I always said that if the place I lived caught fire, the first thing I would grab would be my Underwater Kinetics HID Light Cannon. Something about the concept of hyper electrified gasses juiced until they radiate appeals to the same testosterone rejoicing pleasure center in the base of my brain as muscle cars, big guns, and any piece of gear that comes nestled in its own water and shockproof Pelican case. The pure white beam blasting out of the thing makes me feel like I am driving a German sedan underwater. I have used it on hundreds of dives and have been in love with it, coveted it, for five years now. It is my baby.
I’ll loan you my car, you can borrow some money, here’s my ex-girlfriend’s phone number, but please don’t ask to take my HID diving. If, in a moment of weakness or friendship I say yes and give it to you, I’ll be anxious as a freshman daughter’s parent with his kid at the senior prom. When you get back I’ll be fighting the urge to rip it out of your hand and inspect it. Heaven help us both if it is damaged. I’d rather just not let you borrow it and save us both the heartache. That’s how much I love my HID.
You can tell where this is going. The other night I was leading a dive on a wreck known for its particularly beautiful and lush soft coral formations. The ship was hauling depth charges when it was sunk, and in the 1970’s a group of engineers removed them, all 278 of them, to make the wreck safe for diving. Many of the charges were cracked and leaking picric acid, a commonly used explosive of the time. The acid leaked all over the wreck during the removal project, killing most of the hard coral growth and leaving the door open for the more rapidly growing soft corals to gain a foothold and surge to dominance, thus enveloping the wreck in their beauty. So there I was, enjoying the way the brilliant HID light made the indescribably rich purples and reds and yellows encrusting the mast of the ship pop brilliantly against the inky nighttime backdrop.
It’s painful to even type this. My light flickered, and then the beam started to dim. As I looked closer, I could see what looked like waves forming in the ray of light. Then, blackness and despair. HID was dead. The paltry yellow glow of my backup light seemed sickly in comparison. Though it got me back home, there was no joy in the journey.
A close inspection of the dead light showed a misting of water inside the housing, source undetectable. Waterproof things eventually leak. It had to happen some time. Parts are replaceable. I can get a new one. I know these things, rationally. But this is about emotion and sentimentality, about covetousness, about testosterone fueled gear fetishism.
I’d like to wrap this up with a moral about how attachment to material things is futile and misguided, leading to inevitable disappointment. But I won’t. I’m pissed and forlorn at the loss of the HID. Goodbye, my bright and faithful friend.
