📚 Diving Into the Next Chapter: One Rum Runner at a Time
So here I am — channeling my inner Ernest Hemingway (I'd love to enter the Hemingway Look-Alike Contest here in Key West, but it's in July — a.k.a. hurricane roulette season). Instead of a typewriter in Havana, I’m half-buzzed in the Keys, banging this blog out on a laptop sticky with saltwater, tequila, and questionable decisions.
Picture it: I’m surrounded by the same ocean breezes that probably carried ol’ Jimmy Buffett’s hangovers across Duval Street. But I’m not writing sad novels or beach anthems — I’m writing my life as I live the goddamn dream I didn’t even realize I was working so hard for.
I mean, look at me: Modern-day Sonny Crockett — minus the white blazer and drug busts — but plus a 50-ton Coast Guard Captain’s license (soon to be 100-ton), a badass dive instructor cert nearly in the bag, and a boat named Ohana whose “cruising sticker” been slapped on every tiki bar toilet stall in the Keys.
🐠 The Big Week: IDC, IE, WTF
This week’s a big one. I’m wrapping up my IDC — that’s “Instructor Development Course” for you land-lubbers — which is just fancy PADI speak for “bend over and brace yourself.” Then it’s time for my IE — the Instructor Exam — the Big Kahuna.
They test you on everything: dive theory, physics, physiology, gear, teaching skills, your patience, your ability to manage chaos, and whether you can smile through a fogged-up mask while your student is busy drowning themselves.
Let me tell you: the Coast Guard captain’s test was like taking a nap during a boring church sermon compared to this mental colonoscopy.
💦 Old Man Walks, Sweet Memories, and Donna
So, between panic attacks over dive tables and rescue scenarios, I’m doing my “old man shuffle” around this salty little paradise, soaking in the vibes, getting some exercise, and thinking about Donna.
My dive buddy. My partner. My north star when my compass was spinning in circles.
She’d lose her damn mind seeing me here. She’d be the first one off the boat every morning — fins in hand, sunblock on her nose, yelling at me to stop fixing shit, put on some clothes, and grab my regulator.
We always dreamed about living in the Keys. Raising the kids in Maryland was the responsible move (damn good schools, I’ll give ’em that), but our hearts were always somewhere around Mile Marker 0 and the tropics.
So yeah — Donna’s with me at every dockside sunset. Every conch shell barstool. Every salty old sea dog I bullshit with. She’s in the life I have now — and I swear to God she’s the reason I still remember half these damn dive skills.
💰 Retirement? More Like ReWirement
Here’s the kicker: turns out saving for two people to retire — when there’s just one of you left — means my financial planner now tells me I can pull $10K a month out of my retirement with a 98% chance I won’t end up eating cat food under a bridge.
Thinking of retiring? Here’s the deal: I’ve got around $2 million in assets making that number work. And before you picture Scrooge McDuck diving into gold coins, keep in mind that includes my million-dollar yacht — Ohana — my floating home, dive shack, office, and occasionally, a floating brothel.
And here’s the truth bomb: I’m living so damn minimalistically, I can’t even spend it all. No 4K sq’ house, no 6 car garage, no inground pool, no 7.5 acres to maintain. Not entertaining 2X a day. Just boat life, sunset dives, and fish tacos at some dock bar.
I worked so damn hard jumping in planes every day to get to this point — and didn’t even realize this was what I was working for.
Now I can still make over six figures a year to sit on a boat, teach people how not to drown, and run romantic charters for half-drunk honeymooners who tip in twenties, joints, and sometimes bikini tops.
And let’s not forget — shout out to Uncle Sam and Trump’s dumpster fire of an IRS — 90% of my income is in cash tips, and those bad boys are basically untaxed. Trump may be as obnoxious as me, but hey… even a broken comb-over gets it right once in a while.
🤿 The Test: Because Of Course It’s Not Easy
If you’re thinking, “How hard can it be to blow bubbles underwater?” — let me walk you through the PADI IE, a.k.a. underwater boot camp for grownups.
There’s a written test in seven areas: dive theory, PADI standards, physics, physiology, equipment, environment, and the recreational dive planner. Basically, they want to make sure you won’t kill anyone — and that you can explain Boyle’s Law to someone mid-panic attack.
Then there’s the teaching portion. First, you teach a classroom skill and have to include nearly 20 different “teaching elements.” Then in the pool, you demonstrate five random skills like mask removal or gear recovery — not just doing them, but over-exaggerating them like you're explaining scuba to a toddler with a sugar rush.
Still in the pool, you teach another skill from start to finish including PADI’s 5 required teaching method. Then it’s off to open water where you teach two more skills — again, full teaching process. And finally, you perform a rescue, removing all gear while doing in-water CPR and towing your “drowning” student back to safety.
Fun fact: My brain doesn’t exactly play nice with all these checklists and protocols anymore. The MOG Antibody Disease has slowed my memory and processing down. Some days my body’s strong but my brain's mush; other days, I’m mentally sharp but I walk like a pirate with two wooden legs.
What I do have is experience — four decades of it — watching Donna and working alongside John Kiser, who is basically the Yoda of dive instruction. The examiner doing my IE? He worked with John for years also certifying Donna back in the 80s. So maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a wink and a pass when I flub the teaching matrix. Fingers crossed.
🏝️ Ohana Stickers and Jimmy Buffett’s Wall
Oh! Did I mention I’m spreading Ohana stickers like herpes at spring break? If you see one in a bathroom stall at Sloppy Joe’s — you’re welcome.
I did have to cover up a few old ones — they had the name of a certain “nurse” who treated me real nice over the last few years. No, she didn’t make the cut this time. Sorry — but Ohana, as chunky and high-maintenance as she is, is my forever girl now.
And where am I writing this salty masterpiece? At my favorite local spot — Hogfish Bar & Grill on Stock Island. If this blog smells like tequila, fish tacos and regret, blame the ghosts of Margaritaville whispering into my drink.
🏴☠️ That’s What She Said
This life I’m about to live? It’s just too f*cking cool!!!
And for the first time in a long time… I truly believe I can do it on my own.
Yes — I’m on cloud nine right now. And it’s not the weed. (Okay maybe a little.)
Because if life’s gonna smell fishy — I’d rather it be the ocean, not my dating life.
That’s what she said.
Stay salty,
Captain Ohana Dave
