Tom Stephan hired me about a week before I was sent to Mission Bay to accompany Wheeler on a water sample collection dive. As I walked down the dock to the designated slip I thought I was in the wrong place. Before me sat a vessel you would expect to see along side a dock in the bayou, seemingly abandoned. As I looked the boat over I turned to see this person, Wheeler, walking, shuffling, towards me dragging a bag of dive gear, weight belt sliding down his hips but with this big, contagious smile that instantly disarm you. The boat and diver seemed to be a match. They both seemed to have spent lots of years in the field, were hardworking, and with no pretenses what so ever. Off we went, traveling as fast as the little boat could go. I knew we were heading to the end of the La Jolla Trench and without any navigation equipment on board, I expected to see a lot of triangulation going on, charts being referenced, and soundings made. But to my surprise Wheeler never seemed to look around for any landmarks, not to have noted travel time, his eyes seemingly preoccupied with a manuscript or something. What ever it was it was wet, folded, torn, and blowing in the wind. We continued to fly along when suddenly we stopped, and with no further adjustments required, we were at the site. He tossed the anchor over, not concerned if took hold, if it had the proper scope, he just knew all was well.

We proceeded to get ready for the dive. I was expecting a very formal adherence to established diving protocols. I knew Wheeler had "written the book" on research diving. I was ready for the, "plan your dive, dive your plan", let’s clearly define roles and responsibilities, lecture-NOT. I fully expected formal equipment checks, ready to enter the water only when we both were ready-NOT. What happened was anything but. As I quickly observed I was with a person who had his own style, who was so in tune with the ocean that whatever he did was perfect. He made me look rigid, awkward, too choreographed.

While suiting up Wheeler started to talk to me about all manor of things, my first exposure to his breadth of knowledge, honest charm and disarming nature, but no discussion of the dive. He proceeded to empty the bag he had dragged across the pier and probably across the parking lot. The bag had obviously been with Wheeler’s for a very long time. It had many holes, with pieces of wet suit poking out, dry kelp blades hanging everywhere. Wheeler and I could not have been different. On my side of the boat was all my gear, laid out like a picture from a diving manual. Everything in full working order, suit folded, tank and regulator tested, knife shinny and new. The other side looked as if someone had dumped out an old box of "stuff" looking for something. There were scattered bits and pieces of wet suit, with holes and rusted zippers, miss matched fins with cracked straps, a mask without a snorkel, no pressure gauge, or BC, but everything he needed was there. As we sat on the side of the boat about to go over he was still adjusting his belt, grasping for his mask, some zippers still open, fin straps still not secure. He was on his way over the side, and without looking, grabbed the bag with the sample bottles. Down we went, me with eyes on my depth gauge, mentally noting the time, trying to maintain perfect form. Wheeler was dropping feet first, pulling on straps, grabbing his water-filled facemask, by the big old purge valve you knew didn’t work, water bottle bag barely held under his arm.

Magically at 150ft, not a foot before nor past, he became perfectly in control. The sample bottle was in his hand, his buoyancy stable, he could have been standing in the lab, the sample was quickly taken and placed in the bag. Up to 100-foot mark and the same thing. On the assent his strokes were a bit clumsy, his weight belt now almost below his hips, but on station he was again fully in command. One more sample and off to the surface, coming up right next to the boat. I was still following the prescribe, dive manual instructions, weight belt off first, then tank, mask, fins, all gear stowed as soon a possible. Wheeler had his own process. He tossed things into the boat in the order his hands happen to touch them, giving priority to the weight belt slipping ever lower and the fin with the now broken strap. But it was obvious he needed no help. I saw a strange grace in what other might describe as clumsiness. I quickly understood that he was in total balance with his environment.

On our way into the harbor I saw yet an other side of Wheeler. He seemed to know everyone by name. Fishermen, dockhands, vendors, police, all were greeted equally with smiles, kind words, and respect.

As he walked away from the slip, once again dragging his gear bag, I knew here was a truly unique, special person. Physically more as ease in the water than out, caring and respectful of others, positive to a fault. A man I would forever be proud to call a friend.

I consider myself blessed to have worked for Wheeler and along side the other tremendous folks at Kerckhoff. Wheeler, Annie, Tom, Henry, and many, many, more have a special place in my heart. My life was made much richer because of them all.

Randy Berthold