Dutch Springs, PA

WHEN I WAS 10 years old, I thought Southside waterpark was the best life had to offer. After taking a trip with the 4th St. Village Divers shop, my favorite slide was suddenly just a funnel of fiberglass with a garden hose attached, the old raft-ride just a decoy for my dad's cigarette break. I'd discovered the ultimate underwater playground.

I'd walked past the shop countless times. It was always the same scene: a group of alpha-males hovering over a bunch of equipment. When I tried to picture diving in the Northeast, I imagined emerging from a wasteland like the East River in some altered, toxic state. I was used to Florida's scuba circles, where a quick $50 got me ready-to-use gear, pristine waters and a chiseled, perma-tanned instructor.

So I was thankful when my guide Freddy, a cop by night and diver by day, said we would head out to an old stone quarry called Dutch Springs in Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley. We had finished loading our equipment into the backseat of his beat-up old Jeep when I made a move toward the more modern-looking Cherokee across the street. A gruff voice called out: "Your equipment's here; you ride with the equipment."

It wasn't that I didn't want to ride with him. The question was one of leather interior versus coffee-stained vinyl, manually operated windows versus automatic sunroof. I realized later this was Freddy's manner: brusque in a protective, fatherly sort of way and demanding in an I'm NYPD, you better damn well respect me kind of way. But at that point of the morning, I thought it best to get in the backseat and feign sleep. It was 5:45 a.m.

The quarry at Dutch Springs has seen two lives in the last century-one as a resource for a local cement business, another as a recreational diving center. A belt of limestone used to run through the entire Lehigh valley, making the land a goldmine for the National Portland Cement Company, which bought Dutch Springs in the early 1930s. Mining soon caused a flood, creating the spring where, 70 years later, my dive buddies and I would stave off frostbite at a chilling 40 degrees. With the help of draining pumps, the spring provided limestone for another 25 years, but was then shut down during the energy crisis in the early 70s.

Two hours later, I woke to the sound of crushed gravel. The lake before us looked like a solid pane of glass, hiding the 47-acre playland underneath. Campers were still busy taking down their tents. Soft colors of green and blue were littered with inky spots where divers emerged clad in black, NASA-like dry suits. Stuart Schooley, the lake's owner, met us at the entrance. He described Dutch Springs as nothing but shrubs, bushes and weeds when he purchased it in the mid-70s. At that time, the closest he had come to diving was a couple of snorkeling runs in the Atlantic.

Schooley transported everything from practicing platforms to airplanes to fire trucks into the lake for divers to explore. Each item has a story: The trolley, sunk at the eastern part of the lake, ran Route 50 for the Pennsylvania Transportation Authority; the pilot boat, or Silver Comet, as it was known, ferried crews across the Delaware River. As we drove toward the picnic benches by the lake, I could smell a bacon breakfast cooking in one of the RVs.

By the time we finished aligning the tanks, checking to see if our buoyancy control devices were intact, donning our layers of clothing, looping our weight belts, streamlining excess hosepipes and charting our dive, we were ready to go under water. I was exhausted. Had I really woken at 5 a.m. on a Saturday and paid $150 to toil like a longshoreman? The waterproof seals on my drysuit were tightening around my neck, pressing against my jugular. The flutter of panic I felt was my first real lesson in Northeast diving. A zen-like calm is as important as skill in this sport, especially when you're feeling overheated, claustrophobic, and really need to go to the bathroom.

At 11 a.m. we swam out to the center of the lake and descended 55 feet, where a 70s-era Sikorsky H-37 helicopter was suspended by four giant cables. I forgot about the morning's hassles. As it loomed into view, I could tell why this twin-engine chopper was known as the Big Deuce-it was huge and eerie all at once, hanging there in the semi-darkness looking like it could break free from its suspension and sink further into the depths at any moment. I slithered along its belly with my face turned upward, soaking in the helicopter's awesome size and feeling the power of invention suspended in time. We swam through the cockpit window toward the massive interior where I stood upright, legs outstretched, and imagined myself in the chopper flying over the Pennsylvanian landscape. A small school of bass made its way through an opening at the other end. I lunged forward, trying to capture one in my glove, but they peeled off to either side, leaving me at the center of their troupe for a moment before reconvening at the other end. Exiting at the back end of the helicopter, I turned onto my back and hovered there as a massive tail rotor came to life above me. A frayed American flag hung from one of the blades, swaying back and forth with the current. I fluttered my fins, pushing myself slowly toward the end of the tail where I turned around, feeling small beneath something so thrilling.

Using our compasses, we headed south and then west of the helicopter to a children's school bus that was sunk in the spring of 1995. I still had 1000 PSI left-another half-hour of diving. One by one, we fell in line like a school of fish. From a distance, I saw the outline of the vehicle. It rested at the bottom like a stage prop out of a Hitchcock thriller, with zebra mussels creating a solid black wall along the passenger windows and a sliver of light breaking just deep enough to illuminate the driver's seat. Thanks to the mussels, which were busy purifying the water, I could see 40 feet in either direction. I swam next to my guide, controlling the air in my buoyancy control device, dry suit and lungs to a perfect, even level. At the back end of the bus, I stopped and floated, watching the bluegills swimming tranquilly in and out of the missing windows.

My diving partner, Julian, had already made his way to the other side of the bus when, like a rocket, he shot toward the surface. I saw his neon green weight belt fall to the floor just beneath me. Twenty-four pounds lighter, there was little hope of him staying down. He ascended 10 feet in seconds; his fins flapped wildly. Divers need to let their bodies absorb accumulated nitrogen through a slow ascent so that their blood doesn't carbonate and clog their circulatory system. At a deeper depth, the incident might have been life-threatening. My partner reached 40 feet. Then 30. At 20, a diver on his way down caught the back of Julian's tank and steadied him. The six of us breathed relief into our regulators at the bottom of the lake.

Forty minutes had passed since we entered the water. A thumbs-up from our leader told us it was time to return. We rose steadily together, taking the time to let our bodies adjust to shallower depths. I lingered behind my five companions, wanting to savor the silence of a moment when the only sound was of rising bubbles and the calm course of my breathing. Just six feet below the surface, I could feel the sun's warm rays breaking through the grades of water. I turned my face upward and watched the other divers make their final ascent. There I stopped, held my breath and listened, hovering in a state of timeless ecstasy.