SCUBA certification/Are we having fun yet?

I know that my faithful family and friends had absolutely no doubt that I would pass my open water dive requirement for SCUBA certification. To eliminate any suspense, I can tell you that I made it with "submerged" colors (pun intended). The dives took place at the lovely diving resort called "White Star Quarry" located in beautiful and convenient Gibsonburg, Ohio (Town Motto: Even we don't know where the hell we are!). The drive to the quarry is roughly equivalent to driving through the Bonneville Salt Flats, but with less scenery and about as many hills. To be fair, my friend Mike warned me about the intercontinental trek I was in store for, but you have to experience to believe it. I swear it is so flat that you could roll a quarter around Vermilion and it would meet up with you in Gibsonburg.
After the very long drive you arrive at the quarry ready and raring to go diving. Here is where another of Mike's warnings came into play. He told me to be prepared to wait alot for your dives. I thought he was merely exaggerating when he told me this. Turns out it was an understatement. I got up on Saturday morning "before sparrows fart" (I guess that's old English countryside for "real frickin' early", made the 6 day 13 hour drive to the quarry for a 9:30 a.m. "dive", and finally entered the water well after lunchtime. Pacific time zone.
Anyway, I put the word "dive" in quotes for the simple reason that I would have to characterize the first adventure not so much a "dive" as a "plummet". This was due to the fact that the weight belt I was given to make sure I stayed buoyant, was measured in tonnage. Needless to say it took me awhile to adjust my buoyancy. The weight belt was incredible because I swear, that after the day of diving I had "phantom" sensations on my hips for several hours after, much the same as an amputee has phantom sensation in lost limbs. I remember thinking that I had the belt on, as I was driving home!
As usual, I was struggling with my equipment from the git-go. Since I bought fins designed for tropical diving, i.e., without boots, I walked across the park to the diver's entry in the quarry, wearing a furnace called a wet suit, weight belt and a gazillion pound air tank (they were out of the regular size tank, surprise, surprise), barefoot. A northern Ohio quarry's waterfront could not exactly be described as "sand". Jagged, razor sharp, gravel is a better description. It must have been a sight to behold for the other divers watching this bowling ball with SCUBA gear making his way to the water, as what must surely have looked like a Hindu firewalker trying to walk on flaming coals while on his back he is carrying an elephant.
Anyway the first three dives were primarily gear intensive tasks like replacing the mouthpiece should it fall out, and emergency ascents should you ever run out of air underwater. You know, unimportant stuff like that. I don't want to say I had some difficulty but the instructor was yelling my name so much that by the second day's dives I would get in the water and total strangers training there would see me getting in and say "You must be Bob".
I managed to get all the required skills down, finally, and I was just beginning to wonder why I ever came up with this particular deathwish, when the instructor took us on a ten minute swim near the bottom of the quarry. I must say that with nothing more to worry about the experience was quite fascinating. I know that northern bluegill is not exactly the clownfish you see in the ocean but it was a thrill to be able to reach out and practically touch them. I guess you can touch them if you have bits of hotdog to feed them, but I didn't do that.
All things considered, you get a sense of accomplishment at being able do the skills required, and the older I get, that means more and more.
One last thing, I bought a pair of dive gloves because it was "strongly recommended" on the predive checklist, from Tom the local SCUBA pusher in Willoughby. Tom's the kind of guy who thinks an "economical" diving equipment package costs about as much as Peru's gross national product. Of course, once I got to the quarry the instructor said I didn't need them. Likewise, of course, I proceeded to get my only injury of the weekend when I cut my finger on a zebra muscle attached to the bottom of the instruction platform. It's a curious sensation to watch blood coming out of a cut underwater. It looks kind of smoky as it drifts and mixes in with the water. So kiddies, if you take up diving make sure you wear those gloves. I say this because, while bluegills food of choice may be hotdogs, they seemed to be a little more attracted to me after I cut my finger. Good thing it wasn't sharks.

Love
Dad