In Too Deep

The day that beloved Seattle diving instructor Zak Jones died, a westerly breeze was picking up off the coast of Florida and sun glittered on the deck of the 60-foot double- decker dive vessel, Pro Diver II. It was the early morning of Thanksgiving Day 2005, and the boat was headed for Tenneco Towers, one of Florida's most popular sites with both divers and fish, an underwater oasis that resulted after several decommissioned oil platforms were sunk off Hallandale Beach, near Fort Lauderdale, in 1985. The skeletal steel structures became a magnet not only for coral and the fish normally attracted to reefs but also for sharks, turtles, and other deep-sea creatures that swim through the towers.

The plan that day was to dive to as much as 200 feet—not an outing for beginners. But Jones and the six other dive instructors with him who worked for Pro Dive International, owners of the Pro Diver II, were no rookies. Jones had been teaching dive techniques for over a decade, to Port of Seattle cops and even more demanding customers.

Capt. Stuart Dye steered the vessel over the eastern part of the site, where the deepest diving is done. Jones and the other instructors wriggled into wet suits, checked their gear, and, one by one, plunged into the lapping sea. With the grace that comes from years of diving, they slowly descended toward the man-made reef.

Seven minutes later, Jones and his designated dive buddy, Richard Hartley, were down 194 feet. They exchanged "OK" hand signals and separated to explore. Some time later, another diver, Catherine Baldwin, saw that Jones had speared what looked like a 50-pound grouper. Removing the fish from the shaft of his speargun, Jones looked satisfied with his catch.

But a few minutes later, something was wrong. Hartley spotted Jones hovering at about 160 feet, the fish gone and Jones looking listless, like he was staring at the coral. Hartley banged his knife against his tank, trying to get Jones' attention, but there was no response. Then Jones began to sink.

According to a computer dive profile, Jones spent eight minutes sinking, then sitting at the bottom of the sea with no connection to his breathing gas. After about four minutes in that condition, brain damage begins to set in. It's commonly accepted in the dive community that trying to rescue a companion who may be brain-dead already is a bad idea. It's likely to end in a double fatality, as a rescuer risks his own life hurrying to the surface.

Hartley had little choice. He inflated Jones' buoyancy-compensator vest, which helps a diver control his depth, and sent him on an explosive 200-foot ascent, one certain to induce an instantaneous and fatal case of decompression sickness. The gases expanding in Jones' lungs likely caused them to rupture, and the nitrogen bubbles in his blood probably produced arterial embolisms. If Jones wasn't dead at the bottom of the sea, he likely was by the time he got to the surface. The fellow divers who performed CPR stood no chance. Jones was dead at age 30.

In the year since, the death of Zak Jones has been particularly troubling for the Northwest dive community, where Jones was a popular fixture before moving South last year. He had made hundreds of dives that were at least as difficult and many that were much more treacherous. Conditions that day were good. Jones held more than 25 certifications and was diving with experienced, responsible instructors.

In March of 2006, however, Miami-Dade's deputy chief medical examiner, Emma Lew, found that Jones had died of "human error."

That finding shocked the people who knew Jones. Divers refused to believe it. Writing on Internet forums, diving experts from around the globe expressed skepticism. There had to be more to it. Jones was just too competent to get himself killed. Walt Amidon, who was Jones' first diving instructor and now manages an Underwater Sports store in Federal Way, says he can't believe that assessment. "When they say personal error, that's not Zak," Amidon says. "He didn't make a mistake."

After reviewing official reports of the incident and interviewing experts familiar with the gear Jones was using, however, it becomes clear that Jones, the careful, charismatic professional, was indeed taking chances that day, including violating the law by firing a speargun. But his death is troubling not only for the risks Jones took. His affinity for a newer kind of equipment—growing in popularity with the most hard-core divers and marketed by a former Fort Lewis soldier from his Centralia shed— has an entire industry nervous about the scrutiny his death may bring.

It's not at all surprising that Jones was out diving on a holiday. It was his livelihood, but it was also his obsession.

As a child, Jones was fascinated with the idea of breathing underwater. When Zak was 5, his father, David Jones, found him at the bottom of the family pool in Scottsdale, Ariz., with a hose in his mouth and a bucket on his head. When Zak came to the surface, he said, "Dad, do you know how hard it is to suck through a garden hose?"