Sunk in Coron

This was a recount of what I experienced in Coron, diving sunken Japanese World War II ships. I wrote this for a travel competition that I did not win. I have also submitted this to a couple of other companies but since I haven't heard anything, I might as well put it up for everyone!

There comes a certain depth when direction loses meaning. On all sides, a vague, muted blue fills with swirling white flakes. The lifeline is a rusted metal rope that stretches into nothingness on both ends. Heightening the isolation is the restricted vision of the facemask. The gurgling regulator rhythmically interrupts the distant roaring that fills my ears. An enveloping seclusion always accompanies dives and creates intimacy among the divers. Penetrating deeper, the indistinct outlines of a monstrous being emerge. The pooled darkness forms into the metal rails of the deck of a ship. Gigantic, blurred towers erupt from the surface of the deck and the hull curves into obscure shadow.

Bulbous anemones with squiggly tentacles sprout from every surface. Schools of shimmering fish stream by, indifferent to my presence. Multi-faceted fish like jewels coyly hide behind arching fans of blood red coral. There is a dark opening, a beckoning gap in the side of the hull. I enter a caged space that constricts into a narrow tunnel filled with jutting metallic edges, punctuated with hard swirls of coral. Mindful of the oxygen tank, I navigate through a vertical obstacle course. Weaving from side to side and threading through grate openings, I work my way deeper into the ship. Only a little light creeps in from behind me, providing just enough illumination to make out the various spongy, riotous strings of yellow and red tendrils reaching out to touch me.

Encroaching grates looming from above feel like a video game. Unless you take care to avoid them, they will temporarily trap your dull silver air tank. Use your hands to back away from the grate, move lower to dislodge the tank, and continue onwards. After what feels like an interminable length of time, a wide opening appears, beyond which is pure black. I plunge forward and am immediately swept into a stream of light that filters through a massive hole in the side of the ship. The edges of the hole are warped and contorted into craggy points blown inward.

The light provided from this cyclopean opening illuminates the giant boilers in front of me. The room extends so far down that for the first time since entering the ship, I feel dwarfed by its size.  So much unobstructed space is exhilarating. All of the squat tubes, and what look to be the blades of very large fans, are encrusted with a green, writhing mass of life. I see a striped scorpion fish drift by with its tell-tale poisonous spines aloft and extended, rather like an elaborate headdress. Reveling in this spectacular view, I reluctantly make my way back to the lifeline. Grasping gently onto the rusted cable, I ascend, watching as the preserved ship disappears again into the haze of deep blue. After I break the surface, I am assaulted with the sounds of the ocean crashing against our boat. Removing the regulator and breathing in the salty tang of the sea, I paddle my way toward the dropped ladder. Having come from below, it is strange to think that unseen through the wall of water lays the Olympia Maru, a Japanese ship sunk in the Philippines during World War II.              

The hull of the ship that you can snorkel