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Be forewarned. There are no traces of my trademark dry humor to be found

in this story and there’s no happy ending. It’s probably as close as

I’ve come to my trip to Valhalla. In October of 1972 it happened like

this:

Rod Temple and Robbie McIlvaine were waiting for me when I drove up

to the beach at Cane Bay on St. Croix’s north shore. This area of the

Virgin Islands had some of the best wall diving in the eastern

Caribbean and the drop off was an easy swim from shore eliminating a

long boat ride from Christiansted. We unloaded our gear and began to

dress under the shade of the palms while a dozen or so tourists

watched with interest. Diving was still not an every day sport for

most people and the double tanks and underwater camera equipment we

dragged into place and began to assemble held a certain fascination.

We were setting off to recover some samples from a collecting

experiment we have placed on the wall for a local marine science lab.

Six days before we had positioned our large support float right over

the drop off with the research vessel and carefully loaded our

sediment traps, nets and lines so they’d be ready for positioning in

various locations in the shallow patch reef and the deep wall. Today

we planned to inspect one project at 210 feet and shoot some

photography of the area. Rod transferred the dive profile and

decompression information to his slate as Robbie and I rounded up the

remainder of the equipment and walked into the warm ocean to begin

our leisurely surface swim to the float station about 300 yards

offshore.

We’d done Cane Bay hundreds of times in the last two years both for

work and for fun. And this October morning was no different than

scores of others as we snorkeled over the clear sand a few feet

beneath our fins. As usual, Rod struck a livelier pace and forged on

ahead while we wallowed in his wake towing the photo gear and another

plexi-glass marine specimen trap the lab wanted set in the chute that

spilled over the wall.

Reaching the float, Robbie retrieved the snap swivels that would

anchor the trap into our rope grid strung on the wall face. Rod

reviewed the deco schedule, “Look, if we can get this thing set up

and check out the project at 210 in fifteen minutes, we can save a

lot of decompression. Can you do the photos in that time frame if I

run the lines on the plexi trays?

“Sure,” I replied, “but don’t go wandering off in case Robbie needs

help getting snapped in with the trap. That thing’s a bitch to swim

with.”

“No problem,” Rod smiled back. “I don’t mind doing the heavy work for

you lazy Yanks.”

His British enthusiasm belied the fact that Robbie and I were about

twice his size and strength although he was older and more

experienced. We both gave him an “up yours” salute knowing full well

that any heavy lifting always came our way while Rod handled the

paperwork. As the timekeeper and dive leader, he would keep track of

our dive profile, work in progress, remaining air status, and then

run the deco schedule.

He eased away from the float and we began to swim the short distance

over the deep blue that marked the drop off. The visibility was

great, over 125 feet horizontally and even better looking up and

down. A mild swell wrapped around the point and the sea was calm. Two

of the Navy vessels that we worked with on submarine listening tests

were just a few miles offshore and we could hear their acoustical

sound generators pinging away as we descended.

Rod settled in on top of the wall at 100 feet and we joined up to

check gauges before slipping over in a gentle glide to the first

workstation at 180 feet. Robbie re-arranged the open ends of the

traps to aim in the west quadrant this week and I fired off photos to

record the scene. Most of the scientists who contracted us didn’t do

much diving themselves and they insisted on reams of photography so

they could get an accurate idea of conditions in the deep-water zones

they were studying.

Signaling that we were finished, Rod led us over the coral buttresses

and came to rest next to the deep project. It had slid a bit deeper

during the week so Robbie and I eased it back into position and hoped

it would stay put this time. This occupied our attention for most of

ten minutes when Rod excitedly tapped me on the shoulder to point out

the approach of two oceanic whitetip sharks. This was nothing new to

us as we dove with sharks routinely but it was rare to see these

notoriously aggressive open ocean species in so close to shore. They

passed within about ten feet of us and I shot a few photos as they

swam off to the east.

We finished up the required observations and Rod filled out the field

logs on his slate. Right on schedule he indicated; we were going to

get out with only about 20 minutes of deco it looked like. Robbie

started up first and pointed out the sharks again as they swam by him

headed over the coral and down into the sand chute. I remember

thinking how strange it was to see pelagic oceanic whitetips right

here on the wall at Cane Bay. It was kind of like walking off your

back porch and seeing an African lion when you expected an alley cat.

We’d had our fair share of nasty encounters with these whitetips when

we worked offshore. They were immortalized in the classic documentary

movie Blue Water, White Death released about a year and half earlier

starring Stan Waterman, Peter Gimbel, and Ron & Valerie Taylor. Their

daring to swim with hundreds of these predators while they fed on a

whale carcass off South Africa had been permanently etched into every

diver’s memory of that era. The sharks frequently bit our equipment,

the steel cables deployed from the research vessel, and even the

shafts and propellers on occasion. We were convinced that they would

bite us as well once they got going and never turned our backs on

them without another diver riding shotgun. But these two didn’t seem

to pay us any attention and I turned to begin the ascent behind Robbie.

Our plan called for Rod to be the last guy up. I rendezvoused with

Robbie at about 175 just over a ledge and we both rested on the coral

to wait for him to join us. He was late and Robbie fidgeted pointing

to his pressure gauge not wanting to run low on air. I shrugged and

gave him a “What am I supposed to do?” look and we continued to wait.

Suddenly Robbie dropped his extra gear and catapulted himself toward

the wall pointing at a mass of bubble exhaust coming from the deeper

water.

We both figured that Rod had some sort of air failure either at the

manifold of his doubles or a regulator. Since my air consumption was

markedly less, I decided to send Robbie up and I would go see if Rod

needed help. As I descended in the bubble cloud, Robbie gave me an

anxious OK sign and started up.

But when I reached Rod things were about as bad as they could get.

One of the sharks had bitten him on the left thigh without

provocation and blood was gushing in green clouds from the wound. I

was horrified and couldn’t believe my eyes. He was desperately trying

to beat the 12-foot animal off his leg and keep from sinking deeper.

I had no idea where the second shark was and lunged to grab his right

shoulder harness strap to pull him up.

Almost simultaneously the second shark hit Rod in the same leg and

bit him savagely. I could see Rod desperately gouging at the shark’s

eyes and gills as he grimly fought to beat off his attackers. With my

free hand I blindly punched at the writhing torsos of the animals as

they tore great hunks of flesh from my friend in flashes of open jaws

and vicious teeth. Locked in mortal combat, we both beat at the

sharks in frantic panic.

And then they suddenly let go. I dragged Rod up the sand chute… half

walking and half swimming. Once clear of the silt I could see Robbie

about 100 feet above us looking on in horror. He started down to us

as I lifted Rod off the bottom and kicked with all my might toward

the surface.

But in less than fifteen seconds the first shark returned and hit him

again and began towing us both over the drop off. The attack had

probably only lasted a minute at this point but Rod had lost a huge

amount of blood and tissue and had gone limp in my grasp. I was still

behind him clutching his right harness strap as the second larger

shark hit him again on the opposite side down around the left calf.

Like the other, this shark bit and hung on as we tumbled down the

wall face.

We were dropping rapidly now completely out of control. My efforts to

kick up were fruitless as the sharks continued to bite and tear at

their victim, all the while dragging us deeper. I felt Rod move again

to fend off another attack and my hopes soared upon realizing that he

was still alive. I clung briefly to the edge of the drop off wall to

arrest our rapid descent. The coral outcropping gave us some slight

protection and for a moment the attacks stopped.

Both sharks retreated into the blue and I watched them circle our

position from about ten feet away. To my horror I saw one shark

swallow the remains of Rod’s lower left leg right before my eyes. The

other gulped a mouthful of flesh it had torn off. I tried to push Rod

into the coral in an effort to shield him from another attack but

there was nothing to afford any real shelter. As I turned away from

the waiting predators, Rod and I came face to face for the first time

during the attack. He shook his head weakly and tried to push me

away. I grabbed for his waist harness for a new grip and felt my hand

sink into his mutilated torso. There was no harness left to reach

for. He had been partially disemboweled.

Shrieking into my mouthpiece in fury, I pulled him from the coral and

took off pumping for the surface with him clutched to my chest.

Immediately the sharks were on us again. I felt the larger one

actually force me to one side as it savagely sought to return to the

wounds that gushed billows of dark blood into the ocean around us.

Rod screamed for the last time as the second shark seized him by the

mid-section and shook him. The blue water turned horribly turbid with

bits of human tissue and blood. Once we were turned completely over

and I felt Rod torn away from me.

I watched his lifeless body drift into the abyss with the sharks

still hitting him. The attack had started around 200 feet. My depth

gauge was pegged at 325 feet now but I knew we were far deeper than

that. The grimness of my own situation forced itself on me through a

fog of narcosis and exertion.

That’s when I ran out of air. I think that subconsciously I almost

decided to stay there and die. It seemed so totally hopeless and my

strength was completely sapped. But I put my head back and put all my

muscle and effort into a wide steady power kick for the surface. I

forced all thoughts to maintaining that kick cycle and willed myself

upward.

After what seemed like an eternity I sneaked a look at my depth

gauge: it was still pegged at 325 feet. I sucked hard on the

regulator and got a bit of a breath. Not much, but it fueled my

oxygen starved brain a bit longer and I prayed my legs would get me

up shallow enough to get another breath before the effects of hypoxia

shut my systems down forever.

There’s really no way to describe what it’s like to slowly starve the

brain of oxygen in combination with adrenaline-induced survival

instincts. But I remember thinking if I could just concentrate on

kicking I could make it. After a while the sense of urgency faded and

I remember looking for the surface through a red haze that gradually

closed down into a tunnel before I passed out. The panic was gone and

I went to sleep thinking “Damn, I almost made it.”

I woke up on the surface retching and expelling huge belches of

expanding air. Apparently the small volume of air in the vintage

safety vest I wore had been enough to float me the final distance and

save my life. But I still had to deal with an unknown amount of

omitted decompression and the certainty that I was severely bent.

Swimming to shore as fast I could, I felt my legs going numb. By the

time I reached the beach I could barely stand. A couple on their

honeymoon waded out and dragged me up on the sand. I gasped out

instructions to get the oxygen unit from our van and collapsed. In an

incredible burst of good fortune, it turned out the wife was an ER

nurse from Florida and understood the pathology of decompression

sickness. They got a steady flow of oxygen into me and ran to call

the diving emergency numbers that I directed her to on the dive

clipboard.

I drifted away again into unconsciousness and was revived at the

airport where a med-evac flight was waiting to fly me to Puerto Rico.

But the Navy chamber at the base on the island’s west end was down

and it was decided to take me to the only other functional facility

up on the island’s northwest corner nearly 200 miles farther away.

But the flight crew was afraid I wouldn’t make it when we ran low on

oxygen shortly after passing San Juan. So they had the police stop

traffic on the main divided highway and landed on the road where a

waiting Coast Guard helicopter snatched me away to the hospital roof.

Two days later I was released but with residual numbness in my arms

and legs, substantial hearing loss, and legal blindness in my right

eye that persisted until corrected by modern laser surgery in 1997.

Robbie’s last view of Rod and me was as we were dragged over the wall

in a cloud of blood by the sharks. He never saw my free ascent and so

reported us both killed when he got to shore. It was not until I

called my dad from the hospital a day later that he knew I had survived.

A week later we had Rob’s memorial service at the beach. I resumed

diving the next day. His body was never recovered.

this attack in 1972 was widely reported and shark expertsspeculate that the oceanic whitetips may have been attracted and thenstimulated by the low frequency sound in the water from the nearbysubmarine testing. The previous deepest depth that a diver survived afree ascent from was 180 feet. Gilliam was probably closer to 400feet. He was cited for heroism by the Virgin Islands government forrisking his own life to try to save his partner. In 1993, Britishtelevision (BBC) produced a special on the incident as part of aseries called “Dead Men’s Tales”.

This piece was included in the books Great Shark Encounters! (1999)

and Mark of the Shark (2001)

Additionally published in Outside, Scuba Times, Rodale’s Scuba Diving

and several foreign magazines.

Bret Gilliam has been diving professionally for 38+ years with over

18,000 dives logged. His diving companies included publishing,

manufacturing, resorts, liveaboards, cruise ships, training agencies,

and operations consulting. He now makes his home on an island in

Maine while still traveling the world leading specialized diving

expeditions. He can be contacted at: bretgilliam@gmail.com

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