Descending through the cold, green
haze, the ghostly remains of a ship lying wrecked at the bottom of
the sea gradually comes into focus. Looking more like a shattered
junkyard than a 350 foot passenger liner, the wreck of the Mohawk is
none the less captivating. Seventy feet beneath the choppy surface
of the North Atlantic, hanging motionless and weightless in the
water ten feet above the crushed wreckage, I survey the rusting
remains of the old ship's bridge. My mind's eye journeys back 78
years, to a cold January night. I see a young helmsman, clad in a
heavy, gray wool turtleneck sweater, as he glances briefly over his
shoulder at lights of the small towns of the jersey shore that are
visible through the frosty windows of the port side of the bridge.
It's a bitterly cold night, and ice has formed at the bottom and in
the corners of the windows. In the warmth of the bridge, the smell
of strong coffee and pipe tobacco fills the air. It's quite.
Suddenly, the helm goes limp. The steering gear has failed. The
young helmsman shouts the alarm as the giant ship veered sharply,
slowly, inevitably into the path of the on coming freighter, the
Talisman. The Mohawk's watch officers on the bridge watched
helplessly and braced them selves as the seconds melted away before
the jarring collision. The Talisman, a Norwegian freighter, tore a
gaping hole into the hull of the Mohawk. Barely one hour later,
after all the passengers and crew had abandoned ship, Captain Joseph
Wood entered his state room on the Mohawk, and closed the door one
final time. He went down with the ship, joining forty four others
who perished in the wreck. Floating above the wreckage, seeing all
the life around it and picturing the events that put this wreck at
the bottom of the sea, I was spellbound by the stark reality of this
wreck. This wasn't some cleaned up and sanitized 'artificial reef'
that an environmentalist thought would be nice to put here. This was
a real ship wreck that was here because two 350 foot long ships hit
each other on an icy January night 78 years ago, and this one sank.
It's a real Jersey Wreck.
Diving Jersey wrecks isn't for
everyone. Unlike most touristy artificial reefs, Jersey diving is a
demanding, challenging, sometimes dangerous and always an amazingly
rewarding adventure. The waters off New Jersey are cold and dark,
and littered with the wreckage of centuries of bad weather, bad
ships, and bad sailors. We usually have very limited visibility and
often use dive lights. Jersey wrecks are covered with decades of
lost fishing nets and monofiliment fishing lines lying in wait to
entangle and trap the unwary diver. The North Atlantic has currents
that are fickle, fast and powerful that can easily blow a diver off
the wreck and into open water. A calm sea one minute can become a
eternity of 4 foot rolling swells in a matter of minutes, making
getting out of the water and on the boat something like trying to
board a moving roller coaster. These factors ,and more, make for a
brutally unforgiving diving environment, and account for the strict
and highly developed training standards and safety protocols
practiced in Jersey diving. The reward for managing the risks,
mastering the skills and navigating the hazards is the opportunity to
look upon some the shattered remains of what were once proud and
majestic ships. Though they lie rusting and dissolving only 100 feet
beneath the surface of the murky, green North Atlantic, these wrecks
are seen by few divers.
Looking for adventure this summer?
Consider Jersey diving. Anyone can safely dive the artificial reefs
that are scattered about the Caribbean as bait for tourists as well
as fish. Those dives are made in clear, warm water, on clean wrecks
with divemasters who dive that site with tourists many times a year.
The dives are usually not real deep, and specialized training isn't
usually necessary. As with so many other things, Jersey is
different. It's cold and it's dark, but the dive of your dreams was
born on the night of someone else's nightmare. Welcome to Jersey
diving.
