The Sinking Islands

1. 'Sport'

At the height of its popularity, which was around the year 1998 (the same year Geri Halliwell departed from the Spice Girls) there were a grand-total of fifty-two people who participated in the Annual Pearl Diving World Championship (or the Apadwick, as those in the know have come to call it).  Today, less than half that number compete, and by most accounts the 'sport' is only growing less popular.  One might find the above fact confusing at first, given that the prize for winning the Apadwick is a comfortable two-hundred thousand dollars USD, all for a paltry three days work; and moreover, at this very moment, there are literally hundreds of people around the world diving for pearls, people who should by all accounts be perfectly suited to compete.  However this oddity has come to occur for two reasons.  Firstly, the 'sport' of Pearl Diving does not resemble actual pearl diving in any sense. It does not even use real pearls.  Secondly, and what I consider the primary reason for the failure of the 'sport', is that the organizers of the Apadwick, the Commission for Sport Pearl Diving (CSPD), have never cared to advertise the thing.  Having spoken to the head of the organisation myself, one Rita Faltone, she remarked that this was never a conscious decision, but instead that neither her nor her fellow members had ever publicized the event simply because they had never thought to do so.  To this day, this negligence remains unchanged.

One might ask then, if the 'sport' of pearl diving has never been publicized, then how is it that yours truly is able to report on such an odd event. Well, as luck would have it my editor, Daphne Dolorado, happens to be incredibly devoted to her work, spending all hours of the day, both at work and off of work, scouring the darkest seediest corners of the internet for interesting leads.  One day, while browsing the new queue on Youtube, Ralpheen happened to come across what I would call a unique video. In the video, a large corporeal man, who looks to be in his late 40's or early 50's, and who refers to himself in the third person as 'The Champ, Big Larry Larsen." This man had clearly been drinking and he spends the majority of the twenty-two minute video insulting some person called the "The New Boy Wonder," As he rants, an invisible figure behind the camera goads him on.   "And what are you going to do Big Larry," the faceless voice asks, "when The Boy steps into the ring," To which Big Larsen replies "The Ring? Hah. I think you mean my ring.  At least, there ain't gonna be no doubt as to whose house this is come November." And so it goes on and on. Twenty-two minutes.  None of the above is that unusual as far as internet videos are prone to go; one can find many exchanges of the same nature between people of Irish origins, who for whatever reason feel the need to broadcast their incestual feuds to the rest of the world.  But what separates this video from those many others, is the fact that throughout the entire thing, the ranting man, this Big Larry Larsen, is dressed in a tuxedo.  And even more peculiarly, he's completely drenched, as the whole time he's arguing, he's standing waist deep in the most beautiful tropical turquoise of waters you'll ever see.

From the video alone I couldn't figure much about the situation.  I gathered Big Larry, The New Boy Wonder, and perhaps even the man behind the camera were all participants in some 'sport' called "Pearl Diving" and there was an event for this sport coming up later in the year called The Apadwick.  (As I would later learn, the Apadwick is the 'sport's' only event.  And in fact, despite the name, it takes place every two years).  The New Boy Wonder was, as the name suggests, a newcomer to the scene.  He'd narrowly placed second in the last Apadwick but he was slated to sweep this years takings.  As for Big Larry, Big Larry had  dominated the Apadwick for nearly half the 'sport's' total life-time; however long that had been.  Larry had retired but now, after a six year hiatus, he was returning.  Rumour had risen among the Sport Pearl Diving community (whoever they were) that The New Boy Wonder was going to break Big Larry's world record of a 132-point lead in single official game.  This news did not sit well with Larry, and, as he put it, "The Boy only shines bright because there ain't no real men today. The Champs about to acquaint him with a man's world."  And that was all I could conclude.  I didn't know how points were scored.  I couldn't tell if Big Larry's tuxedo was some gettup for the sport or simply the product of a road to senility which the man was clearing heading down.

To get my answers to these questions and more, I googled and I googled looking for a forum or any niche website that made some reference to this 'sport.'  When I found nothing there, I rang around a national and international sporting magazines and I even visited the library.  Yet over the course of a week all I could find was information on actual pearl diving--the white pearls gathered and now farmed in Japan and the rivers of America. Black pearls of the pacific which can't be farmed quite as easily as their purer brethren.  Pearl necklaces both real and metaphorical--nothing of this 'Apadwick' or any mention of a sport Pearl Diving. However, hope was not completely lost as I did find, hidden in a holdings site registering sport incorporations, a single entry for The Commission for Sport Pearl Diving, and along with this entry, there was a phone number for the corporation's managerial director, a Miss Rita Faltone.

Rita Faltone, I learned, was the sole child and heiress of a Mr. Hubert Faltone.  Hubert Faltone had been born in the city of New York and came from a 'poor' family (poor in the sense that Bill Gates's parents are poor in comparison to their son, so still firmly upper class).  After bankrupting himself three times, Hubert finally struck it big when he got into the shippings game.  That was, he was striking it big until another company, The Fahrenheit Conglomerate, strong-armed Hubert into selling all his stock.  Not quite given up on the sailor's dream, Hubert Faltone, still a young man at heart, moved himself to the South Pacific.  There, he used the same strong-arm tactics to build himself a new, but smaller empire.  In his escapades down south, Hubert one day fell smitten for a hula-dancer on the island of Rarotonga (the largest and most populous of the Cook Islands).  Infatuated, he bought a resort from which to base himself and he hired the girl to dance for him at twice her current rate.  The hula-dancer provided almost no resistance, and soon the two were happily wed and then Rita Faltone was born.  Hubert Faltone never left the island, choosing  to run his business via telephone and content with what he had achieved.  Today, he's buried there with his wife (who followed her husband into death not one week after his demise in a car-crash).  Rita Faltone on the other hand, even as a child, demanded more of life.  As soon as she was old enough to put on make up, she put herself on a plane back to the States where she felt she truly belonged.  She only revisited, it was said, to attend her parents' funeral (the Apadwick, not being mentioned at all).  Now, with a strong Yale education (read: connections) and the financial backings of her deceased father, at the age of thirty two Rita Faltone had grown her family fortune by several orders of magnitude. Today she manages a diverse set of ventures, from the textile industry to arms dealing; the latter being completely legal and her pride of joy.

Given Rita's many accomplishments, when I called the listed phone number, I had expected to hear a taciturn woman (if I got an answer at all). Thankfully her secretary did pick up the phone and the lady broke into a laugh when I mentioned what I was calling for.  She forwarded me with, as she said, "the highest priority."  I listened for several minutes to elevator music and when the dial blooped again another American accent returned, "Good day, this is Managing Director Rita Faltone for the CSPD.  I believe you have an inquiry regarding the Annual Pearl Diving World Championship," She spoke in a light voice almost giggling. I explained that my name was John Brown and I wrote for the Calgary Philistine, and straight after, unable to hold myself back, I threw a week's worth of questions down the receiver.  Rita laughed a very warm American laugh in response and she tried to put my mind at ease. Yes, she said, the competitors wear tuxedos when they play "it's very pivotal to the sport, you see." The Champ Big Larry Larsen genuinely had a really good shot.  And, if I wished to attend ("which you're more than welcome to Hun"), the next event was being held about three months from that time, in the third weekend of November.  She apologised as she could not speak too much longer as she was busy with her other work.  Her secretary gave me Rita's personal e-mail and I gave her my own contact information.  And a few days later, as Rita had promised over the phone, a copy of the official rule book turned up at my office. 

I don't know if it would be right to say that the book, An Official Compendium on the Unofficial Sport of Pearl Diving, made the whole situation, in Rita's words, "as clear as pie," but it did answer a few questions.