Carving a wake in the early morning calm of Frenchman’s Bay, the Starfish Enterprise steams out of Bar Harbor on its maiden voyage.
Onboard, 11 passengers-parents and kids, all sporting duct-tape name tags-are sitting on long yellow benches.
Ed Monat, 43, known to his passengers as Diver Ed, stands by the cabin. A few kids begin to laugh as Monat, bulging his eyes, squeezes into his one-piece dry suit. The heavy neoprene stretches tightly against his thick chest and legs. His long tangled hair and most of his face are covered in a hood made of the same elastic material.
Speaking in a loud, brassy voice, he explains his gear as he prepares to dive “These air tanks hold pressurized air like your car tires-air that I breathe. But instead of 32 psi [pounds per square inch] it has 3,200. This could blow through a 12-story concrete building.”
Hoisting the large silver canisters, he grins. “Now I’m going to strap it to my back.”
After dropping anchor near Burnt Point Island, Monat works his way to a wooden diving platform at the stern where he prepares for his grand exit. At his request, two young boys shove Monat towards the sparkling green water. Surprisingly agile in his bulky gear, he barely makes a splash.
As Monat disappears beneath the surface, Edna Martin, known onboard as Captain Evil (but in reality Monat’s wife), holds up a large, complicated looking electronic device. “This is Diver Ed’s camera,” she says. “And these two things on the sides are lights,” pointing to the arm-like extensions on the side of the metal body.
“Diver Ed is going to use this,” she tells her attentive audience, uncoiling a thick cord, “to show us what he sees while he’s diving.” Monat surfaces and she hands him the camera. Then, as the camera is switched on, a projector illuminates the rear of the cabin with video images of the dark, murky water.
As Monat swims 40 feet below the surface an antenna darts across the screen. Monat’s gloved hand shoots out and a dark brown cloud debris quickly expands and obscures the image. A young boy looks on wide-eyed. “A lobster,” says Martin excitedly, who narrates the video images. “They have been clocked at speeds of 60 miles-per-hour over short distances,” she adds as Monat continues to wrestle with the lobster.
Together, Monat and Martin have run their Bar Harbor-based business for nearly a decade. They call it the Dive-in Theatre. It is an unusual boat tour that gives passengers the opportunity to view, learn about, and then handle in touch tanks, crabs, starfish, and a variety of other marine invertebrates, which Monat retrieves during his dive.
For Monat, the business was a long time in the making. When he attended College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor, he would travel to schools with touch tanks, educating students about marine animals. After he graduated, he searched for a way to combine this hands-on approach to education with his long-time passion for diving. Finally, in March 2000, with the proper technology available and a boat of his own, Monat started the Dive-in Theatre.
But in November 2008, the business came to an abrupt end. The Seal, which Monat and Martin used to carry their passengers and high-tech gear, broke away from its mooring and smashed into Bar Island in 85 mile-per-hour winds. The 48-foot vessel was recovered in pieces.
At the time it seemed unlikely that their business could survive. “We were at that point were there’s no money that’s going to help us. Even if we get the insurance money, we’re not going to be able to come out of this,” said Monat, recalling the bleak prospects.
But not everyone was willing to see the Dive-in Theatre go under. As word of Monat’s misfortune spread, past customers, old school buddies and friends looked for ways to help.
“There was a whole pile of fundraisers, and they made it pretty clear that it was just to help us get through. We didn’t have to buy another boat or whatever. It was just people wanted to help us out. At that point we said, ‘Okay, we’ll try it.'”
The fundraisers took many forms. “The first one was at the VIS-the [West Eden] Village Improvement Society. And they had a big public supper, and people came and donated money. And then there was a big one we had at the Masonic Hall,” said Monat, recalling the fundraising events.
In total $30,000 was raised. It was enough to commission construction of a new hull by H&H Marine of Steuben, Maine. The boat’s name, the Starfish Enterprise-printed in large bold letters across the side of hull with an enormous red starfish-was chosen through a contest among Hancock County students.
Working on the boat “for three crazy months,” Monat and Martin raced to outfit the hull before the summer crowds arrived. Often they slept onboard. By the time they finished the final preparations, it was only hours before their first unofficial ride. The boat was inspected and passed by the U.S. Coast Guard the day before its maiden voyage on July 10.
Now offering trips seven days a week, Monat and Martin have resumed business about a month later than in past years. While they are still dealing with minor technical glitches-the challenge of interfacing new equipment with old equipment salvaged from the Seal-their business is now on solid footing.
As the first group of passengers streams off the dock, the Starfish Enterprise rocks gently in the midday breeze, its new white sides gleaming in the sun. Monat, laughing heartily, signs his name on a small plastic figure, a souvenir of the trip that he calls Mini Ed. He returns it to a young girl who quietly thanks him.
Martin looks on, leaning against the railing. Smiling, she turns and reattaches a small rope gate along the side of the boat, preparing for the next group of ocean explorers to arrive.
Blake Davis is participating in the Working Waterfront’s summer writing program. He lives on Mt. Desert Island.