Pioneering. Trailblazing. Iconic. Legendary. These aren’t easy adjectives to live up to, but by all accounts, the diving industry’s Chuck Nicklin made it look easy. He did so with his trademark smile and an uncanny ability to sleep soundly practically anywhere, including on a rocking boat in a big storm.
Charles Richardson Nicklin, Jr. was born September 4, 1927, near Worcester, Massachusetts, and moved to the San Diego area in 1942 at the age of 14. He died at his La Jolla home on December 7, 2022, at the age of 95. His life was spent in, on, and under the sea. All over the world.
I got to know Chuck when we worked together to publish his book, Camera Man: Stories of My Life and Adventures as an Underwater Filmmaker. Although the book is fewer than 300 pages in length, the adventures Chuck enjoyed as a diver and freediver, spearfisher, dive shop owner, explorer and filmmaker could have filled volumes.
The news of Chuck’s death flooded social media sites with memorial tributes. In this article, you’ll learn of Chuck’s accomplishments as a diver, businessman, photographer and filmmaker, and so on. But what struck me the most when reading the social media posts was that Chuck is remembered not for his long list of accomplishments, but for being a genuinely nice guy. For his “California cool” vibe. For helping people, for making them welcome and included. For loaning his camera gear – or the keys to his Porsche. And for his perennial smile.
Diving and Filming
When a group of California’s early divers, including Conrad Limbaugh, Jim Stewart, Wheeler North and others, opened the San Diego Diving Locker in June 1959, they hired Chuck to run it. Under Chuck’s command, it became the area’s leading dive shop, the place where legions of divers were trained, and where acclaimed underwater photographers, including Howard Hall and Marty Snyderman, got their starts.
A champion spearfisher, Chuck started tinkering with crude underwater cameras in the late 1940s, and before long, he was even a better underwater photographer than he was a spearfisher.
Chuck co-founded the San Diego Underwater Photographic Society and started the San Diego UnderSea Film Exhibition, an annual film festival currently in its 24th year.
Whale “Riding”
In January 1963, Nicklin was headed out to the undersea canyons off La Jolla when he and his dive buddies spotted a Bryde’s whale entangled in a fishing net. Nicklin didn’t hesitate to jump in the water and help free the whale. While doing so, he climbed onto its back, sitting astride the whale. A friend captured the moment with a photo. And in that instant, Chuck Nicklin became “the man who rode a whale.”
The photo and an accompanying article appeared in the San Diego Union. Before long, the story ran in Time magazine. Next, Nicklin was invited to appear on the popular television program “To Tell the Truth.” And the folks at National Geographic, figuring he was a whale expert, hired him as an underwater photographer for a feature article.
A chance encounter with a whale opened doors. But it was Chuck’s charisma that filled the room. And fueled his success. It wasn’t long before he legitimized himself as the go-to guy for underwater photo and movie shoots. He quickly racked up credits as an underwater cameraman for blockbusters like “The Abyss,” “The Deep,” and two James Bond films, “For Your Eyes Only” and “Never Say Never Again.”
Fame and Family
Chuck’s travels took him away from his young sons Flip and Terry quite a lot, but when he was home, he had them out on the water with him. Both sons were fixtures at the Diving Locker, too. Flip went on to follow in Chuck’s footsteps and is also an acclaimed underwater photographer whose name appears on the NatGeo masthead.
As son Flip tells it, “I have been fortunate in life in having a father whose footsteps are great to follow, from Chuck’s Market in East San Diego to the Diving Locker in Pacific Beach, to traveling the world photographing, especially photographing whales. I grew up in a world hungry for adventure in the ocean. The first adventure with my father that I remember took place at La Jolla Cove, not surprisingly, as my family spent an amazing amount of time there. There was a rock offshore, ‘The Rock,’ shallow enough for people to stand on and, when the swell was right, maybe catch a body surfing wave. My father took me out to The Rock for the first time, hanging onto his shoulders and looking down at the marine world with my little green mask.
My brother Terry and I started working with my father at the Diving Locker before we were teenagers. The diving world was very different then. Family diving hadn’t really come along, and my dad was not yet a serious photographer or cinematographer. But he was a heck of a diver, and my model of what a diver should be.
Probably more important, he was great with people. Our dive shop was a haven for scientists, military divers, commercial divers, spear fishermen, and all kinds of characters in general. It served me well, this introduction to diversity, years later when I was traveling the world for National Geographic magazine.
Chuck got along with everyone. His success in diving, photography, and world travel is a result of that mix of skill and experience in the ocean and a personality that made people feel happy to be around him.”
In 1992, Chuck paired with his wife Rosalind Bailey Nicklin, with whom he shared many more adventures, including leading exotic dive trips and African safaris.
[divider line_type=”Full Width Line” line_thickness=”2″ divider_color=”default”]In The Deep with Chuck
By Howard Hall
I wrote the following chapter for Chuck Nicklin’s book, Cameraman. It’s a wonderful book filled with stories of the early days in underwater photography and filmmaking. Compared with Chuck’s history, I was a latecomer to this profession. In 1976, I was a wannabe. More specifically, I was a “I wannabe Chuck Nicklin.” To say that Chuck influenced my career path is simple understatement. Chuck inspired me to pursue this life, pointed me in the right direction, and gave me my first breaks. I will forever be in his debt.
In 1976 I was a 26-year-old diving instructor working in Chuck Nicklin’s San Diego Diving Locker. I was a moderately good spearfisherman and a budding underwater still photographer. Chuck had much to do with my initial pursuits in the latter. It is unlikely I would have achieved any significant measure of success as an underwater photographer without Chuck’s help and inspiration.
For example, in the back room of the Diving Locker, there was a small closet. Inside, Chuck kept his photographic equipment. Not only was this closet unlocked, but Chuck allowed his goofy assortment of snorkel salesmen to use his gear as they wished. Chuck’s only admonition was that the gear be returned to the closet in better condition than when it left. This was sometimes difficult to do. Loaning his precious camera gear to wannabes just becoming familiar with the functionality of o-rings was, of course, insane. But we worshiped him for it. I captured my first underwater images using Chuck’s Nikonos II camera. The first image I published in National Geographic was captured with a lens I borrowed from Chuck.
I was not the only wannabe that Chuck stimulated. There were many, and a significant number went on to stellar careers in diving and underwater imaging. Chuck’s lifestyle was narcotically inspirational. He owned the most successful dive shop in San Diego. He employed talented managers, so he didn’t seem to work very hard. He drove a Porsche. He had a new girlfriend every month – each more beautiful than the last. He married the last of these beauties, Rosalind Bailey, in 1992 and to whom he was devoted for the rest of his life. Chuck regularly traveled to far-off, exotic places as an underwater cameraman for hire. Chuck often warned his enraptured flock that underwater photography could not be considered a serious career. That without regular income from the Diving Locker he could not survive on camera assignments alone. That careers in banking, education, or retail management were much more mature. Then he would slip into his dark blue Porsche next to a stunning model and speed off to dinner at the Chart House. Banking! Seriously?
Chuck initiated my first major break in the underwater film business. He’d been hired to film underwater scenes for Peter Benchley’s motion picture, The Deep. A shark sequence was to be produced in the Coral Sea. The underwater film crew would be populated with diving luminaries including Al Giddings, Stan Waterman, Jack McKenney, and others. They needed a spearfisherman to help attract and incite sharks. I suspect prerequisites included experience with a speargun, unrealistic ambition, and no more than average IQ. Chuck asked me if I wanted the job. I considered the offer for less than a millisecond.
Months later, I was on a flight bound for Australia and took my seat tightly sandwiched between Stan Waterman and stuntman, Howard Curtis.
Eventually, we arrived in Townsville, Australia where we loaded up the first Australian liveaboard, Coralita, for the 30-hour crossing to the atolls of the Coral Sea.
For three weeks our crew filmed sharks in the Coral Sea. We had many memorable adventures during the expedition, but one of the dives we made in the Coral Sea was certainly memorable for both Chuck and me. It is the single time I ever witnessed what can only be described as a shark feeding frenzy.
Our crew was on the bottom 110 feet below Coralita. Al had positioned a mock-up of a ship’s hatch cover and a suction dredge on the sand thirty feet from the edge of the reef. Doubling for Robert Shaw, Howard Curtis was to descend wearing a surface supplied Desco diving mask. Chunks of fish had been tied to the hose. Appropriately, Howard Curtis would not be relying on the surface-supplied air since we intended that sharks tear the hose apart. Instead, he would be connected to a pair of tanks via a twenty-foot low-pressure hose which we concealed beneath the sand once he reached the bottom. This part of the plan didn’t work out very well because sharks tore the hose apart only moments after Howard entered the water. Eventually, Howard did make it down carrying the pair of tanks under his arm.
The plan was quickly modified. Al, Stan, and Chuck would concentrate on sharks threatening Howard and would avoid shots of the severed hose above his head. With Howard standing on the hatch cover and the cameramen taking shelter against the coral reef, it was time for me to earn my pay. Al signaled to me by pointing his finger and cocking his thumb. “Shoot something,” was the signal. I was a bit reticent. Looking up, the water was filled with gray reef sharks.
Just beyond Howard Curtis and the dredge, there was a small clump of dead coral resting on the sand. Hovering above this limestone rock was a lovely little seaperch just over a foot long. I swam toward it rather hoping it would swim away. I realized that sixty or more sharks competing for one mortally injured little seaperch might produce a rather precarious situation. Hoping for a reprieve, I looked back over my shoulder at the film crew. Al gave the “shoot” signal again with an amplification that seemed to say, “What the hell’s the matter with you? Shoot, damn it. Shoot!” I took aim then looked up at the cloud of sharks one more time, giving the fish a final chance of escape. Then I fired.
The seaperch was impaled halfway up the spear shaft. I didn’t like the idea of it swimming to take shelter under my arm, so I shoved the gun away from me. Two feet from my hand, the spear gun was hit by three or more sharks and torn apart. A ball of sharks instantly formed and rumbled across the bottom creating a sound like an earthquake. Chuck, Al, and Stan rolled their cameras as Howard Curtis kicked at sharks that broke away from the roaring ball. I made it to the reef and hid behind Stan Waterman.
Once the action died down and the crew began their ascent, I swam out over the sand and retrieved the remains of my spear gun. Back aboard Coralita, Jack laid the pieces of the gun on the deck and began taking photographs of the remains. Chuck sidled up to me and said quietly, “You know Howard, no film is worth getting bit for.” This was not the sort of advice you take very seriously or consider very long before accepting. But I do remember those words. It was the sort of thing you remember when you are just starting out on a long journey. Chuck Nicklin was at the peak of his career. And thanks to Chuck, I was just beginning mine.
[divider line_type=”Full Width Line” line_thickness=”2″ divider_color=”default”]Thank You, Chuck
By Michele Hall
I was never fortunate enough to be on location at sea with Chuck, yet I have many fond memories of being with him, both here in San Diego and in Maui at Whale Tales.
Chuck is remembered by many, including myself, for his adventurousness and good-naturedness. What I remember most about him are his warm and engaging smile, and his encouraging nature. And that in 1976 he recommended that Howard be hired to join the film crew of the feature film “The Deep” in Australia. Howard was excited about this assignment, and after returning home he talked so enthusiastically about having spent time with Chuck and about the other people he’d met. That job opened doors that Howard nourished, and the ripple effect of that experience changed the course of our lives.
And so now, when I think of Chuck, I think of his never-ending enthusiasm for… well, seemingly for everything. And if pressed to recall a particular memory of Chuck, it would be the way he always greeted me so warmly with a bear hug, making me feel so welcome to the diving community.
Thank you, Chuck, for setting such an example for those of us fortunate to have crossed your path.
[divider line_type=”Full Width Line” line_thickness=”2″ divider_color=”default”]Me and Mr. Hollywood
By Marty Snyderman
Chuck was my first boss in the diving industry. He was out of the country When shop manager Lou Fead hired me. I was near the top of a tall ladder cleaning the big glass windows in front of the Diving Locker in Pacific Beach when I met Chuck on the day he returned. He walked by the ladder, looked up, and said, “You must be the new guy. Be careful, those windows are expensive.” Then he just walked away, smiling that wry Chuck Nicklin smile. Right then I knew Chuck was my kind of guy.