Since 1956 the Italian luxury liner Andrea Doria
has lain in 250 feet of cold Atlantic water off Nantucket—a reachable but dangerous depth for freedivers using advanced deep-sea apparati. Indeed, five ambitious divers died over the site in two seasons in the late 1990s, and the Andrea Doria
site seems to operate for amateur deep sea divers as "the underwater Everest." But the quest to make it down to the Doria
and back with artifacts like its first-class dinnerware, brass instruments and random fittings hardly seems noble: the last fatality in the summer of 1999 was during an attempt by a clearly underqualified diver from the Midwest in quest of an authentic liner toilet to complement his new basement décor. Almost everyone in this account seems sublimely unaware that for many others it is this risk itself that propels the ship's wreck-diving fraternity. That includes Haberstroh, an outdoors recreation reporter for Long Island Newsday, who labors to make up for the murkiness of the Doria
divers' motives by emphasizing eyewitness accounts and interviews—and even some quoted conversations from victims, which, he announces in his introduction, have no primary sources. The most conclusive chapter in Haberstroh's investigation is called, without apparent irony, "When Your Number's Up, It's Up." Like its 2001 predecessor, Deep Descent, by Kevin McMurray, this journeyman's account is a murky adventure, even for those who are familiar with the magic of scuba diving. Photo insert not seen by PW. (Feb.)
