2007 Pan Am Games

Rio de Janeiro here I come. One Patrick O'Neil, member of the Race Club's World Team and Pan American team, and your humble narrator have been sitting in the belly of a plane on the hot tarmac of Miami International Airport. Our flight has been delayed for close to seven hours. Couple that with the two hours drive up from the Florida Keys and another two for a timely check in and we are eleven hours en route and we haven't even left yet.

We are due to fly to the Pan American Games in Rio de Janeiro sometime, through Washington DC, and then through Sao Paolo. It's like flying from Los Angeles to Tokyo, through St. Louis and Kyoto. Crazy. But that's what happens when you make the United States Swimming National team and anyone who has will tell you about some crazy flight. It's some game of international leapfrog with layovers. It is my belief that a schizophrenic chimpanzee handles the travel arrangements for USS, or an undead Marky Ramone.

So, forgive me if I am a little grumpy. The bright side is that I've got a lot of time to write out my first piece for Timed Finals. I'll try to write in about the happenings of the Pan Am Games in Rio. They should be good, if this delay isn't an omen.

Two weeks ago I went out on the boat with Mike Bottom, the world's greatest sprint coach and coach for The Race Club World Team. Our adventure began with a routine visit to one of our local dive spots at eight fathoms. To those that aren't familiar with the terminology of the sea, it's close to 50 feet deep. Diving without tanks with another World Team member, George Bovell, we have acclimated to the deeper waters, a more fertile and dangerous hunting territory.

The waters were murky. I knew of a reef system that sat near a steep drop off into unfathomable depths. "We may have better luck there," I said with a shrug as I took a tug on the bottle. I didn't know how it was going to be. Or what we would find there that day.

As we drifted toward the spot I cut the engines and quietly dropped the anchor. We hooked quickly and the line pulled tight. There was a moving current. I killed what was left in the bottle and geared up.

In these shallow waters I leave the Riffe spear gun on the boat instead opting for the more primitive and sportsman-like Hawaiian sling spear. We were in twenty five to thirty feet of water here.

A quick survey upon entering the waters established two things, one, the water was murky here as well and two, there were a lot of sharks. All sharks have the capability of being dangerous but there are some sharks that are more dangerous. We were swimming with dangerous company.

We split up and scouted the reef. A brief five minutes of kicking against the current and my legs were burning. Then, the movement caught me. When you see a form of considerable size moving through the waters you feel it, in your stomach. It takes your breath from you.

I got that sense as the shadow below obscured by the milky current moved into an underwater cavern. There is an excitement that produced unspeakable words. Ka Blooey. Doizerangger! Maybe it just happens to me.

I have to take a deep breath to calm myself. These sharks sense everything.

The waves have picked up and I need to do a quick powerful kick to elevate myself high enough to look around for Mike. The boat rocks in the distance, not too far away. I call for the other divers. There are three of us in the water. I can see that the cavern has two other openings and all of them are wide enough that we should be able to take a clear shot at this fish. Hovering over the spot I keep my eyes open. It hasn't left and I wait until Mike arrives before diving down to point out the location. This fish is for Mike.

I'm not usually so generous with my fish. Since the arrival of the Trinidadian things have gotten competitive in a friendly way. George has a technique that covers a lot more ground than the slower moving stealth mode I am accustomed to. I have been hitting my fish but George has definitely been bringing in a greater number of fish with a few really big catches. I've enjoyed trying to keep up with George and am pushing myself further than I would diving with my father or campers that are visiting from Nebraska.

Mike has been out with us a few times now and has hit a few but he hasn't brought in the big fish that keeps you standing on the dock a little longer than everyone else gazing down with pride at the fish at your feet. An epic battle with one of those fish and you are hooked on spear fishing like a, well, like a fish on a hook. The fish in the rocks below was one of those fish that can change your life, the way you view life, and the way you view yourself.

Mike arrived and dove down to a hole near the one I pointed him to. I had to point it out again. He was diving down and the current was pushing him too fast. On his third dive he peered into the cave. He harnessed his spear and let it fly. The spear had hit something. There wasn't any of the violent thrashing. Mike reached into the cave and withdrew his spear. There wasn't a fish on it.

Then, the current started to flush a green cloud from the mouth of the cave. Past a certain depth blood is green in the ocean. At about 10 to 15 feet from the surface it changes to red. The green cloud continued to grow, and grow. And grow.

It was surprising to me to see so much blood. It didn't look like he had hit it. My eyes darted back and forth from the openings to our visual perimeter. A lot of blood in these waters was going to bring in some unwanted attention.

We decided to wait for the blood to clear out some so that we could see into the cave and hopefully get a second shot at the fish. Mike kept the main hole covered and I dove to check the side. One glance and I saw the beast. It was laying on it's side. Mike had delivered a fatal shot, but where? I wasn't going to wait. That was a deep cave, easy for a monster grouper to hole up in.

I planted one in the head. It took the fish and pinned it to the back of the cavern. The beast thrashed horribly. Sand and blood kicked up and the sharks came. The first one came barreling up from the bottom turning on it's side as it came upon Mike.

If anyone were in the boat they could have heard Mike yelling. He jabbed the shark with his pole spear, five feet and some inches of stainless steal. The response was immediate. The shark turned and swam off about 10 meters.

"Nice," is all I had time to say, "That's what you do." The shark was returning with company. Some of the sharks were going directly for us but most of them were coming in for the blood and free meal.

Mike took on all comers as we nervously waited to clear some of the blood to pull the fish out. There was no sight of the fish from the side that I had hit it from. No sight from the front hole either. I checked the other side hole and saw a massive tail moving back and forth slowly.

There was enough there to hit and pull it out. "Mike, I need your spear. I think that I can get this fish out." I quickly dove, weaving back and forth between the sharks that crisscrossed my path. There was that tail!

This time there was only a slight response. This fish was nearly dead. The second spear was planted firmly in the spine near the tail. I pulled but the fish did not budge. I tried again. Nothing.

Now we didn't have the fish as I surfaced, but what was more concerning was that we did not have the spears either. Mike darted to his left avoiding one of the larger sharks. As the shark passed he gave it a kick. He continued his dive down and planted his feet against the reef and pulled with everything he had but the fish was stuck.

We alternated between trying to dislodge the fish and facing off with the competition. Kicking and a sense of boldness held the sharks off, but for how long?

The other diver had swum off in a different direction and we were yelling for him to come with his spear. It seemed a very long time before he finally arrived. As Scott arrived Mike grabbed the spear from his hands and jabbed the shark that was coming up behind him. This bold one he chased down and jabbed repeatedly.

There were now quite a few sharks in the water and their speed had picked up. It was like playing pinball with fifteen balls, all with sharp teeth, trying to kill you. Mike gave me the spear and I was now on defense. As Scott and Mike took turns trying to pull the fish from the hole.

While holding the sharks off my eye wondered back and forth between the hole and the perimeter. I knew that it was a matter of time before the big one came in that would force us from the water, hopefully still all alive.

As I glanced back to the hole I saw that Mike had disappeared. Then I saw a pair of fins poking out from the hole. My first assumption was that a moray eel had latched on to his arm and pulled him in as will sometimes happen with those foul underwater serpents. It was not the case.

Mike had crawled down into the hole. He located the first spear embedded in the coral. The body of the fish thrashed against his as he pulled on the spear. With the two of them wedged in the crevice he pulled back, startled by the size of the fish, and that there was still so much life in it.

I had momentarily cleared the immediate area of sharks and Mike dove unprovoked, crawled back into the cavern and emerged with the largest red grouper I have ever seen. The two spears held it securely and Mike in a frenzied state of triumph held what he could of the grouper above the water. We couldn't believe our eyes.



The mouth was large enough to put my head in. The world record for a red grouper is around 44 pounds. I guessed this ones weight to be in the low to mid thirties.

"Keep those sharks off!" Mike yelled. I spun having forgotten the sharks. They were back and followed us all the way back to the boat.

Fish stories and the size of the fish involved have a way of growing with time. It's why I am always careful to not exaggerate the details of such an excursion.



It is now Thursday, 11:24 AM and we aren't there yet. We are approaching Rio de Janeiro after a considerable layover in Sao Paolo. Gabe Woodward and your humble narrator were elected team captains of the 2007 Pan American Games swim team, a tremendous honor. My campaign was won on the promise of more recess time.

Later that day: We have arrived into the village and it is new construction, to be sold after the games as affordable housing, simple, clean and nice. The beds are long and comfortable. The pool is really nice and we had a chance to swim out some of the stiffness from the very long trip down. The hot tub could be a little warmer but other than that they really built a very nice venue and I hope that it is the host site for many competitions to come. The dining hall is large and the food good. All in all, all is good.

I have always loved Rio. Geographically it is stunning. The mountains shoot up out of the sea and clouds congregate moodily in the hills. It's beautiful here.

Long days of travel. The team has endured as many meetings as we can stand and the official processing for the most part is behind us. Now credentialed and settled securely we can shift our focus back to the swimming.

The excitement has a noticeable presence in the air. This is going to be a great meet for this young US team.

Rocking out to (I'm Gonna) Run Away by Joan Jett & The Blackhearts,

Gary Hall Jr.