One of my dictionaries, I don't know which damn one, says:

DIVE: (n)
A run-down or disreputable bar or night club.

"I been thrown outa better dives than this," you've often wished you'd said as you spit on the floor, tossed a few bucks on the bar, and staggered out, self-satisfied.

Lately there’s a new use for the word dive. To those yuppie types a dive bar is chic. Seedy by design. We actual divers, however, have long known that a dive bar needn’t be a dive, nor is every dive a dive bar. I’ve tended bar in quite a few. Bummed drinks in quite a few more. And in telling dive stories - always the truth, and nothing but the truth.

It all started when the first diver finished his day and said "I ain’t ready to go home yet." He dragged his buddies to the publick house nearest to the dock, and they took turns inventing more and more impressive stories while unwinding from the tensions of the day.

Wanna hear about my favorite? It’s a short walk from where your dive boat docks. Drinks are cheap. All sorts of sea artifacts are hanging on the wall, and some sea artifacts are sitting on the stools. The bartender is a character. His name usually starts with "Big." He has a tattoo that he shows you and one that he doesn’t. Beer’s his drink and he knows the little breweries like he knows the wrenches for his Harley. He remembers the names of everyone who’s ever been to a wreck, and what they brought back. He knows more about the conditions out there than any boat captain or dive store owner.

Big Jake sure knows how to mix drinks. He invents new ones. He ain’t sparing with the tequila. He smokes his own bar sausages in a smoker in his backyard. But he won’t let you drive if he sees you’ve had too much. Jake is too big to argue with on that point. And if he sees you’re on the Program — it’s Diet Coke and nachos for you. The kitchen is good. Crab cakes. Burgers. Chips and Big Jake’s super jalapeno salsa.

He’ll show you the very table where some treasure hunter first laid out the coordinates for their money wreck. And if it looks like a fight is starting he’ll hoist himself over the bar, land on the wooden floor with all 325 pounds and get in between. If there’s still some fighting to be done he’ll drag you to the video games so you can take out your aggressions in Mortal Kombat. Jake’ll kick the freeloaders off the front stools and carefully place the best looking women there. He might even put the good looking guys there — Jake’s easy that way.

Instructors love bringing their classes over to Jake’s. "Rubbing shoulders is part of the training." The old timers love telling the same stories over and over again. "You’re too young to remember double hose regulators..." The ego guys get to puff themselves up. "My wreck’s bigger than yours, and it was virgin, and I was first on her." And archaeologists sit right alongside artifact takers, though they often eye their duffles with suspicion. Techies prop their laptops up on the bar running their profiles, while newbies carry their fresh Open Water I books. And then there’s that environmental woman who keeps giving the grilled tuna customers guilt- provoking looks.

Best of all, Jake loves to talk diving. He doesn’t care if you’ve just seen your first fishie or are hiring Alvin to do the Trench. He’ll listen to you like you’re Jacques Cousteau. Spearfishing? Yeah, Big Jake has his stories. Artifacts? Yeah, he’s seen ‘em all — but your dish is really one of the better ones he’s seen. Sad stories? Jake’s old partner bought it on that deep one. The insurance money was OK but he sure misses him. "But let’s talk about diving, all right?" 

Where exactly is Big Jake’s Dive Bar? It doesn’t make any difference. Some people find him on a tiny island. Sometimes he’s on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Some folks are still looking for their great dive bar. You’ve never been to Big Jake’s? Ask around.