In Memoriam

By Andy Birtley

Why do we dive? Most would answer it’s because another world awaits us under the sea. For some, it’s one of odd, brilliant sights and mystery, one where strange creatures and things inhabit the depths, waiting to be discovered. For the disabled diver, however, it’s also one of freedom and promise, a chance to leave earthly limitations behind. The commonality is that diving offers transcendence, an opportunity to abandon limitations, to become more than we are on land.

Limitations were something William “Andy” Birtley would have to contend with his entire life. He always needed to find ways to adapt. While chronic allergies kept him from enjoying the outdoors, learning disabilities made him feel lost at school.

"Andy was laughed at a lot," his mother, Ann, says. "I think this made him believe nobody should be treated that way, that everyone should be included. He always took the time to be very kind to everyone he met. He became friends with people nobody else would. Odd people, people others would cast aside."

She vividly recounts one parent-teacher conference when Andy was in the 7^th grade.

"I went from teacher to teacher, and all they told me were negative things about Andy, about how he wasn’t measuring up. While Andy was blessed with a high IQ, he was greatly challenged by learning disabilities. I then went to his Home Ec teacher. She took me aside and just talked about what a wonderful person Andy was and how he cared for everyone around him. He made sure everyone understood what was expected of them and how to accomplish these tasks, including a few inclusion students. This teacher saw that I was crying for Andy, and, as she began to speak to me [of my Andy], she began to cry too, I believe the few inclusion kids in his class may have had physical deformities that the other children found offensive and responded to them with cruelty, and she saw in Andy what so many others missed."

Andy would eventually leave school early to work, later struggling to get his GED while holding a full-time job. Andy’s whole life was one of struggle. After completing his GED, he struggled through classes at community college, determined to get his degree. It was there at community college that he’d begin to achieve scholastic success. It also was where he’d become introduced to SCUBA. With his newfound confidence, he found in SCUBA a way to turn his struggling into something positive not only for himself but also for everyone around him.

Diving is indeed an odd activity for someone with bad sinuses. The love of it, of doing it, however, only strengthened Andy’s ability to adapt, to find ways around his difficulties. When in school, he had to ask the teachers "What do you need me to do?" so he could find ways to do it. For diving, he certainly needed to think long and hard about the calculations needed for the different oxygen mixtures used in the tanks. What Andy sensed instinctively, however, was that, what a kid with his limitations could do, anyone could do. And he seemed unwilling to stop until everyone realized this.

"I think Andy felt that being in this natural paradise was something everyone needed to experience. He encouraged everyone to dive. If they were having a hard time, he wanted to help them through diving. For him diving was the greatest thing in the world. Although he could have been a dive instructor and teacher, he had not come up with the money to pay for the PADI card. A few of the people I met at the funeral called him their ‘Dive Master’ in a reverent tone that genuinely reflected their high regard and respect." his mother says.

The kid with bad sinuses, the dropout, the one others laughed at, was proud when he became a divemaster and was on his way to becoming an instructor. He was proud of how far he had gone in school and how he’d soon have his bachelor’s degree. Yet, to the outside world, perhaps his biggest accomplishment, the one alluding most human beings, was the hundreds of friends he had made because of the person he made himself to be. Friends he’d encourage to dive and not accept their limitations just as he had never accepted his. Friends he’d gladly help whenever he could. Friend’s he’d laugh with under the canapé in his backyard, their echoes drifting slowly off late into the Missouri nights. Friends who’d one day turn out by the hundreds to say their goodbyes to him when a Missouri road took his life at the age of 25. Friends who can only cope with loss but never truly understand it.

The cards at Andy’s funeral would bear the diver’s prayer. A friend told the family about Diveheart shortly after Andy’s passing, and so they decided to include it as well in remembering him, an organization that "embodies the soul of Andy’s life: one of possibilities and not limitations."

To accept early death, loved ones each need to find their own path towards understanding. Andy’s mother offers hers.

"In this world with all its selfishness, it’s great to find someone who’s truly kind and giving. We need more people like that in the world. Maybe Andy accomplished what he needed to do and so could move on. I don’t like it, but maybe that’s what I need to survive. Andy was never dumb or stupid (those of us around him were). Andy was never incapable (those of us around him were). This he proved in his short life. Andy’s world was composed of humanity, courage, humor and laughter (and his was infectious)."

To the hundreds of Diveheart volunteers honored by the association with such an extraordinary human being like Andy Birtley, our only natural response is to find sadness in what will never come to be. We collectively cringe at the prospect of never having the chance to know him, of never diving with him, of never being blessed with the chance of watching him assist our disabled divers in transcending their limitations as he transcended his. Yet, should not our response also be to take strength from his memory, to understand that his entire life was testament to what we do. Andy Birtley was our dive buddy long before he or we ever realized the other existed. And he will be with us long into the future. A part of him is in every breath we take. Distance, time, and, even, death will forever be only worldly limitations. Andy wasn’t concerned with the limitations of this world. We shouldn’t be as well.