You can visit The Reef Encounter's web site at
http://www.ozemail.com.au/~noahsark/reefenc.htm

Send questions or comments to Stan@stanmorse.com
they will be forwarded to Stan.

On the stern of Compass, headed out to Reef Encounter

Reef Encounter ship

Great Barrier Reef,
part I
By Stan Morse
December 11, 1997

December arrives, and with it the end of my stay in Sydney.

It's a three hour flight to Cairns. As I leave the plane, the humidity envelopes me like a warm washrag. Condensation slicks the aluminum rims of my wheelchair. But there is a cooling breeze, rich with the scent of jasmine. Not the nutmeggy jasmine of Sydney, but a pure jasmine perfume. I've arrived in the tropics.

The Holiday Inn, where I've booked my before-and-after-dive accommodations, is spotless and beautifully appointed, with a large tropical garden and pond in the open atrium. The room is perfectly wheelchair-friendly. And inside it is cool . . . so very cool.

I want to go out, look around. But it's too hot for exploring, so I relax, repack one bag for the boat, check my cameras, and daydream about tomorrow and the Reef.

In the morning I head for the waterfront at 6:30. I'm uncertain what to look for when I arrive. It's quiet, no one is around. Finally, I find a cafe that is just opening.

"Where's the Marlin Jetty?" I ask the man pulling chairs off tables.

"Just back of this building," he says tiredly -- a question he's obviously answered many times. I feel like a tourist, but shrug it off. Following a narrow access road around the side of the complex, I find the waterfront.

"Where's the Marlin Jetty?" I ask of a woman who says she works on one of the dive boats.

"Just over there," she says, pointing towards a long dock "You going out on a boat?"

"Yeah," I say proudly. "The Reef Endeavor."

I don't realize my mistake. I'm supposed to be on "Reef Encounter." But I've confused the names.

"Oh," she says uncertainly. "I'm not sure where they dock, but I don't think it's at the Jetty." I feel a pang of nervousness.

"Hey!" she yells to a guy sorting diving equipment on a nearby catamaran. "Where's Endeavor dock?"

"Down on the pier," he yells back.

"Down on the pier, I guess," she says hesitantly, pointing towards a pier nearly a quarter of a mile away.

"Thanks," I say. But now I'm definitely nervous.

No one is around when I reach the pier. The three moored catamarans are empty, and the 250 foot vessel at the pier's end appears to be a research ship.

I look for a passenger pick-up sign, but find none.

Have I remembered the wrong name? I've left my master calendar, where I've written the boat's name, back at the hotel. There's not enough time to go back and check.

I spend five frustrating minutes alone on the pier, uncertain what to do. Finally, a man comes strolling out from a building.

"Does the Endeavor dock here?" I ask hopefully. "I'm supposed to go out for two nights, and they said to meet them on the Marlin Jetty. But at the Marlin Jetty they told me the Endeavor docks here on the pier."

"Well," he says carefully. "The Endeavor docks at this pier. But she only comes in twice a week, and tomorrow's her next docking."

Now I'm in a panic. Could I have made so monumental a mistake as marking the wrong day on my calendar? Then I remember the two names, so similar.

"Maybe I got the name wrong," I say hopefully, suddenly wanting to dash back to the Marlin Jetty. My boat is supposed to leave in 30 minutes.

"There's an information booth near the gas station," he says, pointing back up the street in the Jetty's direction.

"Thanks," I say, and take off.

At the information booth a woman is putting up readerboards with the day's bargain tours written in chalk. "I'm confused," I say anxiously. She pauses, smiles helpfully. "I think I'm supposed to go out on the Reef Endeavor today, but it might be the Reef Encounter. The boat I want is about a hundred feet long, and they told me they'd pick me up at the Marlin Jetty."

"You want the Encounter," she says with certainty.

My panic evaporates.

"They pick you up on a boat called Compass. It should dock soon. Go out to the end of the Jetty," she points towards the dock, "and you'll see her come in."

"Thanks!"

When the 80 foot Compass pulls away from the Jetty half an hour later -- with a much- relieved me on board -- there are 60 passengers. Only 16 of us plan to stay overnight on Reef Encounter.

Jeff checks me in and says to choose a wetsuit from the rack.

"What do I need a wetsuit for?"

"Stingers, coral, hypothermia," he says matter-of-factly.

"Okay," I answer. I've been told the box jellyfish ("stingers"), can be deadly, but don't roam out as far as the Reef. And how could avoiding the coral be difficult? Reluctantly, I take a suit and drape it over the back of a bench, eyeing it suspiciously. Heavy, black, rubbery, it looks terribly uncomfortable for 85 degrees and 90% humidity.

As we motor out from the mainland, the brownish runoff of the harbor is replaced by clear sapphire blue water highlighted by sun diamonds. I stare into its cool depth, and the heat and humidity suddenly seem inconsequential.

It takes almost two hours to rendezvous at Hastings Reef.

I must be carried onto the 112 foot Reef Encounter. I put my arms around the necks of two crewmen, and they reach around my back and under my legs. Carefully, they step from the rocking glass-bottomed transfer skiff, onto the dive ramp of the Encounter, then up several aluminum steps to my waiting wheelchair.

Shortly, the diving instructor, Gavin, directs everyone to the salon. My chair's too wide for the narrow doorway, so I can only poke my head inside.

"Stan," Gavin says quietly to me before he starts. "I'll have a talk with you after I've filled in the others."

I listen to snatches of Gavin's presentation, but start thinking about the challenge of living aboard for three days and two nights. The walkways are blocked by diving gear and metal posts. My unassisted access will be limited to the 15x20 back deck and to 25 feet of one walkway. None of the doorways are wide enough to pass my chair. To go inside, I'll have to be carried, my wheelchair disassembled and reassembled. But I'm prepared to accept the inconvenience.

We're on a Fairmile, designed by the British as a WWII mine-sweeper. It's a wood-hulled boat that originally had dual torpedo tubes, depth-charge launchers, and an anti-aircraft gun on the bow. It was placed in service at the end of the war to clear Japanese mines, and was never meant to be a cruise ship.

As I half-listen to Gavin, I wonder what my cabin and the toilet and shower will be like. I push the thought aside. First, I have to get into the water, and that's enough of a challenge for now.

The meeting breaks up and people begin to pull on wetsuits and strap on tanks. Gavin comes out and we find a quiet corner.

"Don't worry," I assure him. "We'll figure things out. I'm flexible."

"What level of injury do you have? I need to get the OK from our doctor before you can dive." He shrugs.

"I'm a T-6." Was I supposed to get a physical? A medical certificate? No one said anything about this. I'm nervous, again.

"Are you taking any medications?"

"No."

"Okay. I'll make the call, and let you know."

I begin to wait, wondering if I'll get to scuba dive.

I watch from the shade on deck as bubbles from divers move towards the light green of the Reef fifty yards away. Several snorklers are already out; I see their yellow snorkels bobbing happily in the water. I'm sticky and hot.

For half an hour I try to be patient. Gavin is underwater with the novice divers, so he can't have spoken with the doctor. I feel left out.

One of the instructor-trainees comes on deck.

"Would it be okay if I went snorkeling?" I ask in a tone that must carry all of my half hour of frustration, because he smiles.

"Sure. How can I help?"

"I need a couple minutes of privacy to change into my suit." The effort of going into the salon, or below to my cabin, is pointless. Almost everyone is in the water, anyway. I've already accepted the fact that on this trip, my privacy has to be a low priority.

"Okay," he says. "I'll keep an eye out and make sure people stay towards the bow."

He leaves, and I wriggle out of my pants and into my swimtrunks. It's not a challenging procedure on land, but on a gently pitching boat with a sloped floor it takes all of my concentration not to slam into the railing or flip over backwards.

Finally, my green trunks are on.

"Okay," I call out. "All clear."

They lay a life preserver on the dive platform for me to sit on, so I won't bruise or scrape the skin on my rear. Then two crewmen carry me down the six steps.

I've decided not to wear the wetsuit. I haven't seen any jellyfish. And avoiding coral should be simple while floating on the surface, shouldn't it? The water is 85 degrees so I'm not worried about hypothermia. I'll take my chances.

I lean forward, plunge in, and the water immediately washes away the sweat. It's as warm as bath water. I swim away from the deep water where the boat is anchored.

The Reef looms up. In a rainbow of colors, coral clumps that look like brains, lacy fronds, mushroom caps and shelves, all cling to the thirty-foot wall. In a small clearing, a forest of blue antlers climb several feet upwards. Lumpy columns colorfully erupt from the seabed to almost reach the surface. Orange-and-blue-striped Clownfish play coyishly amongst the waving yellow tentacles of an anemone. Schools of blue Surgeonfish with bright yellow tails, and golden-yellow Butterflyfish with black snouts, parade by. Tiny neon-blue fish dart through coral clefts. Cigar-sized blue- and-black Cleanerfish are busy suckering other fish coming within their territories. Five blue, yellow and white striped Angelfish with black eyepatches swim by, then disappear down a coral valley. A peculiar-looking orange fish with fins running the length of its body undulates along near the bottom. A school of black and white striped Batfish flash past.

I discover a clam as large as a lawnmower, but it's too far down for me to reach.

Then I see my first Giant Maori Wrasse, intricately patterned with dark green and brown vertically elongated diamonds, and red squiggly lines on its head. The size of a surfer's boogie board, he comes towards me like a nervous hundred-pound puppy. He circles at ten feet, one eye scanning curiously up and down the length of my body. After two minutes he swims slowly away. I feel as though I've just received approval from the Reef's godfather.

After twenty minutes I swim back to the ship. There are parts of the Reef I'll never experience unless I can go down with scuba equipment. I want to know if Gavin has gotten the doctor's permission to let me go on my first-ever scuba dive.