What It's Like to Freedive to 56 Meters (183ft)

At the AIDA World Championships in the Bahamas over the past couple weeks, I've had an unparalleled opportunity to train and refine my freediving technique, culminating in a 56-meter dive to open the final day of competition. The dive was straight down a line to a target, and back up, wearing a monofin, on one breath, with no other assistance. I'd like to describe what went into a dive like this, and how it felt. (Incidentally, the pictures are not of me, except for the last one.)

I arrived at Dean's Blue Hole about an hour in advance of my dive, and was in the water by the platform with about 20 minutes to go. The key to freediving is relaxation, and I was feeling a bit rushed and nervous, so I started by removing my mask, putting on a noseclip to prevent water getting up my nose, and breathing face-down through a snorkel for a few minutes. Semi-deep inhalation, pause, exhale slowly for ten seconds, pause, repeat. The slow exhalations slow the heart rate, and the water on the face starts to kick in the diving reflexes.




After the facial immersion, I put my mask back on, took a deep breath, and pulled slowly down the warmup line to about 10 meters (33ft). After about a minute my diaphragm started to contract on its own, an involuntary reflex; slightly uncomfortable, but you get used to it. The pulse decreases as the diving reflex gets stronger, the spleen contracts to release oxygen-carrying red blood cells into my bloodstream, and I let this happen for another minute before pulling slowly back up the line to the surface.

A couple minutes recovery, then a "negative pressure" pulldown; I took a deep breath at the surface, then exhaled to a comfortable level, and pulled back down to 10 meters. With two atmospheres of pressure on me, my chest and lungs were compressed to simulate a deep dive, deeper than the one I was about to make. The feeling is like a bear hug, unusual but not uncomfortable. Pull back up to the surface, inhale, relax. Seven minutes to go.




I move slowly over to the main "competition" line, which is rigged with a heavy counterballast and sailing clutches, allowing the safety team to quickly lift me to the surface in case of emergency. At the bottom of the line is a white target plate, with several velcro tags attached; the diver must retrieve a tag from the plate to demonstrate that he/she made the depth. Below the plate is a light, and a video camera. The line is taut and inflexible,with marks every meter along its length. For this competition, the line also glows in the dark, useful at depths below 40 meters where not much light penetrates. The line is dropped to 56 meters for my dive, and I clip a meter-length (3-foot) safety lanyard to my left wrist, with the other end clipped to the line. This way I can swim with my eyes closed, without the risk of drifting off into the ocean.

As the minutes count down, I lie on my back, with my right arm holding the line, and my neck supported by an inflatable neck pillow. I'm wearing a 3-millimeter wetsuit with a hood, a 5lb (2.2kg) neckweight, and a wide-blade monofin, with both feet securely strapped in. Breathe in, pause, slow exhalation for ten seconds, pause, repeat. I lift the skirt of my mask and sniff in, bringing fresh air into the mask, then make sure the mask is sealed properly against my face. Eyes closed, focusing on my breathing. The hood of my wetsuit drowns out the noise of fifty spectators, and my coach DeeDee relays the official countdown in my ear: Three minutes, two minutes, one thirty, one minute.



At thirty seconds I change my breathing style to a faster exhalation, about four seconds, and a deeper inhalation. This clears CO2 out of my system, which will make for a more comfortable dive, and less urge to breathe. It also fills my lungs with nearly 21% oxygen, as opposed to the 18% oxygen / 3% CO2 mix that fills the lungs with normal shallow breathing.

Twenty seconds, ten seconds, five, four, three, two, one, "official top". I now have a thirty-second window to start my dive. I take a couple relaxed breaths, then a very full inhale: diaphragm, chest, shoulders, neck tilted back, about 7.5 liters. Then I "pack" more air by taking mouthfuls of air and pushing it into my lungs; about twenty-five mouthfuls in ten seconds, adding an extra liter and a half to my lung volume. I reach my left arm across my body towards the line, which rolls me over face-down in the water. Duck my head straight down, lift my monofin in the air, and sink vertically into the water.



Near the surface I am quite positively buoyant, from all the air in my neoprene wetsuit and lungs. So once my fin is in the water, I make two or three medium-hard kicks, down to about five meters (15ft). My left arm is raised above my head, pointing straight down, and my right arm is tucked in, holding my nose to equalize my ears. Kick, equalize, kick, equalize, kick, equalize. The equalizations are done using mouth and throat muscles only, not with the diaphragm. I keep my legs straight and use my entire body to kick, smoothly gliding in curves through the water. Every few equalizations I add some air through my nose to my mask, as the increasing pressure causes it to be drawn tighter against my face.

At ten meters I am much less buoyant, as the pressure has compressed my air in half since the surface, feeling like a normal shallow inhale. My kicks get softer: kick, equalize, kick, equalize, kick, equalize. I am dropping at a rate of about a meter per second. By twenty meters, the pressure has tripled since the surface; my lungs now feel like a normal exhale. My depth notify alarm on my gauge goes off; time for a mouthfill. I exhale from my lungs, filling my mask and cheeks as much as I can, then close off my throat to prevent the air from being drawn back into my lungs, which are now at negative pressure. I am still feeling a bit tingly from my low carbon dioxide level, and I have absolutely no urge to breathe. I pinch my nose and compress my mouth and throat, allowing a near-continuous equalization as I descend, continuing to softly kick. My buoyancy is now neutral or slightly negative, as the air volume continues to be compressed.



At thirty meters, I enter the most enjoyable part of the dive: sink phase. With negative buoyancy, I can sink without kicking, so I let my body relax, vertical and streamlined, with my left hand using the line as a guide, right hand still on my nose for equalizing. As the air in my mouth compresses, I replenish it from my lungs by using my tracheal muscles to force up air, until the negative pressure prevents me from doing so. At around forty meters I do a final mouthfill, using my diaphragm to get that last bit of air into my mouth and cheeks. I tuck my chin to my chest, minimizing the airspace in my trachea, using the remaining air for equalization.

My lungs are now at significant negative pressure, and the diving reflex is kicking in strongly. My pulse drops into the forties or thirties, and I focus on keeping my throat locked off, equalizing using the remaining air in my mouth. Equalize, sniff in a little air from my mask, equalize, sniff, equalize. The mask gets tighter around my face. On the surface platform, I am visible on sonar, dropping. The competition organizer, Sebastian Naslund, is tracking and relaying my progress to the crowd: "Forty meters, going down. Forty-five meters." The judges at the surface are in the water holding the line, feeling the slight vibrations of my lanyard clip against the line as it descends, waiting for the pull to signal my turn. At forty-eight meters my second depth alarm goes off; eight meters to go. I am sinking fast now, eyes closed. Equalize, sniff, equalize, pressure on the chest, sinking down, down, down.



Bam, my left hand hits the mark: a tennis ball on the line about a meter from the plate. Elapsed time since the start of the dive: just over one minute. I open my eyes, grab the line with my left hand, and reach down with my right hand to tap the plate. The tags are reserved for the actual competitors, so I don't grab one. The artificial light makes the water a glowing medium blue; it feels shallow, even though very little ambient light penetrates this deep. My chest is tightly compressed from nearly seven atmospheres of pressure, though I still feel zero urge to breathe. The partial pressure of oxygen in my lungs is well over one atmosphere; I could stay conscious at this depth for quite a long time, though the nitrogen and CO2 narcosis soon start to kick in. Focused on my task for the moment, I don't feel it at all. My body sinks to the plate level and I reverse direction; grabbing the line with both hands, pull strongly, starting my ascent.

The ascent is simpler than the descent, because there's no need to equalize. I raise both hands above my head to streamline my form. Ten medium-hard kicks off the plate, and I am at forty-five meters. Further from the plate, the surrounding water gets darker. Twenty kicks, thirty-five meters. I am entering the most difficult phase of the dive, because carbon dioxide building up in my system is triggering an urge to breathe, and the pressure still gives the sensation of empty lungs. But there is no panic; I'm doing exactly what I need to get back to the surface, and the safety divers are waiting.



Kick, kick, kick. My mask is expanding as the pressure drops, I can sniff in some fresh air and inhale it; aahhh. Twenty five meters, twenty meters, the water is getting lighter. The safety diver appears, swimming in front of me, watching, making sure I'm ok. I sniff in more air; my lungs are expanding, it feels like I'm inhaling. The dive is getting easier. Kick, kick. The second safety diver is there; the kicking get softer as my buoyancy lifts me towards the surface. Slight leg burn from lactic acid, but not bad.

At ten meters the safety diver drops his arms; that's my cue. I stop kicking and make a swimming stroke with my arms, propelling me towards the surface. I glance up to check my depth. At five meters I begin to exhale, avoiding lung overexpansion at the surface, preparing to take a full breath of fresh air. Nearly there. Three, two one; break the surface. My hand is on the line, I grab it and hold on. Elapsed time: one minute fifty seconds. Full inhale, hold for a couple seconds, pressurizing my chest to keep the blood pressure up, staying awake. Quick exhale and another inhale, hold, pressurize. Exhale-inhale, hold, pressurize. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Feeling fine. I take off my mask, face the judges, give an ok hand signal, and say, "I'm ok." Then wait thirty seconds. The judges give me a white card: clean dive to 56 meters. A new personal best!!



To put this in perspective, the world record is more than twice as deep: Martin Stepanek recently dived to 122 meters and back, with a total dive time of 3:36. But I'm thrilled to say I've dived a quarter a way to the bottom of the Blue Hole. Eleven more meters, and I'll be a third of the way down. Perhaps next year? The deep is calling...

Excess Baggage

I flew United Airlines a couple weeks ago to Kona, Hawaii, and ran into a thoroughly frustrating customer service experience with them. I've flown more than twice around the world with United, but they may very well lose my business over this. Here's what happened:

I was traveling with four items: a laptop bag (carry on), a dive bag (checked luggage), a small rollaboard suitcase, and a garment bag containing my fragile carbon-fiber dive fins. You're allowed two carry-ons and two checked items (well, $15 for the first checked bag and $25 for the second one), but checking a third bag incurs a disproportionate $125 fee.

So, no problem. Between the garment bag and small rollaboard, I'll carry one on, and check the other one. The garment bag holds $1500 worth of fragile carbon-fiber swim fins, and hangs easily in the airplane's closet. I've carried it on before, on American, with no questions asked. So it's a no-brainer, I'll carry it on. The rollaboard is tough and durable and contains some changes of clothes. So I'll check it. Easy.

The attendant at the check-in counter sees my four items, sees the two that I'm checking (dive bag and small rollaboard), and the two (fin bag and laptop) that I'm planning to carry on. She doesn't bat an eyelash. So I check in.

Then I get up to security, and I get waved aside. (paraphrased:)

"Hey, you can't take that on the airplane!"

"Why not? I just hang it in the closet. I've carried it on before."

"But, um, it doesn't fold in half."

(Like they would ask someone to fold a wedding dress in half?.)

"Tell you what: I'll take it on the plane, and if it doesn't fit, they can check it from there. It's a half-empty flight, and I've always carried it on before. It fits just fine."

"No, you need to go down to the counter and check it, or get their permission."

(So the security guy doesn't know whether it's OK or not. Nice.)

So I run down to the check-in counter, and by now I'm runing tight on time. The attendant droid says, "Well, if security had a problem with it, I'm sorry, but you'll just have to check it. That's $125."

"What? If you had told me when I was here the first time, I would have checked it and carried on my rollaboard. A charge of $125 doesn't make sense here, because I shouldn't have had to check three bags no matter what."

"No. It's $125. Sorry."

By this time it was too late to get a supervisor, and I didn't want to miss my flight, so I resignedly plastered "Fragile" stickers all over my fin bag, and waved it goodbye. Then I ran back up through security and barely got on my plane.

Luckily the fins arrived intact, but on the flight home, I checked them again, just to demonstrate that I could fly with all my luggage perfectly fine without the $125 fee. Then I wrote to United Customer Service to request a refund. The Customer Service droid wrote back (paraphrased):

"We understand your complaint, and we're very sorry. It was our mistake. But we can't refund the $125, because it's non-refundable."

Huh? So I replied:

"Please escalate this to your supervisor, or to a higher level with the authority to reverse this charge."

And three days later, a response (from the same person!):

"I'm very sorry, It's our fault, but we can't refund the $125 because it's non-refundable."

So I called my credit card company to dispute the charge, and they took it off my bill. We'll see what happens.

And in the meantime, I'll be flying American.

UPDATE: My credit card company has determined that the charge was improperly applied, and has refunded me $125. I'm taking that piece of paper next time I fly with fins!

Freediving Part II - Kona Advanced!

Following my intermediate freediving course with Performance Freediving in Malibu/Catalina, I leapt at the opportunity to take their six-day advanced course in Kona, Hawaii. Warm water, colorful corals and fish, and 100-foot visibility — how could one resist? So last Friday I found myself on the plane to Hawaii, oversized Riffe fins safely in the overhead bin, weight belt in the checked luggage (coals to Newcastle?), and brand-new silver freediving wetsuit carefully wrapped and ready to go. I'd been practicing and training for several weeks beforehand, and just a few days earlier had set a personal best of 5 min 45 sec for static breath-holding. My previous deepest dive had been 97 feet, just shy of 30 meters, and my personal (and ambitious) goals for the course were to attain a 6-minute breath-hold, and 40-meter (132ft) depth. Would I make it?

Friday afternoon I arrived, and had a few hours to look around and settle in. There was heavy construction on the highway near Kona, so the ten-mile drive took nearly an hour. However, I decided to drive halfway back up to stop at Blue Water Hunter, a dive shop specializing in spearfishing gear. I'm not all that interested in spearfishing, but hoped to find a set of carbon-fiber freediving fins; lighter and more efficient than my plastic ones. But the carbons are something of a rare commodity, and generally have to be custom-ordered; the store didn't stock any. So I spent the next few hours wandering around the little town of Kona, browsing the mostly touristy shops, enjoying the warm evening weather. Around ten o'clock one of my course-mates, DeeDee, arrived and we went to chow down on a sushi dinner. (The service was definitely island-time, but the food was tasty.) DeeDee had been at my static session where I set my 5:45 mark, and she had set her own personal best of 5:00. Both of us were aiming to go it one better.

Saturday began with a shared session between basic, intermediate, and advanced classes; a safety review and refresher. I had anticipated that the first day would be classroom and pool only, so I only had my standard scuba mask with me, instead of my low-volume (and delicate) freediving mask. We started out in the pool, with safety drills and easy breath-holds. I got to 5:15, not pushing it, knowing we still had six days to go -- being in Kona in August, the sun was directly overhead and there was no easy way to cool off, even in the water in a tight form-fitting wetsuit. Of course, immediately after lunch we headed to the ocean; a beautiful site known as Honaunau Bay, the Place of Refuge. In ancient Hawaiian times, any person who violated a kapu (taboo) could come to this sacred site and be absolved, provided they survived the swim across the neighboring shark-infested bay. So naturally, we jumped right in the water and swam out to the deep channel, 45m of crystal blue.

On that first day of diving, my full-size scuba mask felt huge, almost like a miniature glass-bottom boat on my face. In freediving, the mask forms an incompressible airspace that must be equalized as you go deeper, by exhaling air into it. This takes directly away from usable air, and can have a significant impact on achievable depth. Some freedivers even use fluid goggles (filled with saline) to remove this airspace completely, and to maximize their depth. But on this day I wasn't aiming for records; just re-acclimatizing to the feeling of going deep, pulling slowly down the line to 10 meters, then 15 meters, then 20 meters, each time waiting a minute or two until feeling the urge to breathe, then pulling slowly back up to the surface. We tested ourselves for buoyancy on these pull-downs, adjusting our weight to be neutral at 15m depth. (For me, that turned out to be 5lbs.)Then we performed two target dives, for me 29m and 27m, kicking both down and up. I experimented with the dolphin-kick technique; moving both fins together, rather than alternating left-right. In theory the dolphin-kick is more efficient than a flutter-kick, but takes some practice and uses a different set of muscles.

We finished off the ocean session with two rescue scenarios; timed dives to 10m and 20m to meet a deep diver on their way up, and assisting them to the surface. On my second rescue dive, Mandy wasn't expecting the rescue quite yet at 20m and at first shook me off, then remembered what she was doing and went limp. After all the day's activity, it's a very a long swim up from 20 meters, towing another diver! Especially because I hadn't brought any water out to the rig; after a couple hours of diving, I had gotten very dehydrated. But on return to Kona, we scarfed down a delicious dinner at Thai Rin (loads of carbohydrates, no alcohol) and gladly called it a night.

Sunday brought more classroom training, with some advanced techniques not covered in the intermediate course. These included packing, or forced overexpansion of the lungs to increase maximum breath-holds and depth. (Kids, don't try this at home!) We also experimented with reverse-packing, or using the throat and jaw muscles to force more air out of the lungs beyond an ordinary exhalation. This requires a fair amount of coordination, and for me it became the trickiest part of the deep freediving.

After lunch, however, I started feeling somewhat under the weather, like the beginnings of a sore throat. Exhibiting an uncharacteristic abundance of caution, I opted to skip the ocean dive, in favor of a three-hour nap. (The last thing I needed was to develop a cold, with four days to go!) Luckily, the nap did the trick, or else it could have been just residual jet-lag, or perhaps the vog from the volcano. On the advice of DeeDee and some of the other freedivers, I picked up a bottle of NeilMed Sinus Rinse, which simulated the effect of having a snootful of seawater blasted up one's nose after a particularly bad wipeout. But oddly, it did seem to help. I joined the group that evening at La Pasta for some surprisingly good Italian food; calamari so tender, I thought we must be in the middle of the Pacific Ocean (oh, wait), and an unusual but tasty fusion coconut spaghetti.

Monday began in the pool; another round of statics, this time with extra packing to fill the lungs. On my third hold I pushed it to 5:30, still not quite my limit; I still presumed we'd have another chance before the week was through. Also, the overhead noontime sun was uncomfortably hot, especially for activities that require staying as peaceful and relaxed as possible! After a break for a light lunch, and giving ourselves plenty of time to digest, we headed back down to Honaunau for the next round. (I had the proper mask with me this time; the ultra-low-volume plastic Sphera.) I chugged a bottle of artificial pink Gatorade Berry Blast, and this time took my water bottle with me out to the dive rig. After easy pull-downs to 10m, 18m, and 23m, it was time to do some deep dives. My first was to 32m (106ft), an easy personal best, though I didn't quite make it to my 35m target. The pressure at depth triggered the stretch receptors in my diaphragm, prompting the urge to breathe, even though I still had plenty of air. But as soon as I began ascending, the feeling went away. This reflex is overcomeable with repetition, so on my next dive I resolved to fight through it and go deeper. After a long breathe-up, I dove down again, but hit the wall at exactly the same point: my depth was 33m (108ft). I had one more chance, and through sheer force of will, managed to reach the target plate at 35m (114ft). I dolphin-kicked my way back to the surface, dropped my arms at 10m, exhaled as I reached the float, took my recovery breaths, and it was time for high-fives! We practiced a few more rescue drills, and called it a very happy day.

Tuesday gave us a break from deep-diving, and we spent the morning at the local recreational pool, practicing our dynamic skills. We spent half an hour constructing neck-weights for ourselves, out of inner tubes, lead shot, and duct tape, to give us the proper balance and trim in the water. (Apparently, neck weights have a tendency to vanish out of airplane luggage, due to their uncannyresemblance under x-ray to pipe bombs.) The swimming lanes were 25m, and after establishing weighting and trim (for me, 3lbs on the neck and 6lbs on the waist), we took a few underwater laps, establishing our dolphin kick technique and style. We worked on our turning skills, touching the wall and twisting to change direction. We swam through several 50m dynamics, and I had a chance to try out a monofin for the first time. It certainly felt different to have my legs locked together, but it also felt much more efficient and streamlined, and I looked forward to trying it in the ocean! Finally, we kicked off our fins and tried a few laps of dynamic-no-fins, with a modified underwater breaststroke. I made 50m a couple times, and felt like I could have gone even further. We didn't get a chance to try for full dynamic target swims, but it was great to get a bit of experience in the pool.

One of the women in the basic course, Rachel, had never been in water more than six feet deep in her life, and had previously hated the ocean and the beach and the water. But after the first day she was hooked; she ended up tagging along with the advanced course for the rest of the week, and eventually pulling out an amazing 3:40 breath-hold and 75-foot dive! Watching someone set a personal best by over a factor of ten is certainly a source of major inspiration. In the afternoon we took a field trip to some of the local dive shops, and I picked up an Aqualung MicroMask, a very low-volume mask with glass lenses that fit into the ocular orbit. A bit more robust than the Sphera, though not quite as low-volume, I looked forward to trying it out in the ocean.

Wednesday morning brought another session of diving in Honaunau, and I was eager to try to extend my depth past the 35m wall I'd been hitting. The bright noontime sun was a bit distracting, the heat interfering with the relaxation and dive reflex, and my new MicroMask must not have been scrubbed properly; it kept on fogging up. Still, I did my best, and went for thre deep target dives with the plate at 40m. On these dives, as a safety precaution, we used meter-long flexible lanyards to anchor ourselves to the line; in an emergency, the line could be quickly pulled to the surface, and we'd be pulled up along with it. This took some getting used to; the lanyard material had a tendency to snag and get caught on the line, but this actually helped me improve my dolphin-kicking form, because I found I had to stay a constant distance off the line to keep the lanyard straight. DeeDee appeared to be working toward her corkscrew-diving specialty, monofinning in tight circles around the line as she descended. (We know you're not straight, DeeDee, but this is ridiculous!) Though each of my own dives felt exceptionally deep, my depths were 111ft, 109ft, and 110ft, and I just couldn't seem to break through that psychological barrier to get deeper. Mandy calls this barrier "the monkeys", which is ironic, because I actually like monkeys... :) I would get down to depth, but my reflex to bring up air just wasn't there, so I had a hard time equalizing. On each dive I would get stuck at around 100ft, be forced to stop to think for a few seconds about what I was doing, feel the urge to breathe, and have to turn around and come back up. Also, the first dive gave me a pretty good ear squeeze, since I unwisely descended the last couple meters without equalizing. This all put me in a fairly frustrated mood, but I was still glad that we had one more day to go, and I was determined to conquer my limitations.

That evening I spent quite a long time visualizing my dives; I would hang off the end of the bed with my head and torso upside-down, almost like a handstand, and practice reverse-packing, opening my jaw to pull more air into my mouth, and exhaling through my nose. I also visualized the technique of doing several reverse-packs and exhaling into my mask, then one more reverse-pack, and sniffing in the mask air to create enough volume to get a good equalization. (The flexibility of the Sphera mask comes in handy with this technique.) I found that a bit of a squeeze with my core muscles helped the reverse-packing when it became tougher, and I visualized reverse-packing immediately after equalizing, so I'd always have the air to equalize when I needed it. I also visualized slowing my dive down; not kicking so hard to use so much of my oxygen right away, just swimming at a leisurely pace. I visualized becoming half-asleep as I entered the sink phase, focusing only on my equalizations. and letting my body relax. After a while, the sequence began to feel more natural, and I was optimistic about reaching my 40m goal the next day.

Thursday was the last day of diving, and after a morning spent finishing up our CPR certifications and reviewing videos of our dives, we headed back to the bay one final time. The weather was perfect; glassy water, overcast sky, but still warm. Out in the water, counting down the 45 minutes for our target dives, I quickly got in the zone; the warm-ups felt great, hanging out at 20m for two minutes before slowly pulling back up the line. I had my Sphera mask on, and felt totally relaxed during my target breathe-up. Thirty seconds to go, a few quick purges to get rid of CO2, ten seconds, five, four, full inhale, fifteen packs, roll over and dive. I pretended I was swimming horizontally instead of vertically; keeping my left hand straight above my head, equalizing with my right, focusing on conserving energy and equalizing. By 20m my lungs felt nearly empty, but I had no urge to breathe. At 30m I started to feel the squeeze, but my practiced equalizing reflexes were working fine, and I got a good mouthful of air without any problem. I continued to drift down, thinking I was around 35m, and heard some quick grouper-calls from Mandy to get my attention. I glanced at the line, and it was the candy-cane; I was at the plate! I grabbed the line, reached down with my dive-computer hand to tap the plate, swiveled around and started the dolphin-kick back up. I could see Kirk in the background, and he flashed me the shaka "cool" sign with both hands. The swim back to the surface was long and tiring; by the time I passed 20m I was pretty anxious to get to the surface. But I kept my form, dropped my arms at 10m, and reached the float with plenty in reserve. Six recovery breaths, and a glance at my gauge; 131ft, just a hair shy of 40m! My dive watch has a once-per-second sampling rate, so perhaps it missed the lowest point of my dive, but I had touched the plate, and could easily have plowed headfirst into the bottom at 45m if Mandy hadn't stopped me. Still, a personal best by over 5m, and was able to equalize all the way down; I was completely stoked!

We had time to do one more target dive, so I asked Kirk to set the plate at 42m, just so I could unambiguously break the 40m barrier. (Plus, 42 is the answer to the ultimate question of Life, The Universe, And Everything, isn't it?) So the plate was reset, and I began my breathe-up, ready to go for another personal best. After the exertion of my first dive, I wasn't quite as relaxed as before, but my confidence was through the roof. So the time counted down, I purged, packed, flipped... and started kicking down the line. I found it just as easy to make it down, and my equalizing technique was working fine, although by the time I reached the plate I was pretty sure I had reached my limit. I tapped the plate, turned around, and suddenly realized I didn't have quite as much air reserve as I thought I did!... Completely choiceless, I began dolphin-kicking my way up the line. The marks on the line went by far too slowly, and by 25m I started experiencing diaphragmatic contractions,either from the urge to breathe or from my diaphragm's stretch receptors, since I should have had plenty of air. With so much happening, I completely forgot to sniff in the air from my mask as it expanded, and it escaped uselessly out the sides, bubbling into the blue. At about 20m I dropped my arms; wishfully thinking that it would magically raise me to 10m so I'd have less distance remaining. My legs burned from dolphin-kicking; I switched to ordinary flutter-kicking, and for a few moments I considered signaling to Kirk or Mandy for help. Maybe they saw my eyes go wide through my mask. But I didn't want to give up unless I absolutely needed it; they were right next to me in case anything went wrong, so for the few seconds I thought about it, I kept kicking. And pretty soon, I glanced up and the float was above me; the air expanded to fill my lungs and I felt much better. I exhaled for the last couple meters, broke the surface, cleanly completed my recovery protocol, and gave high-fives! My gauge read 137ft; right around 42m, with a total dive time of 1 minute 31 seconds! Woohoo!!

After a round of safety drills, including a sprint to 10m and back followed by a rescue swim (it's amazing how effortless a 10m dive seems after this course, considering that that was my personal best only a few short years ago), and Rachel's amazing tandem swim with Mandy to 75ft (they told her the plate was at 66ft, to trick her into swimming deeper), the course came to a satisfying end. We took our hero shots on the lava rock in our silver suits and long freediving fins, then went out for a celebratory dinner. Our other course-mates, Howard and David, had both done very well; everyone had made it to 30m, and we all looked forward to our next chance to try again, even though all of us were glad to have the break. Howard had been on track for a comfortable 40m dive, gotten a full mouthful of air to equalize, and then inexplicably swallowed it, cutting his dive short. My shoulder, which had been bothering me all week from carrying a heavy kayak the week before, decided that evening to lock up; I could barely move my head, and it took several motrin to start feeling normal again.

But for all that, we had had the time of our lives, and were already planning our training schedules and repeat visits, with a refresher course coming up in Kona in November. I've been working on my static tables (currently O2 level 10, CO2 level 10), and recently did a five-minute hold with no contractions at the end of an O2 session, so six minutes seems in sight. I also experienced my first a samba while practicing the CO2 tables; I hyperventilated through the 15-second break between the final two 3-minute holds, and after I took my deep breath and five packs, I simply couldn't hold the air in, with some of it escaping in a series of weird staccato 'moogli' noises. Even as it happened, I was laughing to myself at how silly it sounded. After a few seconds my CO2 levels normalized, and I got control back, though I barely managed to hang on through the 3-minute hold. Again, the point of these exercises is to establish and expand one's limits, so one can dive comfortably within them. Freediving is a one-of-a-kind sport, strange and indescribable but wonderful and addictive. I have to thank Kirk and Mandy and the team once again for providing such an intense experience, and encouraging me to break through boundaries I wouldn't have thought possible! Kirk and Mandy, your efforts are appreciated very, very deeply :)

Update, 8-31: First 6-minute static today(!), thanks to some unintentionally clever psychology by DeeDee! (I expected the first signal at four minutes, and steeled myself to keep going two minutes after the signal, but she signaled me at 4:30.) Contractions starting light at 4:30, strong by 5:30, but I felt like I had plenty of air; could have gone another fifteen seconds if I had to. Came up clean, strong and focused. Woohoo!! (Thanks D!)

Freediving - Breathlessly Deep on a Deep Breath

This past weekend I had the opportunity to participate in a sport that is quickly gaining popularity among today's athletes, and is truly without parallel in the sporting world. I'm talking about freediving, which is the sport of underwater breath-hold diving, used in spearfishing, snorkeling, underwater photography, or pure recreation.

The sport involves a basic contradiction: athletic activity usually involves high consumption of oxygen, while diving underwater necessarily requires conservation of oxygen, for lack of a scuba tank. Finding the balance between these opposing factors is part of what makes the sport so fascinating. In fact, taking the course felt like becoming a superhero; all these amazing abilties to hold my breath, to dive deeper than I ever thought possible, considering that I had been barely able to touch the bottom of my grandparents' swimming pool growing up.

Unlike most any other sport, the pace of record-breaking in freediving is actually accelerating. Of sixteen competitive categories recognized by the sport (eight men's, eight women's), thirteen have seen new world records in the past year alone.

I had signed up for a four-day intermediate-level course with Performance Freediving Inc., run by Kirk Krack and Mandy-Rae Cruickshank, both world-class freedivers. Mandy has held several world records, and it's no exaggeration to say that she gives dolphins a run for their money. Also assisting was Craig Gentry, a member of the USA national freediving team.

The course was hosted by Malibu Divers, a scuba outfit I've dived with extensively. The owner, Carter, was kind enough to arrange the course, and another Malibu Divers regular, Matt, joined me for the four-day training session. Matt have never really free-dived before, so the sport was totally new to him; I've had some amount of experience with breath-hold diving while snorkeling, but never any formal training.

Day 1: Apnea

The course began with several hours of classwork: learning the physiology and safety aspects of the sport. Learning about the Mammalian Diving Reflex; why hyperventilation is counterproductive; the signs and symptoms of hypoxia and blackout; rescue techniques for emergencies; proper breathing techniques to slow your metabolism; and how to build up your CO2 tolerance and maximize breath-hold time.



Later in the afternoon we headed over to the Pepperdine swimming pool, where we slithered into our custom form-fitting wetsuits (an awkward endeavor, requiring several dollops of hair-conditioner to expedite the way), ultra-low-profile freediving masks, rubber weight belts, and extra-long fins. An hour of rescue drills, how to handle an unconscious or semi-conscious diver, how to protect the airway, how to make someone start breathing again. Matt and I took turns rescuing each other in simulated situations, until we got the hang of it.

Then it was over to the shallow end, for static apnea (breath-holding). Two minutes of controlled breathing (quick inhale, hold for two seconds, slow exhale for ten seconds, hold two seconds, repeat), followed by a one-minute breath-hold. Piece of cake. Then a three-minute breathe-up, followed by five "purges" (deep inhale, four-second deep exhale), and a two-minute breath-hold. Easy. Then a four-minute breathe-up, five purges, and a three-minute breath-hold. I had done this before, so I didn't have much difficulty, but some of my classmates were starting to struggle. Finally, a five-minute breathe-up, five purges, and a four-minute-max breath-hold. I was completely in the zone, and spent the first few minutes nearly asleep, eyes closed, just floating. Periodically Matt would give me two taps, and I'd signal that I was still doing fine. As four minutes approached, I started to feel a slight urge to breathe, but didn't want to up yet. I heard Craig say: "You're making this look way too easy; go for 4:15." As that time approached, I slowly planted my feet, grabbed the edge of the pool, and at 4:20 lifted my head out of the water. Six quick breaths, an "okay" signal, and within a few seconds I felt completely back to normal. According to Kirk, this breath-hold time theoretically corresponds to over a 200-foot dive (taking exertion into account), so I was stoked! My personal bests are 5:30 for breath-holding and a 60-foot dive, so I was eager to get into the ocean and put my training into practice.

Day 2: Heat

Alas, the ocean would have to wait one more day. Day 2 consisted of more classroom and pool training, focusing on stretching exercises and negative compression, getting used to the feeling of 100 feet of water compressing your lungs and chest. The standard training maneuver: bend over and exhale as much air as you can, then stand up straight and suck in your diaphragm, compressing your chest and lungs. This typically triggers an urge to breathe, even though you have plenty of oxygen; the stretching helps to overcome this reflex. It also helps diminish the residual lung volume, making more air available for equalization during a deep dive. The second training maneuver was to breathe all the way out, then sink to the bottom of the 16-foot pool, simulating the chest compression of a 200-foot dive. We learned to use our throat muscles to make "grouper call" sounds, using the throat as a piston to force bits of remaining air up from our lungs, enabling equalization at depth. An odd and uncomfortable sensation at first, but increasingly more comfortable as we got used to it.

Unfortunately, this day found us in the middle of a heat wave, wearing thick wetsuits in a heated pool with the sun straight overhead, and pretty soon we were suffering from the heat. (I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, either.) After more rescue practice, we headed over to the shallow end for another static-apnea attempt. I wasn't feeling nearly as good as the day before, possibly fighting off a cold, but I gamely went through the preparation exercises: a five-minute facial immersion to stimulate the diving reflex and slow the metabolism, then a three-minute breathe-up, and a two-minute breath-hold. Comfortable, but not effortless. Then a four-minute breathe-up, and a three-minute breath-hold. The day before this had been trivial, but this time I was starting to overheat; I felt the urge to breathe around 2:45, and knew I was nowhere near my best performance. Finally, a five-minute breathe-up, and a maximum breath-hold attempt. I started feeling the CO2 buildup in my lungs around 3:30, and by four minutes I was struggling. My diaphragm started going into periodic involuntary contractions, a typical and expected symptom of extended breath-holds; uncomfortable, but not painful. I also got a bit self-conscious, since I had never done this in front of anyone before. By 4:30 the contractions were getting intense, and I was losing my willpower, so I stood up. Six quick breaths, ok signal, but I was feeling pretty wiped out.

Astoundingly, one of our classmates was a 60-year-old spearfisherman and triathlete, who managed to pull out a six-minute breath-hold, approaching the elite level. He came up smiling, to cheers and applause. Another classmate made 4:45 but blacked out momentarily on surfacing, definitely making the highlights reel. Within seconds he was fine; competitive freedivers regularly lose consciousness, with no persistent ill effects. (Note: I have little desire to become a competitive freediver; I'm doing this for recreation!)

After the pool session we raced down to Long Beach to catch the Catalina ferry, making it by minutes. An uneventful crossing, a big spaghetti dinner, and a good night's sleep to prepare for the next day!

Day 3: Depth

Woke up early, bright and sunny, and went off to eat a light breakfast. Sixteen of us in a kitschy Catalina pancake house, all ordering oatmeal with raisins and no coffee, all added up to a very confused server. An hour later, we walked up to Casino Point, and swam out a couple hundred yards to the dive floats, in 100 feet of water. I was still feeling a bit out of sorts, but the sun was out, the surface water temperature about 66 degrees, and I felt comfortable enough in the water. I floated at the surface, letting my black wetsuit soak up the sun's rays.

After a five-minute facial immersion to kick-start the dive reflex, we took turns pullling ourselves down a line, hanging underwater until we felt the urge to breathe, then coming up. We started at 5 meters, then went to 10, 15, and 20 meters. A wicked thermocline at 50 feet dropped the water temperature to 55 shivering degrees, but I wasn't down there that long. With the dive reflex, even at 60 feet with my lungs compressed, I felt totally fine; staying underwater for a minute and a half on each dive. Then we went through some rescue scenarios, learned the techniques for finning up and down instead of pulling on the line, and headed back to shore for lunch and a rest.

Later in the afternoon, back out for more diving. After some preparatory dives, the line was lowered to 80 feet, and after a breathe-up I started back down. Kick hard down to 33 feet, then softer down to 66 feet, then drift deeper as negative buoyancy kicks in.The difference between 60 and 80 feet was night and day; I felt serious compression on my lungs, and had difficulty finding air to equalize, using the grouper-call technique to get air. Yet I never felt out of breath, and hung on the line for several seconds at 80 feet acclimatizing to the pressure, before slowly swimming back up, streamlined with hands overhead. Drop hands at 33 feet, exhale halfway at six feet, then on hitting the surface, take a deep breath and hold for three seconds; breathe out and in quickly; hold three seconds; out and in, hold. Then three quick breaths to blow off the last CO2, and an okay signal.

Still feeling good, I decided to attempt a 100-foot dive. Breathe-up, take a huge breath, and dive down. Strong kicks to 33 feet, soft kicks to 66, then drift down. I was able to equalize to about 90 feet, then stretched to reach the plate at the bottom of the line. Tap, turn, kick back up. And up. And up. And up. Whew! My dive watch read 95 feet; over 50% deeper than my personal best. After a ten-minute break, I tried one more time, and reached 96 feet. Then a few more rescue exercises, and we called it a day.

Day 4: Cold

Woke up with a slight fever; probably the same cold I'd been fighting all week. Low-energy, and not enough time to eat a proper breakfast; half a power bar, collected my stuff together, and we walked out to the dock to catch the King Neptune, a dive boat that would carry us out to the deep water site. 15 minute boat trip, then we slithered into our cold wetsuits, donned the gear, and jumped in the water. I was still feeling under the weather, but really didn't want to miss the opportunity. The weather itself was also under the weather; cloudy and cold, with some wind blowing. We started with the five-minute facial immersion, lowering our metabolism; within a few minutes, I was shivering. I should have been smart and headed back to the boat; more on that soon.

We went through the pull-downs to 5 meters, 10 meters, 15 meters, 20 meters, and my shivering was getting intense. The boat was 200 feet away, and no one else was swimming back, so I didn't want to be the first to wimp out. As this was my last opportunity to try a deep dive, and I really wanted to see 100 feet on my watch, I tried to pull myself down the line. Got to 91 feet, couldn't equalize, felt out of breath, so I came back up. Rested a bit, and my shivering began to subside. (Bad sign.) Figured I'd try one last time: Kicked down to 33 feet, 66 feet, drifted down, and got within a few feet of the bottom plate: my watch read 97 feet, but I was already out of breath. The kick back up felt interminable; never any panic, but a long, long swim. Reached the surface, shivered my way through a few last rescues, then we swam back to the boat. By this time I was seriously hypothermic; perhaps 94 degrees core temperature by my best guess, but it didn't occur to me to worry about it.

So we got back on the boat, got out of our wetsuits, and went to the on-boat shower to rinse off. Hot shower. Really, really bad idea. As I discovered afterward, a hot shower is perhaps the worst possible thing I could have done with hypothermia. The heat stimulates the circulation in the limbs, which makes the cold blood stream straight back to the heart and lungs, lowering the core temperature even more. After a few minutes, I started to feel a very peculiar sensation, like my chest and lungs were shivering. I checked my heartbeat, and it was erratic; fluttering randomly between 60 and 120 beats per minute in a chaotic dance. Otherwise I still felt okay, so it didn't seem like an emergency; I just tried to stay warm, and although I was very tired, I didn't feel dangerously bad. The arrhythmia persisted for over an hour, but finally subsided after we ate a hot lunch and walked over to the ferry.

In hindsight, there were several contributing factors, all preventable. I woke up with a fever; that alone should have kept me out of the water. My electrolytes were imbalanced from no breakfast, which can aggravate arrhythmia. After an hour in the water, I was probably a bit dehydrated. And I let myself get way too cold, which is really the wrong time to do strenuous exercise and breath-holding. And finally, the hot shower triggered the further drop in core temperature and resulting arrhythmia.

I'm planning to get an EKG test to be safe; I don't anticipate anything out of the ordinary, but I've never had one before, so it's long overdue. Besides, I'll need a doctor's note to get clearance for the advanced freediving course in Kona this August, which I'm very much looking forward to. I also look forward to writing a blog entry that focuses less on medical mishaps, and more on the beauty of freediving!

Update: Clean bill of health, EKG normal, all systems go. Excellent!

Update 2: Turns out the arrhythmia was nothing but Respiratory Sinus Arrhythmia, which is a perfectly normal occurrence, and actually A Good Thing. From the article: "In humans, the magnitude of the RSA increases with physical conditioning and self-induced, relaxed breathing. RSA becomes less prominent with age, diabetes and cardiovascular disease."

And here is a Class Video !

Cleaning Up Rincon Point? Pt. 8

Rincon Votes Down Sewer -- But Overruled By Three Other Communities!!

The sewer annexation vote has now been certified in the four communities, and the final tally comes to 73 for, 67 against. A sad day for Rincon, considering that the Rincon precinct (including parts of Sand Point Road) actually voted against the sewer, 58 to 48! Since Sand Point is generally in support of the sewer, this suggests that the opposition at Rincon is stronger still. Yet the gerrymandering of all four communities together has flipped the tables against us, and obtaining justice will be an uphill fight.

CA Elections Code, Section 14251:
"Any doubt in the interpretation of the law shall be resolved in favor of the challenged voter."

Importantly: note that were it not for eleven No votes thrown out under dubious circumstances, we would have outright won the election. At least one of these registrations was thrown out based on sworn testimony from the pro-sewer side that was pathetically, flabbergastingly false; the voter in question was never contacted to verify these allegations, and there was no time or opportunity for appeal. (I would provide details, but the circumstances are fairly personal.) I will just observe that the CA Elections Code has been flagrantly violated in this election, in both letter and spirit. Truly sickening; politics at its worst.

Finally, I will point your attention to a recent article in the SB Daily Sound. Here are some excerpts:

Santa Barbara beaches made the grade in Heal the Bay’s annual Beach Report Card released Wednesday, ranking as some of the cleanest places to take a dip along the state’s coastline.
During the dry, beach-going months, water quality at all 20 locations tested weekly from the Guadalupe Dunes to Rincon earned very good or excellent rankings, according to the report.
Santa Barbara beaches with the most issues during the rainy season include Arroyo Burro Beach, East Beach at Mission Creek and Carpinteria State Beach. Those locations have the largest and most urbanized waterways spilling into them, Brummett said, lending to water quality issues.
East Beach near Mission Creek earned an “F” rating during the wet season. Arroyo Burro Beach, Goleta Beach and Carpinteria State Beach are among those with “C” ratings during rainy periods.
Health officials also closed two local beaches following sewage spills in the past year, something Brummett said is a rare occurrence.

So remind me again why Rincon needs a $7 million sewer system?

Cleaning Up Rincon Point? Pt. 7.5

Sewage leak shuts Coast Highway in Laguna Beach

Is this really what we want for Rincon??

'Nuff said.

Cleaning Up Rincon Point? Pt 7

This began as a response to a poster's comment, but has expanded to deserve its own its own blog entry. So here is the anonymous comment in full, followed by my response.

Anonymous said...:

Bensciousness, I am sure you will want your readers to know the real truth of what is going on at Rincon, and to know that the recent (April 4, 2008) letter by Rincon Point Foundation is full of errors.

The RPF lettersays:
"The Pacific Ocean at Rincon Point is currently 303(d) listed for "Indicator Bacteria." Your fans need to go to http://www.waterboards.ca.gov/tmdl/docs/303dlists2006/final/r3_final303dlist.pdf
and look at page 17. It does not say "indicator bacteria." It says the pollutant/stressor is Fecal Coliform and Total Coliform. the Pacific Ocean at Point Rincon (mouth of Rincon Creek) ARE 303(d) listed.

The RPF letter says "The DNA investigation of Rincon Lagoon showed that the majority of coliform DNA matches (for which only trace amounts were found, all non-pathogenic) were NOT from human sources/species."
If your fans go to the DNA report itself they'll find this statement is not true. Go directly to the chart on page 21 - it's very clear:
http://www.healtheocean.org/articles/dna_report/index.htm

that big, high purple column represents the number of DNA matches made for HUMAN bacteria, and anyone reading the report will see specific discussion on pathogens. Human fecal material IS pathogenic, saying otherwise does not make it true.

The RPF letter says "Routine beach testing throughout Santa Barbara County demonstrates that Rincon is NOT one of the most contaminated beaches..."
That's because RPF is looking in the wrong place. Ventura County Environmental Health tests Rincon, not Santa Barbara County. Go to: http://ventura.org/rma/envhealth/programs/ocean/log.htm , and check out 2008, 2007 and 2006. You will find Rincon posted with warnings in 2008 for 16 days already (three days in January, 13 days between January and February); in 2007, Rincon beach was posted in May and July, and in 2006, Rincon was posted with warnings 11 times during the year - February, April, May, July, August, September, October. Heal the Bay has given Rincon 'BEACH BUMMER' status for 2006-2007. To see Heal the Bay's denouncement of water quality conditions at Rincon, go to: http://www.healthebay.org/brc/annual/2007/counties/ve/analysis.asp

(The "Beach Bummer" for Rincon will be very noticeable in upper right corner of screen.)

Rincon Point Foundation says "the Questa study shows there are NOT failing septc systems in the area." Your fans should go directly to the Questa study, see the chart on p. 158; summary on page 162, and they'll see the above statement is also not true: http://www.santabarbaraca.gov/NR/rdonlyres/2B27EA-CE1C-4829-966F-D4D7468BE52D/0/WaterQualityReportSepticSystemSurveyforSBCounty.pdf

I'm sure you don't want to be spreading misinformation. The above documents and charts are the real deal. How RPF makes up the stuff it says is mystifying.

Dear Anonymous:

First of all, Rincon Point Foundation is not myself. But I thank you for your comments, and would like to respond to your points.

You're correct that 0.06 mile of Rincon Beach is 303(d) listed for Fecal + Total Coliform. However: the source of pollution remains listed as "Unknown." Keep in mind, Rincon represents only about one ten-thousandth of the total California beachfront that is 303(d) impaired; to clean up the entire coast at this price point would bankrupt Bill Gates, even presuming the sewer would help at all. If our goal is to improve the environment, this amount of money is far better spent somewhere else, beginning by identifying and fixing any problematic septics. A scorched-earth attempt to sewer all of Rincon just to keep half a teaspoon of fecal coliform out of the creek is ludicrous overkill, to say the least.

From the DNA study, approximately 80% of the DNA matches came from non-human species. The fact that none of those other species individually came in above 20% is irrelevant; your argument is like saying that most people alive today were born in 2007. (Think about it.) You also overlook the bigger picture, which is that the study found only trace amounts of pollution during the testing period; the ocean and lagoon water met all recreational standards for water quality. Significantly, only on a single day of the study (the very last day) did the human DNA tallies spike, suggesting a fault in the data or collection methods, or at least demanding some alternate explanation. Gradual septic leakage would not cause a spike like this, but a dirty diaper would. As the author of the DNA study states: "One human with an infection can contaminate an entire beach. It doesn’t take much if the bather has a highly contagious illness. Babies at the beach are like bacteria tea bags." Also, it stands to reason that a background level of pollution from septics (if any) would be relatively constant; the spikes that result in beach closures (due to increased creek flow) are likely to contain a higher proportion of animal bacteria, due to increased runoff from the watershed, yet this has not been explicitly tested for. The sewer will do nothing to reduce animal pollution; even in the original DNA study, the fecal traces from ducks + dogs outnumbered those of humans. Good luck teaching mallards to use indoor lavatories.

On fecal coliform and pathogens, here's what the DNA report says: "Unfortunately, the limitations inherent with this particular scientific method and application in this setting does little to identify pathogens, or measure any significant infectious levels (doses) within the watershed. E.coli is a coliform bacterium that has many subspecies; the majority are hosts of normal intestinal flora. Only a few, such as E. coli 0157:H7 have been found to be pathogenic... Dr. Samadpour did examine each of the species matches to determine if the E.coli isolates were pathogenic E.coli 0157:H7. Dr. Samadpour reported that no E.coli 0157:H7 was present in the isolates tested from the Lower Rincon Creek Watershed... As indicated above, the presence of E.coli alone does not address pathogenicity per se... Sterilization of the creek, via removal of all fecal coliform bacteria would devastate the ecosystem of the creek. Some level of nonpathogenic coliform is essential to preserving creek biota."

From the Questa study, page 5-7, regarding Septic failures: "The areas reporting the lowest number and rate of failures were Rincon Point, Orcutt area, Ballard, Painted Cave, and Mission Canyon. " Table 5-1 of the Questa report shows that for the period 1983 - 2002, Rincon Point septic systems had zero cases of surfacing effluent, zero incidents of deliberate public discharge, zero incidents of deliberate sink drain discharge, zero plumbing problems causing backup or surfacing, zero reports of suspicious orders, and two false alarms; complaints that turned out not to be septic-related. Table 5-2, likewise, shows zero septic failures at Rincon. The Questa study states: "No direct link between septic systems and beach closures has yet been established." So with all due respect, I'm not sure what you're inhaling, but I doubt it's from a failing septic.

Now, granted, Rincon may not be best-case for Septic. It is incumbent on us to inspect and upgrade our onsite systems now and then, as problems arise. However, Rincon is not best-case for sewer, either! The Questa report glosses over the excessive costs, complexities, and environmental impacts and risks of the sewer, and treats it as a black-box miracle solution. It is not. On top of the $88,000 per household for sewering our streets, PLUS $500+ per year for service, PLUS inevitable re-assessments when the project runs over budget, we are dealing with the installation and maintenance of an inordinately complicated and mickey-moused piece of infrastructure, that by the Sanitary District's own admission has NOTHING TO DO WITH WATER QUALITY. We all want cleaner water, but it is our duty to tackle the problem in a way that's both meaningful and cost-effective. The sewer is a crushingly misguided boondoggle that will only allow further mansionization of the Point, and increase our net footprint on the environment. For the record, Beach Club Road residents concur unanimously. It's no coincidence (to my knowledge) that all the surfers who live at Rincon, who have the most to actually gain from improved water quality, have done their homework and unanimously concluded that, regardless of the question, the sewer is not the answer.

I look forward to your comments.
-Ben