Skies started out dark and overcast this morning [Dec. 21], but with little wind our dive group did not hesitate to load up our zodiac boat with five divers and two dive tenders and head out to the rocky point near the station for a dive. The other boat tender, besides me, was Randy, who has been with us here on station over the past three weeks recovering from a pretty serious bronchial infection. Fortunate for me, it turns out, Randy is a superb small boat handler, as his job as lead science technician aboard the RV Gould has earned him considerable experience at sea.

As planned, we got the divers into the water and relaxed for what we thought would be a calm 30 minutes, scanning the area for leopard seals and keeping a sharp eye out for divers that might surface early.

Suddenly, about 15 minutes after the divers had descended, the wind jumped from almost a whisper to 30 knots. Almost immediately the radio in my jacket pocket crackled with the urgent voice of our station's communications expert warning us, and other station boats, that the winds off the glacier were rapidly climbing! With the seas rising by the second, I did not hesitate to yell at Randy, asking him to pull our boat over the immediate area where the divers had descended.

Leaning over the side of the boat, I dangled a single dive tank below the surface and whacked it repeatedly with a hammer we carry for this very purpose. Three blows and a pause ... three blows and a pause. I called to Randy to also rev up the engine of the boat, both being diver recall signs reserved for emergency situations such as inclement weather or leopard seals.

After what seemed an eternity, and with the winds now gusting up to 56 knots, we picked out the heads of a pair of dive buddies, and then, close to the surf-covered rocks, a third diver (one of our dive threesome). We headed for the diver by the rocks, figuring it best to get him or her out of the water first, but they descended to rejoin their two buddies just five feet below. Quickly we changed course and headed to the two divers awaiting recovery, fighting to position the boat into the wind such that a diver was on each side of the boat.

Both divers quickly unbuckled their tanks, and rolled out of the straps, allowing Randy and I to quickly lift the tanks aboard. Then, in a flash, both divers flopped into the boat, having fin-kicked themselves aboard still wearing their dive weights. All five of us now began surveying the wind-blown waves in search of our remaining dive threesome.

Within a few minutes they all surfaced straight ahead of us, bouncing about in the building swells. Soon we were next to them, Randy doing a great job of powering the zodiac boat close enough to the divers to allow them to grasp the ropes equipped with carabiners with which to attach dive equipment. The seas were now so heavy that when one of the divers briefly released his grasp on the boat to move to a rope, he was pulled quickly away by the currents, only regaining his grasp on a rope after Randy had repositioned the boat. Soon, all the dive gear was pulled aboard and the final diver slithered up and into our rolling boat.

Randy powered up the engine and we began the battle against the glacial wind back to station. At this point the divers were actually in a better situation than the dive tenders. Their dry suits providing needed insulation against the strong gusting winds and the buckets of spray from the heavy waves crashing over the bow. The tenders were getting soaked and cold. Needless to say everyone aboard breathed a sigh of relief when our zodiac boat made the final turn into Hero Inlet to dock at the station. Thank goodness we had chosen to dive close to the station!

In retrospect, we are all aware that Antarctic weather has a reputation of being both temperamental and tempestuous. This December morning, being so close, yet in a meteorological context, so far, from the station, we had a reminder of its fickle nature. One thing is for certain, one should never, ever, let their guard down, down here.