Changing Course—How One Dive Trip Changed My Life

Imogen passed out on the Marimar's net rigging. Sleeping in between the sea and stars does not suck. Sam Morse photo.

"Sam, whatever you do, don't take no for an answer. We need more beer." Ralph said as he helped me put the outrigger into the water. "Seriously, please don't fuck this up."

Nodding and laughing, I jumped into the canoe and began paddling away from our boat toward the luxury liner in the distance. "We're counting on you!" I heard Ralph call from behind.

I paddled for about 300 meters toward the luxury ship, stopping every so often to take in my surroundings. 

I was in the middle of the Sulu Sea at a protected marine sanctuary known as Apo Reef.

The crew from the other boat saw me coming, and hailed my approach. I waved, and once close enough, set up my proposition:

“Hey, uh, I know this is kinda strange, but, we’re out of beer on our boat over there.” I pointed back toward the oversized outrigger I’d just paddled from, “Do you guys — think we could buy some...?”

“Sure. How many do you guys want?” called back a guide from the other boat, “We only have San Miguel, is that okay?”

“Hell yeah San Miguel’s okay! We’ll take as many as you can give us. Thank you so much!”

I paddled closer, and we made the transaction. I handed over a wet wad of pesos, and in return, they lowered me two cases of suds. I said thank you and started paddling back to the Marimar, my live-aboard.

On vacation from my teaching job in China, I was spending the Chinese New Year escaping the mainland, and logging some dives in the Philippines.

As I paddled back to my boat, I couldn’t help but smile. This was the best trip I’d ever been on—hands down the best diving. And then I laughed ... definitely the coolest beer run.

The Chinese Stoke! My students kicked ass, but the pollution in China was a huge buzzkill. Sam Morse photo.

Living in China was like living in a television without color. A profoundly drab country, living in China felt like being wrapped in a deep, strangling gray.

Every day during my year teaching there, I’d run the manicured pathways and reminisce about the life I'd left behind. Chinese rivers, contaminated with industrial sludge, still whispered the same patterns as the waterways of North America. The natural world in China seemed so beaten and tired, abused and trodden for thousands of years, forced into submission, then re-crafted as a cheap imitation.

I moved to China to become a responsible adult, to leave behind the world of seasonal work and shitty employers that are a chronic mainstay of mountain town living.

I tried to grow up once—but it didn’t work out.

Halfway through my year in China, suffering from pollution-induced cabin fever, I hopped a puddle-jumper to the Philippines to do some scuba diving, and just like that, my ambitions to become a respectable adult were crushed to pieces.

The colors in the Philippines slap you across the face—bright, luscious, and intoxicating. Sam Morse photo.

Going from China to the Philippines was a visual feast. The vibrance and colors of the landscape were the most vivid and intoxicating I’d ever seen, all the more so when juxtaposed against the austerity of the Chinese mainland. From Manila, I hopped a Cessna and flew to Palawan, the OG secret stash of Southeast Asia.

In skiing and riding, there's the heli-assisted pow day. In rafting and kayaking, there's the multi-day expedition. In climbing, there's the big wall. In every sport, there is a superlative version of that discipline.

In diving, there's the live-aboard.

The first leg of my trip began in a tropical seaside village named Coron. From Coron, I’d hop aboard the vessel Marimar to sail to the protected waters of the legendary Apo Reef.

Four kids deep on the ol' motorbike, this dad's got some shit on his mind. A typical sight in Coron, Palawan. Imogen Willcocks photo.

Sweaty and tired, I stumbled into DiveCal (the liveaboard outfitter) and settled up for the ensuing trip. After securing a stilted bungalow for the evening, I acquired a motorbike and set off to explore the poor but beautiful neighborhoods of Coron.

Many of the best bars in Coron, along with countless shanties, were right on the water. After exploring, I settled into one of these open-air candlelit dives, the smell of frying fish and strong rum mingling with the salt in the air. To the left of me at the bar, a couple of Brits were discussing their travels. I overheard one of them saying she was trying to find a live-aboard trip. As is my habit, I struck up a conversation with these two, and before long I had recruited my new friend Imogen to come along diving on the Marimar for the next four days.

The following evening, kit in hand, I made my way to DiveCal to begin the trip to Apo. There I found some from my group, including Martha.

Martha was a legendary badass. She stopped logging her dives after ten thousand. She’d braved Tiger sharks, fought off Muslim pirates, she was even reputed to have ties to the shadowy underworld of the Philippine mafia.

If you needed something—anything—Martha was a good place to start.

Taking one look at the group’s provisions, Martha informed us that we did not have enough alcohol; she then led us to the nearest bodega where we bought numerous cases of Tanduay Rum, San Miguel, and Red Horse cervezas. She was right: we needed all of it, and more.

After a full day's diving, Ralph and Martha kick-off happy hour in the stern of the Marimar. Tanduay anyone? Sam Morse photo. 

The last person to arrive at DiveCal for our meet & greet was a Bostonian by the name of Ralph. Ralph was your token Masshole. A defense attorney, he’d spent most of his career defending unsavory individuals: coke dealers, corporate criminals, folks who existed at the confluence of money, power, and corruption. Although he’d earned his money representing such men, he wasn’t one of them.

My meeting Ralph is why I’m writing this today.

Haunting sunsets over the Bacuit Bay of El Nido. The island nation of the Philippines drips raw beauty. Sam Morse photo.

The tide was out, so we had to canoe our gear to the boat. 

As I dipped my paddle through the water, phosphorescent organisms danced about, painting the water around the boat pink. It was a scene well beyond the capacity of words to describe.

Hours later, drifting towards sleep in my bunk next to the engine room, I felt content knowing that, for a moment, I’d escaped the din of industrial civilization.

After a few hours of sweaty half-sleep, I opened my eyes to see that my entire cabin was filled with a red light. Confused, I rubbed the sand out of my eyes and stumbled through the threshold into a new world.

Outside, the horizon was a perfectly still sheet of glass. The sun was crimson halfway above the bare horizon. The sea was flat, sedated in an otherworldly calm. I’d never seen our planet like this. Gold, green, red and purple—the sight shot through me. The beauty of that sunrise ached.

The sun rises over the Sulu Sea's undisturbed horizon. All-time best sunrise, fo sho. Imogen Willcocks photo.

During the next four days, we did a lot of diving. Wall dives, reef dives, shallow dives and deep dives. 

At a certain point, I stopped counting sharks, because there were just too many. The schools were enormous. Sometimes entire clouds of fish would envelope us.

The Marimar was badass! An outrigger, the whole boat had net extensions that were great for lying about. They also helped the boat not sink. 

In the center, there was a communal table/sitting area for meals, along with some extra benches for rigging our dives. 

The stern of the boat was party-central! Every evening we'd take sundowners in the back, indulging in tropical rums by the rays of sunset. The gravity toilet was a bit complicated, but that's another story.

During our free time, Ralph and I would bullshit about life back home in the States. It turned out that we had a lot of common interests. Chief amongst them was our passion for multi-day rafting.

I shared with him that I’d guided for most of my 20’s—that running the Grand Canyon was at the top of my bucket list–I’d entered the lottery for the trip before, I just hadn’t won. (A quick aside, the Grand Canyon lottery is a weighted system; every time you enter and lose the lottery, you have more points and chances in the next year’s drawing).

Balls deep in a WWII Japanese shipwreck, Imo captures me exploring the interior just before my regulator malfunctioned, purging my whole tank of air—oops. Imogen Willcocks photo.

At the mention of the lottery, Ralph halted our exchange and backed up the conversation. Taking a pull from his cocktail, he turned to me and slurred, “Wait, wait, wait—so what you’re saying is … you have lottery points?”

It was true, I did have points. I told him so.

He hushed to a whisper, even though we were floating in the middle of the nowhere. “Listen Sam, I’ve done the Grand three times in the last four years, twice it was my permit—the Park Service won’t let me win again for a long time. I’ll tell you what, when you get back to China, enter the lottery. If you win, I’ll pay for the permit.” Ralph continued to talk, but I stopped hearing what he was saying. 

I stared off toward Apo Island, and pictured myself rowing through Lava Falls.

A day of island hopping off the fabled El Nido coast delivers immaculate views as a standard. It's possibly the most stupid-gorgeous place on Earth. Sam Morse photo.

I didn’t really take Ralph all that seriously. We did some more dives, finished up the trip, and before long, I was once again back at my desk in China, teaching my English classes.

A few weeks after I returned to my teaching gig, I got an email from Ralph, reminding me of the Grand Canyon lottery date.

A few days later, I received a Facebook message:

“Hey Sam, it’s Ralph.”

…the next day:

“Sam, Ralph here again…”

…and the day after that:

“Saaam, what’s up?”

About two weeks after the messages started, I got a Skype call, in China, from Ralph. The guy was serious.

After giving it some thought, I figured life doesn’t reward being unsure. Life rewards action and conviction, so I entered the Grand Canyon lottery.

A month or so went by, and I heard nothing. Then, on the 24th of February, 2012, I got the email confirming my win. 

It took a full minute of staring at the screen to understand the ramifications—to let it seep in that I had won a permit to run the Grand — from the other side of the world no less.

I howled with jubilance and took a shot of Cuervo. Boom.

Then the existential questions emerged. If I hadn’t met Ralph on that boat in that place—if I’d made some other reservation, for some other trip, what then…?

Outrigger boats large and small. When your means of travel is something that floats, you're doing it right! Sam Morse photo.

I had originally planned on staying in China to teach for the foreseeable future, but now those ”responsible” ambitions would take a backseat to the fulfilling of a life-long dream. I would head back to the mountains, where I’d left my heart behind long ago.

I don’t believe in fate or destiny, but it would seem that both forces conspired to rescue me from an “adult” life as a teacher in China. Taking a chance — and being on a quest in the first place — would eventually enable me to live out one of my greatest dreams.

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stash member Sam Morse

TGR Editor-at-Large. author of The Ski Town Fairytale and creative behind The Bumion. Lover of steep-and-deep lines, long trails—and hot springs waiting in the distance.