Pioneers

Is it the past I miss, or is it some dreamlike perception of the past that I feed on? This is a question I ask myself a bit now that I’m older. At the age of seventy I find myself staying up late, watching old shows on YouTube, shows from my era, or rather, from the era of my prime. 

The other night for instance I watched a made for television movie from the early 70s called “Hijack.” It starred David Jansen and Kennan Wynn and was pretty much a chase flick. It wasn’t “Duel”, but I liked it. Or rather, I liked the images and feelings it conjured up within me. For the era brought back memories of my life during that time.

The vehicles, the hairstyles, the worldviews, it was all very much of the past, a past I myself reveled in. How could I not have? I was on a hit show myself back in the 70s, albeit for only one episode and in brief flashes, at that. Still, if you look carefully at the specific episode in question, you can actually spot me standing near the stern shirtless. You can also see me underwater, though I’m armored up in scuba gear.

Indeed, the times have changed. Cousteau isn’t seen as the hero he was back then. Truth be told, I didn’t speak to him much during that filmed exploration. He was a legend. That red hat atop his head said it all. Now, though, he’s remembered, if he’s remembered, as a phony, a racist, and as someone who may have been as cold as the bottomless depths he explored (whether he was any of these things I can neither confirm nor deny). Even more than all that, however, he’s known as a philanderer, a cheat (a fact no one can argue against).

I only met his original wife, Simone, once or twice. She was an impressive person, though. Lissy and I were engaged at the time and she was completely won over by Simone’s acumen and ability. Sure enough, Lissy got irked upon learning of Cousteau’s secret family years later. She got even more irked when she found out Cousteau had granted the keys to the kingdom to his lover-turned-second wife, Francine, after his death.

“Disgusting,” she snapped. “What about his son…the one he had while he was married?”

I can’t lie. I was a bit put off by the whole thing, too. Here’s this famous, esteemed guy who whores around on his wife, then leaves his legacy in the hands of the woman he carried on a long time affair with. “Distasteful” was the word that came to mind and for years I used it frequently whenever I was asked about Cousteau in conversation.

That being said, I haven’t talked a whole lot about Cousteau in some time. The seasons change, after all, and people end up forgetting about even the most relevant of individuals. Besides, there was more to my life than a single expedition aboard the Calypso.

For instance, aside of my work at the university there was the exploration of submarine canyons, a full two years spent with the Foundation, a search for living stromatolites in the western Atlantic, underwater mapping off the California coast for the oil companies, and a variety of other adventures that have compiled what I like to think of as a blessed and full life.

Still, people forget. And that’s troublesome. It shouldn’t be troublesome, but it is. Everyone knows the wheel but no one knows who first created it, what that inventor’s name was or whether or not that particular pioneer was of good character. There was no such thing as television when the wheel was invented, after all, and no such thing as YouTube to keep an old man up all night.

Indeed I didn’t get to bed until after three a.m. one day last week. For, after years of successfully battling the temptation, I finally buckled and decided to once again watch that episode which I was somewhat a part of (one can only relate to old made for T.V. movies up to a certain point, after all). Needless to say, watching the episode again was a jarring experience. Then again, it’s always unsettling to see a far younger version of yourself behaving with the passion of youth.

Still, I was intrigued. I was able to catch a clear shot of my young face as I stood next to Jean Paul on board the Calypso. Then, after another quick flash of my profile as Dr. Bob gave instructions, the camera followed all of us as we entered the eighty two degree water in our shorts and yellow and black scuba suits.

I felt a shiver of excitement as we were shown going down to one hundred and twenty feet. I remembered how it was eerie down there, really eerie. Aside from the sharks, we were inundated with pieces of debris which fell down from the reef up above. What’s more, the arches of the caves looked almost manmade. I even remembered the thrill I felt when I suddenly realized the structures hadn’t always been under water, but that the ice age was responsible for their current condition (a discovery I was later to write about at length for the Foundation).

It was hard distinguishing myself from the other divers, but I was still engrossed as the camera followed us under endless hanging, phallic shaped reefs, our bubbles of exhaled carbon dioxide bright to the point of blinding. We were shown taking small samples, measuring stalactites, even exploring the lifeless bottom.

Before making our way back up to the boat, the camera captured us connecting an enormous piece of broken stalactite to a cable. Up and up we went with our treasure, the camera catching it all: the lines, we shadowy divers, the climbing ladder, the rippling waves upon the surface and light, high up above it all, shining down atop the Calypso and diving into the water itself, illuminating all that it encountered until the darkness finally became too strong to penetrate.