Drowning Within Arms Reach of a Boat, while wearing an inflatable vest - almost
I am someone who can get overcome by her emotions – particularly when I’m excited. If I’m super jazzed or amazed, lay reason aside and the experience takes over. Recently, my husband I were on the Greek island, Leros where my grandparents immigrated from back in the 1920s. It’s also the site of a pivotal WWII battle and I was there to learn more about the role my great grandfather played in saving the Greek civilian population - or at least that’s what my father had always told me. Part of the research involved scuba diving to four sites in the cerulean blue waters that surround the island to see downed British and German planes and a German landing craft from the epic battle. Are we certified divers, not at all; however, we have ventured under the water before, but it’s been many years.
Our young guide, Tsassis, was busy gathering our gear in the salty dive shop, sizing the booties and masks, as he asked about our diving experience. We told him we had done this before, me five years ago and Vince about 15 years ago. On those occasions, we donned the equipment and practiced each of the critical safety skills in the water. But, Tsassis decided we had enough prior experience and just ran down how to unplug one’s ears, equalize the pressure in one’s mask, inflate and deflate the vest to sink to the depths and rise to the surface, and reviewed the hand signals of thumbs down to go deeper, thumbs up to ascend, the ok sign to indicate all is well, and a waving back and forth of the hand in a “so-so” sign to indicate all was not well. All this was covered as he puttered about loading bins and throwing instructions over his shoulder like they were snacks for an afternoon walk. I fully expected we would then dress in the soggy wetsuit, mask, flippers, tank, and practice. But, he said, “Ok, please gather your bin and let’s go.” As in, the boat’s leaving.
This is Tsassis, our dive captain!
A kind Greek man named Gustav was also joining us on this dive, but he was a certified, very experienced diver. In fact, so experienced that our first stop was at a site where only he and Tsassis were diving in a cave that was far beyond my and Vince’s abilities and comfort levels, but it also put another 60 minutes between me and the instructions we so hastily heard: 30 minutes for their dive and another 30 for the nitrogen to leave their blood so they could dive again with us at the German plane on the bottom of the Aegean sea.
Sitting on the back of the boat, wet suit fully zipped up over my chin with all of my white hair tucked neatly into the hood so as not to break the seal on my tightly fitting mask, flippers strapped on my feet making it impossible to take a forward step, Tsassis tightened a belt around my waist with six five pound weights strung along it like Christmas lights and hoisted the heavy vest holding the oxygen tank that would sustain my life while under the water onto my back. He tucked hoses and straps here and there, saying nothing as he worked just inches from my nervous expression. Checking one last time that everything was in its correct place, he tucked the few strands of my hair that the wind had pulled to freedom back inside the moist hood, snagging them painfully as he worked. When he was satisfied, he inflated my vest with the red button by my right hand, put the regulator in my mouth, mimed for me to cover it with my hand and pointed to the crystalline water where Gustav and Vince bobbed behind the boat. I was sure he could hear my heart pounding at the thrill of what was to come.
I didn’t notice Tsassis adjusting the air in my vest as we descended. I was concentrating on my breathing. I am well acquainted with breath work to keep my heart rate down, but it is a deep inhale through my nose and a long exhale through my mouth, so I had to really concentrate to breath slowly in and out through my mouth and make myself relax and know I was just fine breathing under water, more so the deeper and deeper we went. I continually plugged my nose and released the pressure in my ears, feeling and hearing a small squealing noise most times. I was so proud of myself for how well I was doing. It wasn’t long, maybe 10 or 15 fee down, when my face started to feel like a giant was standing on it. The pressure from my mask was intense, and I was not happy about it, but I was determined to be tough and not be the cause for everyone to have to return to the surface because my mask was ill-fitting. So, down we went. Tsassis left to go retrieve Vince, who had gone too far off on his own. Classic Vince. When he returned, we were now about 30 feet deep, I had released the pressure in my ears many times, but the pressure on my face was becoming intolerable. It was as if a ratchet was being tightened around my head with every movement. Tsassis came back to me and questioned with the ok sign. I gave him the “something is amiss “so-so” hand signal back. He responded quickly by swimming right in front of me and noticed the distress on my face.
Action shot of me clearing the pressure in my ears.
Directly in front of me, he put his palm on the top of his mask, tilting it upward. I thought to myself, “duh, there’s no way I’m doing that. The last thing I need to deal with on top of this pain is having water in my mask too. I won’t be able to see.” So I shook my head no. He nodded his head yes and demonstrated again in more exaggerated fashion the mask tilting he wanted me to do. At this point, I just wanted him to leave me alone, so I just lied to him and gave him the ok sign, making him think I had in fact equalized the pressure in my mask. We continued downward, the pressure on my face moving from a giant standing on it to a car resting on it until it got to a point where I stopped moving and rigormortis set into my body. Tsassis was once again off herding Vince back to a safe distance when he noticed my increased distress. This time he moved so his face was within an inch of mine and blew out through his own nose, forcing air out of his mask, two or three times. And it finally dawned on me that I needed to equalize the pressure in my mask to relieve the pain I was feeling. I mimicked him and the relief I felt on my face was like draining the blood from a finger swollen from being slammed in a door. I gave him the ok sign and this time I wasn’t lying to the very person there to keep me alive.
Me, experiencing some distress. Notice how stiff I am.
The German plane settled on the sea floor about 50 feet deep. The engine was in the War Tunnel museum, the canvas wings and fuselage were long deteriorated by the salt water and its inhabitants, but the steel frame and cockpit with its instrument panel, yoke, and tiller covered in green that could be easily wiped to see Bosch printed on the side of the engine compartment and instructions on the panel printed in German amazed me. I could put my fingers through the bullet holes that pierced the metal surrounding the cockpit, making it soberingly clear this was a grave site, not just a war relic. Concentrating, I was able to keep my breath steady, but my deep interest in history, WWII history, and this particular island’s history that is spun together with my family’s history like thread into one ball had my emotions roiling.
The engine from the German bomber that now resides in The War Tunnel Museum.
While the guys were serenely floating along, hands gently clasped together in front of them as they took in the plane and brightly colored fish, I was struggling to keep my body stable. My tank kept getting off center on my back, barrel rolling me along the bottom of the sea. When Tsassis finally gave us the thumbs up signal indicating it was time to ascend to the boat, I was relieved. The constant vigilance it took to keep the pressure in my ears cleared, the pressure in my mask equalized so my face didn’t hurt, my failed attempts to keep my body floating calmly in the water, and managing all my thoughts and questions about the plane and pilots, my emotional and mental resources were tapped. Tsassis lead the way, Vince and Gustav followed along, and I started swimming and kicking my flipper equipped feet as hard as I could to keep up with them. But the weight of my belt and tank were strong contenders against my strength. It wasn’t but three or four strokes of my arms before the nausea welled up in my stomach like a geyser threatening release. It was my strongest urge to be on the surface as fast as possible, but I knew you had to ascend slowly and release the pressure in your ears as you went, plus, I could only swim so fast given the weight I was fighting. Swallowing, swimming, and breathing consumed my concentration.
When I finally saw the bright light of the sun, I kicked my hardest and pulled just enough water with my arms to get only my mouth of the water and vomited out a burst of avocado toast and took in a mouth full of sea water before my tank and weight belt pulled me back under. I was aware that I was within arm’s length of the side of the boat, so I kicked my hardest and pulled again with my arms, and as my mouth tasted the open oxygen of the surface, I reached for the boat. But when I stopped swimming, the weight of the tank and belt were too much for just one arm and my kicking so in the few seconds I surfaced, I vomited more avocado toast, took in more sea water, and barely heard Gustav shouting, “sick, sick, sick,” and I was pulled back under. The thought that I was drowning lingered near my consciousness, but I was still fighting my way back to the surface.
Kicking for all I was worth and pulling with both arms in my best effort to reach the boat for the third time, I propelled myself directly into Tsassis who had come to my aid. I noticed I was no longer struggling to reach the surface, but was easily bobbing on the top of the water, and vomited up two more gushers of avocado toast mixed with sea water. With my arms now free of their responsibility to get me to the boat, I quickly pushed the slimy mess away from us, apologizing for making him swim in my puke and afraid of the fish that were sure to swarm us for the fresh chum. It was then I noticed Tsassis was pushing on the small gray button at my right hand to inflate my vest with air, making me incredibly buoyant so I no longer had to struggle to stay on the surface. He guided me to the back of the boat while removing my flippers so I could easily climb the ladder. As I sat beside Vince, who was up to this point unaware of any of my distress and calamity, I took off my mask to reveal two swollen and blackening eyes, the white of the right one blinking red like a tail light from broken vessels – the result of the first 10 minutes when I had not equalized the pressure in my mask, refused help, and lied to the expert right in front of me there to give it.
Looking at Vince’s concerned and confused face, I shrugged out, “I forgot how to solve my problems.” Me being overcome by my excitement and amazement is something he is familiar with, but the stakes being my very life have never been on the table. He put his arm around me and pulled me into his shoulder.
Later that day, as I sat on the beach by our rented house, I was reflecting on this experience and the Lord spoke to me about how I sometimes forget how to solve my problems in my faith walk – how I can be so overcome by the pain pressing in on me that I forget how to release it, to trust him, to believe who he says he is, to know I am loved, sometimes lie to those there to help me, get tossed around – even barrel rolled – by the waves coming at me and kick and pull with all my own strength and nearly drown within arm’s reach of the boat while wearing an inflatable vest.
You see the story I traveled all the way round the world to research was one my dad had told me many, many times about his grandfather, my great-grandfather. His name was Papa Markos Papageorgiou; he was a priest on this tiny Greek island. According to the story my dad told me, he died a violent death at the hands of the German army after saving the entire Greek civilian population of the island. The British army wanted this island for strategic military reasons and a few personal reasons for Churchill. The German army wanted it for different strategic military reasons. Between September, 1943 and November 16, 1943, a vicious battle for this tiny place ensued. The German army bombed the 9 mile long and 6 mile wide island for 52 straight days before invading to fight a non-stop 5 day ground war, which preceded the last German victory that gained them any new territory in all of WWII, and conversely, the last British defeat losing them any territory. As my dad told it, Papa Markos ushered the civilian population into caves and tunnels for the entire assault. When it was over, the victorious German soldiers drug him and Maria, my great grandmother, through the streets behind their jeeps until they were barely alive and then buried them in one of those caves to die of their injuries.
On my second to last day on the island, I met with a local historian named Christina who also worked for an architect to see if she knew anything of Papa Markos and this remarkable, although tragic story. For, in my three weeks on the island, I had been to the War Tunnel Museum, the Town Hall where the island’s birth and death records are kept, the church administration building, the library for several days, and talked to dozens of people, many who who could tell me a lot about and provide books with the story of Papa Markos as a priest and superintendent of schools on the island in the late 19th and first several decades of the 20th centuries. But no one had ever heard this story. Christina said she and the architect she works for frequently partner with some civil engineers on the island with the last name Papageorgiou and before I could say a word, she was on the phone speaking Greek. She then handed me the phone to talk to who I could only assume was someone with the last name Papageorgiou.
I began, “Hello, my name is Traci and I’m here from Seattle, Washington in the United States looking for information about my great grandfather. His name was Papa Markos Papageorgiou.” There was a brief pause before I heard back in a tentatively amazed voice ,
“Oh, I have relatives in Seattle and my great grandfather’s name was Papa Markos Papageorgiou. I think we are second cousins. My father and I are working on another island today but we will be back tonight. Will you please come to our office tonight at 8:00?”
I agreed and he hung up the phone.
That night at their civil engineering office, after some warm hellos and learning of who is who and who is where in the family tree, all translated from the younger Mihailis to his father Dimitri, I eagerly asked about the infamous story from the WWII battle my dad told me so many times, the story I came all this way and spent so much time and energy to find. Mihailis’ lips pursed slightly and his eyebrows drew together as in concentration as I described the heroic actions and violent death. He looked to his father and began to, I assume recount my tale in Greek. I watched Dimitri’s face as he listened. This was his grandfather after all. His father would have lived through it. He would know. As Mihailis spoke, Dimitri’s mouth drew into a tight line and the corners drew down along with his eyes as he ever so slightly shook his head while responding to his son. Slowly, Mihailis turned back to me and gently, but clearly said, “That’s just not true. It just didn’t happen. They died peacefully at home - of old age - before WWII even started.”
I was only a little surprised. For I had come to deeply question the story as I learned so very much about Papa Markos in my time on the island, but could not find this story. My first thought was complete and utter relief that they did not die a violent death. My second thought was what happened to his remaining four children who had not moved to the United States? My third thought was a sense of curiosity as to why my dad would have told me such a story. I knew it was not the story he was told for his sister’s son had never heard of it. And long down the line was an old sense of not even anger that he’d lied to me but something softer than anger. Not the old feeling of being made to look like a fool for believing him. I did register those feelings, but they were watermarks to the full color prints they used to be when I learned he, my mom, and my family had been lying to me about the identity of who my father really is until I was an adult. And the Lord brought back to my mind, “don’t forget how to solve this problem and drown within arm’s length of the boat while wearing an inflatable vest with this.”
I leaned into the knowledge of who I am as a loved child of God. I remembered that I had been praying for months prior to my trip that I would find Papa Markos’ story. As I found everything but the ending, I kept praying, please let me find out what happened to him. And I recalled what Paul taught in Philippians about presenting your requests with thanksgiving and then the peace of God will guard your heart and mind. I was thankful for this answer, even though it was not what I expected, even though it shed light on a lie, it was an answer to my prayer, and God’s peace guarded my heart and my mind. In those things, I dwelled and in those things I found rest, as Psalm 91 starts. It’s very hard to rest, take shelter - refuge even, in unfamiliar surroundings. The best rest is found where you dwell. Remembering that was worth every second of the struggle.
