07/22/2025
When you dive with a classic open-circuit system, it’s a bit like riding an old steam train—bubbles splash behind you like steam from a locomotive, you hear the gentle gurgle of your regulator, and everything runs on well-practiced habits. As you inhale, you’ll float up a bit; as you exhale, you’ll drift down. You’ve been balancing your buoyancy this way since your first Open Water course, and by now you’re really good at it—you can hover in place as if nailed to the seabed. But what if someone took away that locomotive and plunked you into a Shinkansen? That’s exactly the feeling I had on my very first dive with a CCR (Closed Circuit Rebreather).
My first encounter with a CCR was anything but ordinary. At that time, I was already a technical diving instructor and had been studying CCRs with great enthusiasm for a long time. It happened shortly after I began working for DIVESOFT. The Liberty was still a functional prototype awaiting its first CE certification, and I was prepping it for testing.
Our in-house programmer, nicknamed “Termit” (a tireless workhorse and coding elder statesman), owns a boat on the Orlík reservoir. He managed to lose his anchor somewhere in the middle of a cove and asked me for help retrieving it. Of course, we leapt at the chance! Aleš Procháska suggested we do the job on rebreathers—and I was thrilled… but diving my CCR for the first time while hunting for a lost anchor?
I set up the unit almost entirely on my own—I knew it inside out. This prototype differed from today’s production Liberty units in several key ways: it featured a front-mounted counterlung (FMCL) instead of the now-common back-mounted style; its electronics ran on two sets of six AA batteries that had to be swapped after every dive; the Automatic Diluent Valve (ADV) sat at the bottom of the counterlung and was completely different in design; and both inhale and exhale counterlungs had large overpressure relief valves. Many solutions were awaiting final tweaks, so prepping the prototype wasn’t without its challenges.
Aleš coached me through a final checklist, and then I donned the rig. My first impression wasn’t great—two bulky counterlungs on my chest and a thick corrugated hose whipping around made me feel clumsy, and the sun beat down mercilessly. But the moment we slipped beneath the surface, all awkwardness vanished. My senses snapped to attention: my eyes darted side to side, my ears strained for silence, and my fingers hovered over the inflator, ready to perform the subtle lung-compensating work I’d spent years perfecting.
I anticipated the hot blast of air from the scrubber, but at first I couldn’t distinguish it. I expected total silence, yet when I focused closely, the sounds reminded me of breathing through a snorkel. The whirr of the solenoid was barely audible—and in shallow water, it threw me off balance when it injected oxygen just after I’d achieved perfect trim.
It’s been ages, but I still remember that sunlit, golden water—unusually clear for this spot. We found the anchor quickly, around 22 meters down. I was amazed by the razor-sharp displays on our handheld units, glowing like twin jewels in the dusky depths, clearly showing every vital reading.
Surfacing was my biggest shock. I’d anticipated the different buoyancy, the silence, and all the other CCR quirks—but I wasn’t prepared for the pressure in my lungs during ascent. On open-circuit, you simply breathe out and let the excess gas escape. Here, I learned fast that I had to actively purge gas outside the loop or crack the overpressure valves.
I emerged utterly exhilarated. I wished Aleš didn’t have to rush home—I could have floated there until the scrubber ran dry. In the years that followed, however, I more than made up for it.
Since then, I’ve logged hundreds—if not thousands—of hours on the Liberty, and I’ve guided countless divers, instructors, and instructor-trainers into the CCR world. I’ve tried other units along the way, but it’s hard to beat starting out on the very best.
Author: Jakub Šimánek
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