30pm sunset curfew was briefly imposed on July 5th in response to the riots at the Tegucigalpa airport in which one person was killed.

Unfortunately, the recent events may deal the deathblow for our typical tourist high season. While the months of July and August are usually jam-packed with visitors, the alarming number of cancellations last week has left many West End scuba diving instructors fearing for the future. We have the tremors of a 7.1 earthquake only recently behind us, an international political crisis currently in the works, and hurricane season looming on the horizon. Uncertainty is in the air.

We never anticipated this emergency.

Laughter rolls through the tropical air.

We stroll along the stone pathway from the dive shop to the beach hoisting our scuba masks and fins in wet mesh bags. The golden Caribbean sun streams over my slender eighteen-year-old swimmer’s body as I stroll along the white sands. An ineradicable ivory smile is plastered across my tan face.

The indelible image of the arching indigo-and-white wings of an eagle ray is etched in my mind. Mere minutes ago I was drifting along in Cozumel’s crazy currents as a slideshow of sea life swept past my mask. Now, with the last of my checkout dives complete, I am officially certified as an Open Water Diver. My life has been forever changed by four unforgettable dives.

Mournful cries float on the wind.

She is hunched over his corpulent corpse, her heart-wrenching sobs of genuine loss juxtaposed against the gentle lapping of the tide as she says weeps her last goodbyes. She kisses his wet forehead as his flesh finally fades to ashen. Two exhausted Mexican paramedics stand behind her. One removes his latex gloves. The other prepares the body bag.

I recognize his face.

He was sitting by the pool bar at 8am this morning. I had just finished breakfast. While I prepared my dive equipment, he was polishing off a beer. While I was breathing freely through my regulator sixty feet underwater, he was suffocating through his snorkel six inches beneath the surface. I had never felt more alive as I drifted along Cozumel’s spectacular reef walls. His last feeling was the bitter blend of salt, beer, and water as he sank to the coral below.

My scuba diving career began as his life ended; my passion for teaching the PADI Rescue Diver course is, in part, a dedication to the memory of this fat and faceless dead snorkler.

Laughter ripples from the bar and across the waves as the sun dissolves in the sea. Island dogs antagonize each other with playful nips. A newlywed couple bobs in the bay, their tight embrace belying their intentions of other undulations in the near future.

I raise my frosty Salva Vida to the setting sun. “To Roatan.” We toast another day of the life worth living.

Life’s uncertainty, like evening thunderclouds, may always loom on the horizon. But as we gather on the shores of Half Moon Bay in ritual sunset worship, I sip my drink in celebration of the little things that make life sweet for certain.

The tremors of Murphy’s Law shake my life and personal emergencies always strike at grossly inconvenient times, but my resolve remains strong: never give up living the dream.

Darting across the dirt road towards Half Moon Bay beach, I scan the dock, the beach, and the water for the source of the shouts of distress. A handful of people stand on the dock, pointing excitedly at two figures struggling on the surface some two hundred meters offshore, their bodies bobbing in and out of sight amidst the rolling waves. My coworkers are charging down the dock.

This is the real deal.

I’ve been here before. With forty-seven PADI Rescue Diver certifications under my belt, I’ve simulated this situation at least as many times, but the level-headedness with which I execute my training scenarios is quickly usurped by the shot of raw adrenaline coursing through my veins. Perceptual narrowing kicks in. Time dilates.

The salty spray scalds my eyes as I stampede through the breaking surf. The sandy bottom gives out from beneath my feet. I crawl through the swells head-up with my vision fixed on the victims, nervously anticipating which rescue skills will be required of me in a mere matter of seconds. Two of my fellow Coconut Tree Divers Instructors dive off the dock, scrambling with equal intensity towards the scene.

I stress realism when I teach my PADI Rescue Diver courses. With every course I conduct, I strive to stress two key points:

1. Murphy’s Law is in effect. Emergencies are never convenient.
2. The only way to fail a rescue is to give up. Never, ever give up.

From vomiting ketchup in my students’ faces to spontaneously enacting missing diver searches at grossly inconvenient times, I aim to drive home these principles to each and every one of my students. With every simulation I teach, my overarching goal is to ensure that my students can and will fall back upon their training when faced with a real emergency. Before I scribble my signature upon any certification card, I must have confidence that my students are capable of providing adequate care in the face of novel and potentially terrifying circumstances. But no amount of simulation can prepare you for the sheer terror of touching cold, pale skin as you turn a victim’s unresponsive body face-up in the water.

His face is white and blue. Look, listen, feel. Weak breathing. His oxygen window is ticking away. The next few minutes are a matter of life or death.

Jose and I hook him under the arm, towing with all our might towards the shore. Matt attends to the other girl who, though obviously panicked, has decidedly less cyanosis than her partner. The strain of pulling a completely inert body is exhausting. We are still a fair distance from the shore. Time is ticking.

Marco tosses a yellow throw-rope from the dock. It’s a perfect throw, landing just inches away. I hook the line around my right arm. Marco runs down the deck, dragging our trio of rescuers and victim towards shore at a speed far faster than our tired legs could possibly kick. Our feet strike the sandy bottom. We’re running chest-deep in the surf. We drag his unresponsive body onto the beach, carefully cradling his head and rolling him on his side into the recovery position.

He vomits a noxious mixture of seawater and half-digested sandwich. He is breathing, thank God; CPR isn’t necessary for now. The oxygen kit is brought down from the shop. He’s not breathing strong enough for the nonresuscitator demand valve. We throw together the nonrebreather continuous flow mask, opened to 15 liters per minute. He’s over-breathing the bag. 25 liters per minute. Breathing becomes a bit more stable.

The crowd gathers in a circle. Delegation is now critical. You, gather information from his friend. You, call a taxi. You, keep these pricks with video cameras away from us.

We haul his limp, sand-coated body into the cab. The oxygen kit, still delivering a continuous flow of that life-giving gas to his lungs, rests in the front seat. His head lays on my lap. As the taxi careens towards Anthony’s Key Resort, I have flashbacks of how my childhood cat passed away in my mother’s lap en route to the vet. God, please don’t let him pass his death stool on me.

We’re here. The taxi driver runs into the clinic to summon the doctors. I gently remove the oxygen mask from his face. He is a bit more responsive now, and already his skin has taken on the reddish hues indicative of a normally functioning human. We struggle to shuffle him on the stretcher. Three, two, one, vaminos!

The doctors carry him inside the clinic. After seemingly endless minutes of chaos, I am suddenly alone, coated in sand and spittle, standing barefoot on the rough gravel of the Anthony’s Key parking lot. I breathe deeply, resisting the waves of nausea from the volatile concoction of adrenaline and lactic acid accumulating in my body.

Resistance proves futile. I vomit in the bush.

As my vile upchuck settles into the soil, I recall how, a year prior, I stood in the same spot staring down upon the lifeless corpse of a freshly murdered taxi driver as liters of his congealed blood stained the earth. I remember frantically dashing into a meeting of some forty-odd PADI professionals demanding barriers with which to take the stabbed cabby’s final pulse check. I recall the sensation of touching my warm fingers against his cold skin, his flesh rigid with early rigamortis, the metallic tinge of bodily fluid tainting the night air. Emergencies are truly never convenient. I puke again.

But the training works—this I know for certain. Whatever the outcome of my present predicament, the training from the Emergency First Response and PADI Rescue Diver courses works. As my queasiness subsides, the blur of the last hours comes into focus. Minor mistakes were made—why didn’t I take off my wetsuit before the swim? how the hell could I forget to grab my fins?—but I remind myself that imperfect care delivered is better than perfect care withheld. The training works. The team worked. Whatever happens, we did all that we could to give him a fighting chance at survival.

And then he’s laughing.

I have witnessed a miracle. He’s standing, laughing, and weakly smiling. As an IV drips essential nutrients directly into his bloodstream, I am finally able to introduce myself to the man who, less than two hours ago, was floating cataleptic amidst the sea swells. He’s alive and well. The cruise ship leaves in an hour, and he will be sailing away from my little island of Roatan with one helluva story to share over the all-you-can-eat lobster dinners.

I sit on the dock as the sun descends beyond the horizon, a half-finished rum and pineapple in hand, as the aquamarine waters of Half Moon Bay become an oil-like smear of reds, violets, and greens. My body aches. My head heaves with the dull doldrums of mild dehydration. My heart rejoices. I raise my glass alongside those of my coworkers. With the clink of glasses, we tacitly salute the same thought: the training works.

Look closely…

Tank. BCD. Regulator. Slates. The abandoned weight belt lies some twenty feet below.

The depth? 370 feet (112m).

The reason? A dead diver.

Mind you, I was never stupid enough to see this site myself whilst scuba diving. Even with a Trimix tec rig and a proper dive plan, this depth is more than a bit insane. No, this eerie shot was taken from the safety of Karl Stanley’s deep diving submersible Idabel.

Diving is a very safe sport when done properly— though complete safety is never guaranteed, proper practices have consistently shown to successfully mitigate risk. Done improperly, however, one can quickly and tragically discover how unforgiving an environment the underwater world can be. It’s this healthy fear and respect that keeps us, our students, and our customers alive as professional divers. No matter how alluring the deep may be, there is nothing down there worth dying for.

In conclusion, any time I consider doing something a bit rash with regard to depths, the sobering image of this diver’s gear dangling over the icy abyss in eternal darkness, his corpse long since disintegrated, sears across my neuronal pathways— as I hope it does yours.

Remember: Safety First!

As a PADI Instructor, there’s a lot of dive courses I love teaching. There’s nothing like seeing a student take their first breaths underwater during the Open Water Course, or watching divers make the crucial improvements in self-awareness in the PADI Rescue Course.

However, one course always seems to get glossed over in the PADI system: the Emergency First Response course. It’s sad, too, because in my honest opinion this is the single most important course anyone can take.

The day-to-day applications of Emergency First Response course extend far beyond scuba diving. In just the last year, I have:

• Dealt with the shocking discovery of a freshly-murdered taxi driver’s corpse, during which I was faced with barrier use, lifeline assessment, and the bizarre challenge of convincing over forty PADI professionals to respond without causing chaos.
• Managed a screaming tourist with a shattered leg following a motorcycle accident, during which I had to split the victim’s leg whilst coaxing him out of shock.
• Freed a terrified child trapped under a collapsed motorbike, during which I had to pull the bike off the child, treat her leg for sprains, and assist a distressed mother in getting the girl to the hospital.
• Plucked an unconscious friend from a swimming pool and rolled him into the recovery position, thankfully after which he regained his breathing and recovered.
• Treat a suspected decompression illness victim using emergency oxygen.

The EFR course is so short, so simple, and so invaluable that I personally believe that everyone, diver or not, should sign up. Emergencies are never convenient. Thankfully, they are rare. However, in the unlikely but unfortunate event that they do occur, being trained to quick and adequately respond is, without a doubt, indispensable. After all, the difference between knowing and not is, quite literally, life or death.

My advice: regardless of where you are relative to scuba diving, please, please, take a course in Emergency First Response— trust me, someone else’s life depends on it.

Time is why we watch our bottom timers closely, diving within limits to avoid the unfortunate side-effects of defying evolution.

Time is why we purchase computers, tracking our nitrogen exposure against those ever-ticking no-decompression limits.

Time is why we invest in nitrox-capable tank compressors, why we spend hours learning enriched air dive planning, why we take the additional trouble to analyze our fills: for those precious extra minutes of hovering, blissfully, alongside a massive wreck ten stories beneath the waves.

Time is why we will hang on a decompression line in the open blue for far more minutes than we just spent swimming alongside the wreck of the Josie J at 165ft.

Time is why we plan year-long to save, enduring the long and tedious hours behind the office desk, all for that crucial time of year when we can rediscover the ultimate underwater escape.

Time is why we come from all around the globe, putting aside careers, studies, and myriad pasts for the all-too-few weeks of living the life of a PADI scuba diving professional in the Caribbean.

There is never enough time.

2008 came to a solid conclusion for the Coconut Tree crew. Two full weeks of running eight dives per day plus night dives. Dozens of new divers certified. A massive Christmas feast. Laughs. Smiles. A family away from home.

And what a year it’s been. Annual highlights included:

• Over 800 PADI certifications issued.
• Over 2600 customers submerged.
• Our first PADI Open Water Scuba Instructors graduated from the Instructor Development Courses held under PADI Course Director Will Welbourn.
• Over 60 shiny new scuba tanks added to our stock.
• The return of “the floating classroom” Bottom Time after months of repair in La Ceiba (including the insane six-hour crossing back to Roatan).
• Over 10,000 beers enjoyed during our famous Beer-O-Clocks.
• The hiring of the first Coconut Tree Instructors to have completed their entire training in-shop.
• The largest class of PADI Divemaster graduates in shop history.
• Our insane six-year-old birthday party (don’t ask me for memories, for mine are fuzzy).

It hasn’t always been an easy year. The Cult of Coconut has had to endure some extremely difficult challenges throughout the year, but we have grown stronger and more determined than ever to be Roatan’s #1 PADI Training Center for another consecutive year. If you’re looking for an awesome place to discover scuba diving, aiming to expand on your diving experiences with more advanced drops, or aspiring to work as a professional in the diving industry, there’s no better place to learn than Coconut Tree Divers.

Thanks for the great time. Bring on 2009!