The first dive
Our 2024 Storyteller in Residence, coral reef biologist, conservation photographer-filmmaker and expedition leader Mads St Clair, is currently in Greenland on her first expedition. In her latest field diary entry, she writes about her first dive in Greenland.
Though I’ve never seen a wolf eel, I know it’s a wolf eel when I see one. It’s a strange looking thing – something of a cross between an oversized rock cod at the front, with frogfish-type legs and an eel-like body. It’s nestled into the rock, isn’t moving, and if it sees us, it certainly doesn’t care. We’re down at 14 metres and all my thoughts and concerns about the cold, faff and oddities of polar diving have disappeared. Two divers move overhead, one flashing a light toward the eel in excitement. The fish gets startled and swims off, tail swishing side to side in slow motion as it swims toward me. It passes me less than an arms length away, and I see its face up close. It’s an ugly fish, that’s for sure. But I also can’t help noticing just how many people one of these fish would feed.
Earlier that morning, we’d had what I would consider a late start to the day. In Indonesia, the boat leaves at 7am. Quarter past if you’re lucky, and if you miss it because you’re prepping science kit or cameras – then that’s on you. So as a seasoned early riser, breakfast at 8am is something of a novelty. And with being a little apprehensive about how cold the water is and how challenging this experience might be, on this occasion, I find myself thankful for the lazy start to the day.
The breakfast is good vibes, slow and entertaining. A team of German marine scientists and divers are crossing over with us on their way back to Kulusuk after a week of diving here. One of the scientists takes an interest in the article I’m writing and tells me of a site I must visit on the east coast of Greenland, where an endemic type of mineral-based stalagmite might be threatened by climate change as it will dissolve as soon as the temperatures reach higher than 6 degrees.
After breakfast, we meander our way into our kit. I layer up, because after two months of preperation and getting chilly in 10 to 16 degree Celsius UK waters, I’m not taking any chances with water less than 1 degree Celsius. I start with merino wool thermals, then merino wool mid laters, my Venture headed vest (which I immediately crank up to full), a second-hand Weezle suit (which essentially looks and feels like a human sleeping bag), before zipping myself into my drysuit. I look and feel like the Michelin man, but as Mike, the guy from the boat journey yesterday and a seasoned polar diver, points out: “That is exactly what you should be aiming for.”
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The check dive takes place on the bay just next to the huts, a short scramble down over rock and shingle to get there. Easier said than done in a drysuit with dive kit, weights and a tank. By the time we get down, I’m sweating a little. I think we all are. The water is like glass – calm and flat as a pancake, and I look at it longingly this time. We kit up, fit our gloves, hoods and masks, and after a series of weight checks – and much more subsequently added weight – we head into the sea.
My first thought, when stepping into that ocean, was that it really wasn’t as cold as I thought it would be. My body felt toasty warm, and I couldn’t even really feel the cool press of the water against my suit. That was, until, I put my face in. The water hit my face with a cool sharpness, a stinging sensation on all the exposed skin on my face, lips and cheeks. I knew that this would pass as the skin became numb and so, dropping beneath the surface, I focused on my diving instead.
Surprisingly, the diving felt effortless. Despite the 14 kilogrammes of weight (more than I’ve ever taken in my life), the cold and the poor visibility, it felt good. After over a thousand hours spent underwater, I sometimes wonder how I forget that my body has learnt to do this. I guess I’m surprised that in conditions so different, my body still knows what to do.
The dive is beautiful. That is, for all 30 minutes of it because this is when I know I need to get out. And I know this, for two reasons. Firstly, when diving in Cornwall a couple of months earlier, I had learnt that my body knows when it wants to get out. And secondly, because Chris, the other old boy diving with me, had briefed me on the journey over. “I’m worried about getting cold,” I said. Chris and Mike looked at each other and laughed. “That’s a given,” Chris said, still smiling. “Just before the point where your hands have frozen up so much that you can’t operate your BCD anymore, that’s when you need to get out.” Following the numbing of my face within the first five minutes, I had enjoyed around 20 minutes of contented warmth. But then, after this, my hands went – and shortly after that, despite the heated vest, I knew it was time to get out. And so, shivering inside my drysuit, and more importantly, my hands now beyond the painful cold and feeling a little less dexterous than usual, I signalled that I was going up.
The dive had been filled with lots of surprises – the wolf eel, beautiful kelp, lots of jellies and a sea angel (the personal highlight for me). Though the vis wasn’t as good as it usually is at this time of the year, thanks to big thermo and haloclines from meltwater with the increase of ice in the fjord, I enjoyed the dive a lot, despite a small moment of vertigo, which had quickly resolved itself.
Once back on the shore, I’m delighted to find that everyone else was equally as cold. It sounds weird to say, but after a career of having to prove myself over and over – that I’m as capable, strong and tough as the boys – it would take a lifetime to unlearn this mindset.
The rest of the day involved tea, biscuits and whales – and I’d love to write more, but the power is about to go out and I need to pack, prep and charge kit ahead of tomorrow!
For more Despatches, images and more, follow our 2024 Storyteller in Residence’s journey here or over on Instagram.
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