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The article in my latest issue of Sport Diver read, "Ever dream of getting your work published in Sport Diver?" My heart skipped a beat and adrenaline ran through my arms, right down into my fingertips. Yes, as a matter of fact, I had!
The article described a photojournalism expedition to Curaçao. Only a few divers could go, and after the trip they'd compete to have their story about the island published in the magazine. I'd logged just 20 dives in my two years of being certified, and the only equipment I owned was a mask and a snorkel. I'd never taken underwater photos with anything other than a disposable camera. But I had to go: In my daydreams I already swam next to whales and lived on some island in the warm Caribbean as a scuba instructor, in contrast to the reality of my 9-to-5 behind-office-walls existence.
With each new issue of the magazine, my desk began to look more and more as if it belonged to a diving madman. Torn-out pages with pictures of corals, sponges, whales and eels were tacked in collages all over my corkboard, along with the names of places I wanted to go: the Great Barrier Reef, the Caribbean, the Galápagos Islands. The list was never-ending. I ripped out the article and pinned it in the center of my bulletin board. That voice in my head and a little naïveté were all I needed, so I made calls, did loads of research and rented everything I needed. Then I splurged on my very first pair of fins.
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MISSION IMPOSSIBLE
In a few short months I found myself on my way to Curaçao with nine other divers on assignment, along with Sport Diver editor Ty Sawyer and international photographer Amos Nachoum. They were going to teach us everything they could about taking underwater photos and writing stories and they had only one week to do it.
The moon and a sky full of stars were the only lights I could see through the window of my airport shuttle as we rambled toward Sunset Waters Beach Resort in the dark countryside. The rustic setting of arid, rolling hills and winding, two-lane roads was populated by a tangle of cacti, thorny acacia bushes and windblown, bonsai-like divi-divi trees. As I stepped out of the van, Curaçao's trademark sultry eastern trade winds blew the hair across my face.
"Enjoy yourself," said my driver as he handed me my bag. His English was clipped and strong exotic.
"I will," I said, taking in a breath of the sweet, moist air. I was finally here.
I went straight to my room and spread all of my rentals on my bed. Cameras, lenses, battery packs, underwater housing, big strobes, little strobes, strobe arms, hinges, more battery packs, manuals, tools and lots of O-rings covered the bedspread. It looked more puzzling than a Rubik's Cube.
It was midnight. Breakfast was in seven hours. I grabbed my manuals and began reviewing, thinking, What have I gotten myself into?
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JUMPING IN
The next morning the pace was set with quick introductions as we loaded our gear aboard the Day Dreamer, a 44-foot Sea Ray, with our divemasters Lynn, Mike and Carlos. I had the monster truck of underwater housings, heavy and awkward and huge compared to some of the others. I could barely carry it to the boat.
Heading out of the bay into the calm aqua waters toward our first dive site, Santa Cruz, my insides churned with excitement. My heart pounded as I stared into the water. What is it going to look like down there? What am I going to see? And how the heck do I swim with this monstrosity of a camera?
Descending into the clear water I could see that the reef began at 25 feet and sloped down to 100 feet. It was like a giant had poured out a sack of corals, sponges and fish on the ocean floor a sharp contrast to the sun-bleached desert above it.
Curaçao is not your typical lush Caribbean island. It is the largest of five islands in the Netherland Antilles and sits 35 miles off the coast of Venezuela, just outside the hurricane belt. Its rocky surface of limestone terraces and cliff formations is of volcanic origin. With less than 22 inches of rainfall per year, this arid landscape is home to a hardy desert of cactus and brush.
But underwater it's like a child's paint-by-numbers set. It seemed as if the desert above had been duplicated, then shoved beneath the sea, becoming alive with color. I floated among rolling hills of corals and sponges in rich greens, blues, oranges and purples. Thin finger corals looked like cacti. All around me were brain corals and enormous vibrant orange elephant ear sponges. Sea whips swayed back and forth as if the topside trade winds were somehow blowing them underwater.
Ty floated beside me with a macro lens, focusing on one piece of coral. Patient and balanced, he took shot after shot, barely moving his body. I struggled to position my camera and myself like Ty, low and near the sand. Amos moved in and posed for me above a tower of purple tube sponges.
I took my first picture, then checked the digital image: It was of a lot of blue water and a teeny-tiny image of Amos posed over the tubes. Amos waved me closer. I was so close I was afraid I would run into the tubes, but he kept waving me closer, pointing at my lens then moving his hands together like a clap. I felt I was as close as I could get, but each time I looked at my picture, it was still mostly full of blue water with little of the central image.
I moved on to examine the rest of the reef. I took pictures of spotted drums and trumpetfish, but I was only able to capture their tails as they swam away from me. A moray eel slithered around a coral, but it disappeared before my shutter released.
I looked at my gauge and noticed I was lower on air than usual, so I ascended to my safety stop. I could see Ty below me looking through his viewfinder, still shooting the same piece of coral. Why did he only shoot one piece of coral the whole dive?
For our surface interval Carlos took the boat over to Blue Cave, where we snorkeled, took turns diving off the rocky cliffs and got some much-needed advice.
"The mistake most photographers make is not getting close enough," Amos said. "I say get close, closer and then even closer. Water is 800 times denser than air, so when you think you're close enough, get closer. And when you're as close as you can get, get even closer. Fill the frame with your image."
Ty explained that you don't have to go far to find something worth shooting. "Just stay in one place for awhile," he said. "You'll be amazed at what comes in front of your lens."
Our second dive was the Mushroom Forest. "Think Alice in Wonderland," said Lynn.
As I descended, I laughed into my regulator. Giant shiitake mushroom-shaped star and plate coral heads in dark shades of green erupted in chunks from the ocean floor. The bottoms had been eroded over the years by fish and waves, leaving the shape of a stalk to hold up the corals' mushroom-cap heads.
Rainbow-colored parrotfish darted in and out of the crevices and layers of the green mushroom forest.
All of the mountainous star coral looked alike. It was like being lost in the woods, climbing to the top of a peak hoping to see flat land, only to find yourself surrounded by more mountains.
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NO REST FOR THE WICKED
After a long day of diving, I was imagining a drink with an umbrella and a nap in the sun. But the minute our feet hit dry land, we were practically running to shoot photos of Curaçao's people and landscape.
Some of the divers had come in pairs and rented cars; those of us who hadn't bummed rides with our new friends. We took off, racing sunset and exploring the southwestern side of the island. Fat geckos scurried out of our way into the brush, and black and gold birds called "trupials" swept in front of the car, guiding us through their country.
We found beach after beach on the southern coastline, and each one was different. Some had smooth white sand and some had sand and a little gravel. There were beaches lined with cliffs as well as rocky edges lapped by waves, where the mist of sea was sprayed into the air.
We got back to the resort just in time to catch the night dive at Lost Anchor. I was with divemasters, dive instructors, men with diving patches all over their jackets and women with specialty cards spilling out of their dive logs.
Compared to their hundreds and thousands of dives, only one of my 20 had been a night dive, so I opted to leave the camera behind. I helped my dive buddy, Tom, and shined my flashlight against the coral for extra lighting as he used his macro lens to capture tiny fish swimming among the overgrown fan corals. Pillar coral and pencil coral stretched out from the wall, almost grabbing for us. A jellyfish moseyed up, and as Tom tried to snap the transparent creature into focus, it latched onto the frame of his macro lens.
Finally it was time to go back to the hotel. I'd learned a lot on my first day, juggling my equipment, asking for help, taking notes and chasing after Amos and Ty. I only had five days left and wanted to inhale and take it all in. I scribbled ideas and plans in my notebook. As soon as the salt water was washed out of my hair, my head hit the pillow and I was asleep.
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COLLEGE REUNION
We started day two at College Reef, a drop-off to a wall of giant orange elephant ear sponges and purple tube sponges. I followed Amos and hovered behind him. I watched him set up for his shot, moving slowly and smoothly. He barely moved when he exhaled, the bubbles floating lazily out of his regulator.
When he was finished, I positioned myself exactly where he had been, under the sponge, looking up. I got really, really close this time. I looked at my picture, but it was all blown-out and white. My aperture button was not moving through my housing, something I'd have to fix above the water. But at least I could tell from the image that I had finally gotten close enough I was filling the frame!
It was the third day of the trip before I finally figured out how to take a good picture underwater. Following Ty's advice, I bracketed some brain corals at Mako's Mountain until I found my exposure. The ocean was alive with waving sea fans, and blue tang and French angelfish darted around the coral. Once I found a nice background, I was patient and still. Even though my presence initially scared the fish away, they eventually came back. I hovered, mesmerized by the process.
Will I ever want to dive again without looking through the lens of a camera?
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HALFTIME
Halfway through the trip we switched gears and left the rural west side of the island for an afternoon of diving at Habitat Curaçao, a resort known for its shore dives. Our first dive was Long Beach. A light blue ribbon of water surrounded the inlet, running the length of the shoreline, a sharp contrast to the royal blue ocean around it. After the dive we had a quick swim and then jumped into our last dive of the day, Cas Abou.
I saw fire coral and flower coral as our divemaster, Tuki, guided me along the wall at Cas Abou, introducing me to arrow crabs and shrimp living on the corals and sponges. Scorpionfish and angelfish swam around us, and all of them seemed to know Tuki. They darted around his hands, playing with him. I shot photos of as many different fish as I could and made mental "shot-lists" rosters of photographs I didn't have yet, but that I wanted.
I emerged from the water amazed. I was able to actually dive, breathe, take photographs and think, all at the same time.
After my fourth dive on day three, we caravanned to our final destination, Breezes Resort, just a few miles east of the bustling city of Willemstad. Our hotel was humming with music from the neighboring disco and people heading to the hotel's casino, but I couldn't wait to get to bed and write down everything I had experienced.
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A SUPERIOR EXPERIENCE
We joined the Ocean Encounters crew at the dive shop at Breezes the next morning, and Remy, our divemaster, took us to the Superior Producer, a cargo ship full of clothes and whiskey that sank in 1977. The 200-foot ship left Curaçao a bit overloaded and was headed to nearby Venezuela to deliver goods for the upcoming Christmas holiday, but with the heavy load the ship barely made it out of the harbor before the seas shifted the cargo and it sank.
The descent to the Superior Producer, upright on the ocean floor at 110 feet, was long and silent. I had a complete view of the huge ship as it sat there, dark and alone, surrounded by sand. There was little current, and we were able to swim the length of the ship, capturing photos of orange cup coral growing on the rusted metal.
Later, we dove a different kind of wreck: the tugboat at Saba. Rays of sunlight filtered down to the boat, which is in about 30 feet of water. Schools of fish swam through the open windows. It was the picturesque sort of tugboat you might see, in miniature, in a fish aquarium; I felt like the tiny ceramic scuba diver kneeling next to it.
After diving we again took to the land. We had been visiting the countryside for the first half of the week, but now the island had taken on a whole different look we were definitely on the city side. Most of the island's population of 150,000 resides here, in and around Willemstad, the capital of the Netherland Antilles.
I took a short bus ride into the heart of the city, which was established as a trading settlement in 1664 and is now on UNESCO's list of World Heritage Sites. Dutch colonial buildings with gabled, tiled roofs line street after street in teals, peaches, blues, pinks and greens. Willemstad, a port town with a natural harbor, is divided into two sections, Punda ("the point") on the east and Otrabanda (literally, "the other side") on the west; the two are connected by the expansive Queen Emma Bridge.
I found the city easy to navigate, as Curaçaoans speak as many as five languages, including English. I joined the locals pouring out onto the streets, heading along the floating market where Venezuelan farmers dock their boats full of fruits and vegetables.
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GRADUATION DAY
On my final day on Curaçao I rented a car with another diver, Kelly, and we visited every inch of the island that was still on our to-do list. Our morning began with a walk through the dark caves in Christoffel National Park on the island's northwestern side. We had to duck as bats buzzed over our heads, and we caught a glimpse of the ancient petroglyphs.
We then headed even farther west, to Shete Boka, a national park along the rough northern shore. Where the magnificent rocky cliffs meet with giant waves at Boka Tabla and Boka Wandomi, the water blows and spews high into the air. At Boka Pistol we saw a herd of wild goats grazing along the rocky ledges.
Winding around the western tip of the island to the southern side, we stopped at Playa Knip.
Thump, thump, thump. We heard the beat of a drum, then two, then six, all in unison. The beach was filled with locals and the sounds of a group of young men pounding snare and bass drums. Everyone drew in around the gazebo on the beach, dancing and moving to the primordial sound echoing off the cliffs surrounding the bay. Even the people in the water were dancing.
Finally tearing ourselves away from the spectacle, Kelly and I zigzagged back to the middle of the island, where we ran across an adult-league baseball game. The stands were packed with generations of children and grandparents; the men had formed a drum circle in the stands, chanting and singing songs. They clapped loudly, threw their arms high into the air and yelled for their teams. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and I wanted to learn their chants in their native language, Papiamentu, a mixture of Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch and African dialects.
On a race to beat the sunset we drove to the eastern tip of the island to the Ostrich Farm and the Aloe Plantation. We hung out with the tail-wagging pot-bellied pigs and the nosy emus at the Ostrich Farm. Driving down a dirt road to see the fields of aloe, we saw two boys, about 12 years old, racing donkeys down a dirt road. Their shirttails were flying and we could hear their laughter in the cloud of dust behind them.
Our search for surfers led us straight to the edge of the water on the northeastern shore. We drove under the windmills, chasing the sun to Playa Cañaño. At an outdoor venue there was a band playing for a dance floor packed with couples dancing cheek to cheek; chairs and tables were filled with clusters of friends and families. Everyone was dressed up, even the children. With hair braided into beautiful and creative cornrows, the youngsters chased each other around, giggling.
The sun was burning itself into the horizon behind a fisherman standing in the surf, pulling in his nets for the day. Watching my last Curaçao sunset, I sat down on a rock to relax. Just then I felt the island again: It wasn't just the rhythm of the drums from the band, the pull and push of the tide, the ever-blowing trade winds that had swept us across the island all week it was the sweet, rich spirit and laughter of the Curaçaoan people.
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Being on Assignment
It played like a reality show: 10 photojournalist wannabes traipsing after editor Ty Sawyer and photographer Amos Nachoum with their scuba gear, camera equipment and the hunger to devour the island of Curaçao in six short (or long, depending on how much you slept) days.
We plowed through the water and over the hills, watching, learning, snapping photos, combing the island for our hook, our angle, something to set our story apart from the others and searching to find the one photo to stand out against the thousands shot that week.
It can only be classified as a one-of-a-kind six-day triathlon of diving, photo making and experiencing a crash course on what Ty referred to as "finding the essence of Curaçao."
Though we brought different levels of diving and photography experience, in the end we all grew as students of the island, its people and its sea. And I know we all have a greater appreciation for what it takes to make the pages of Sport Diver seem like flawless attempts from the pros.
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For centuries Curaçaoans have been resourceful when it comes to using the island's plant life. Take the famous Blue Curaçao liquor, made from the dried peels of the bitter native orange, the Laraha. The Aloe Plantation, Curaloe Ecocity, farms Curaçao's native aloe plants for their healing powers.
And then there's Dinah Veeris, who began researching the island's healing herbs and plants by going straight to the source, the native elders. In an effort to preserve the history of these plants she started a garden, plant by plant, and wrote a book about their uses. You can visit the garden, known as Den Paradera, and take a guided tour ($6 adults, $4 children) or simply roam about on your own ($4 adults, $2 children.)
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Eating Your Way Through Curaçao
The food choices in Curacao are as varied as the 50 nationalities that inhabit the island. For an impressive selection, just look through their restaurant guide.
In search of authentic Antillean cuisine? Then head to the old market in Willemstad, Marsche Bieuw, where vendors sell large portions of local favorites like fish, papaya and okra stew, all at fair prices. Seating is on a first-come-first-served basis at a few small tables or at long counters.
Though they don't like to call their establishment a restaurant there's no menu or table service, and they don't take reservations Ye-I Ranch owners Roger and Mirella Christiaan open their ranch every Friday night, when it's known as Equus, to a line waiting outside the gate. What are they waiting for? Pinchos (long skewers), each with a pound of chicken or beef, grilled over hot coals and then hung on hooks above your table. The idea is to pull off the meat (they don't have plates, either!), dip it in either garlic sauce or hot sauce (sous pika) and eat it with the local brick-oven bread, pan franses.
The marinade is a secret family recipe, but you can smell the pungent aroma of bay leaves grilling while you enjoy a beer at the bar. Open Friday nights at 6 p.m. at Caracasbaaiweg 338.
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Deco Stops
With at least 38 recognized beaches (playas) on the island, there's plenty of sand and surf for everyone bring a snorkel and spend the day. On weekdays the beaches are sparsely populated, but on weekends you can feel the spirit of the locals as they come out to play. Rent a car and drive to Christoffel National Park, 4,500 acres of hills that is home to the island's highest point, Mount Christoffel, at 1,239 feet. Go horseback riding at the park's own ranch, Rancho Alfin. Hike across Shete Boka National Park, where waves crash against the rocky ledges and rugged cliffs, sending spraying mist high into the air; it's a perfect photo opportunity. Wander the streets of Willemstad to admire its colonial architecture and pastel colors; while you're there, make sure to visit the Floating Market, where people who come over from Venezuela dock their boats and sell fish and produce. Experience a dolphin encounter at the Sea Aquarium's Dolphin Academy. Take a trip back in time at the Museum Kurá Hulanda, built on the former Kurá Hulanda Wharf, which was once a slave yard. Visit one of the oldest Jewish communities in the Western Hemisphere: The Mikve Israel-Emanuel Synagogue, whose floor is covered with fine white sand, was built in 1732; and don't miss the adjacent Jewish Cultural Historical Museum. Dine alfresco at Tutu Tango, then stay for the dancing as DJs spin late into the night.
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I began diving two years ago on vacation with a friend in Cozumel, Mexico. Our Discover Scuba Diving instructor, Marco, convinced us to get open-water diver certification since we were planning several dives. Our trip was seven days, so we'd have time for studying. Besides, then we'd be certified and could dive somewhere else if we ever wanted to.
So we learned about buoyancy and how to use our equipment, we learned to breathe underwater and even how to throw up underwater (I'm one of those people who gets seasick each time she steps on a boat.) The one thing we didn't learn was how to cry underwater. (You have to do it very carefully, since you can't breathe in and out of your nose, and remember to clear your mask often!) The first time I saw the electric neon colors of the coral reefs in Cozumel I simply wept. I just wanted to run up to each person I saw on land, grab them by the shoulders and say, "Do you know what's under there? You have to go and see it!"
Since then I've completed my advanced open-water diver certification, and I'm enjoying my new life diving. Living in Manhattan Beach, California, with my dog, Scout, I spend my days working as a print producer for a Los Angeles advertising agency, and I'm also working on my first fiction novel. My daydreams, however are spent under the sea, planning my next diving adventure.
The trip with Sport Diver to Curaçao was a way to blend my passions for writing and diving, and learn a lot about photography along the way. It will be a while before I master the world of underwater photography, but let's just say my appetite has been whetted.
