Papou's legacy

Decades ago, dive-helmet maker Anthony Lerios taught his young grandson the family trade. Now that boy, Nicholas Toth, has turned the trade into an art form, earning national acclaim.

[Times photo: Scott Keeler]

Nick Toth works on a drill press at his company, A. Lerios Marine, in Tarpon Springs. Each helmet takes about a month to make and sells for about $5,500. "When I make them, I'll feel a connection to Tarpon Springs, to history and to my grandfather," he says. "That's something special."

TARPON SPRINGS - Crazy from the moon, the tide boiled under the bridge like it wanted to wash away the pilings and the barnacles and the sheepshead that ate the barnacles. A mullet jumped for what probably was sheer joy, and a pelican dived into the Anclote River for a gulletful of Spanish sardines.

Nicholas Toth, who loves the sea and loves tradition more, watched the old drama unfold. He stood in the doorway of an old building and remembered a boyhood when he would sneak away to cast for snook, trout and sheepshead at the bridge. He remembered how his "Papou," or grandfather, would call out the door, "There is more work to be done" in his native Greek, and how he, the boy, would reluctantly put aside his fishing pole and return to the Anthony Lerios Marine machine shop to help with the deep-sea diving helmets.

"He taught me everything I know," Toth said. The diving helmets of Lerios made sponge diving possible in Tarpon Springs for much of the 20th century. Eventually, the helmets fell out of favor and were replaced by the cheaper, less cumbersome diving equipment used in the sponge industry today.

When Lerios died a decade ago, it would have made sense for his grandson to close the shop or concentrate solely on the repair of boat machinery. But Toth, who is 48 and has dark eyes, a gray beard and a sad smile, proved to be a stubborn kind of fellow.

Although the helmets are coveted more today by collectors than by working divers, Toth still builds them in the ramshackle shop next to the bridge on Pinellas Avenue, still hammers and saws and welds and lathes and sweats.

A Nicholas Toth dive helmet, all copper, brass and plate glass, costs $5,500. It takes about 140 hours, almost a month, to complete by hand. If Toth sells four or five a year, he has done well. When he is gone, the family tradition will pass with him. He is the only dive-helmet maker in Florida and among the last in the Western Hemisphere.

Recently, the National Endowment for the Arts in Washington, D.C., recognized Toth's work as extraordinary. In September, Toth will receive the country's highest honor in the folk and traditional arts field, a National Heritage Fellowship worth $20,000.

"We like to honor deep cultural traditions in our country," said Barry Bergey, director of the NEA's Folk and Traditional Arts department. "We consider Nick a living treasure. He's practicing a lost art."

The breeze carried the smell of fried lamb from the restaurant next door. Inside the shop, where it was 92 degrees according to a dusty thermometer hanging from a rusty nail, an ancient fan paddled heavy air that smelled of hot machinery, burnt oil and sweat.

As Toth hammered a hunk of copper into a ring for a helmet, as he measured and sanded, he was watched by an audience that included the ghosts of Tarpon Springs past. In the old days, the shop was a gathering place for men who worked on boats and dived for sponges, and dropped by in the afternoon to drink strong coffee and talk Greek. All of them are dead and gone. Toth feels most the loss of his grandfather.

Anthony Lerios was born in Kalymnos, Greece, a sponge-diving capital, in 1892. He was a small boy when some in his family moved to Constantinople, now Istanbul, where he learned to read Plato, appreciate classical music and find a vocation. Like many young men, he ended up working in the shipyards.

In 1905, a blight struck the Mediterranean, killing millions of sponges and provoking a migration of Greek divers, including his father, to West Florida. Lerios joined his father in Tarpon Springs in 1913. He married, raised two daughters and kept Tarpon's fleet of sponge boats in working order for decades. He also learned how to build dive helmets. When a competing helmet maker died of old age, Lerios had the monopoly.

The sponge industry peaked in Tarpon Springs during the Depression, a period when Lerios was fixing machinery for nearly 300 boats and building helmets for dozens of divers. When a blight struck the gulf in the 1940s, the Florida industry faltered, and some Greeks went home.

Lerios had enough work to stay. His grandson Nicholas came along in 1955; at 3, Nicholas began hanging around the machine shop. At first, Papou gave the boy little jobs. Later, he taught him how to do the big ones.

"He would put my hand on his hand so I could tell how much pressure was necessary to turn a bolt without breaking it," Toth said. "I'd put my hand on his hand when he was using the lathe. I learned everything I learned by feel."

Lerios taught his grandson how to make the elegant dive helmets. An innovator, Lerios changed the angle of the windows in the helmet so a diver could better see the bottom. He changed the location of the air valve to make it easier for the diver to manipulate. He revamped helmets so air was channeled directly at windows to keep them free of fog.

"He loved to work," Toth said. "That was the joy of his life."

The old man went to work every day well into his 90s. He would look over his grandson's shoulder and praise, critique and talk about what he had done and seen. Lerios died in 1992 at 100. Toth has done little to change his grandfather's design, adding bulk here and there for balance and aesthetics. He is careful with solder and repairs all scratches even if it takes hours. His helmets shine like polished gold.

In Tarpon Springs, the old diving equipment began disappearing in the 1960s. Modern commercial sponge divers typically wear weights, wet suits and regular swim masks. They breathe through hoses connected to air machines on the deck of the boat.

"Modern equipment is just easier to use," said Jeff Lover, 44-year-old captain of the St. Michael, a sponge boat. "The old dive suits took a long time to get in, and if something happened, if they sprang a leak, they were like prisons. If you got caught in them, you could die in them. But it was the only equipment they had in the old days."

The wharf at Lover's bare feet was covered by neat piles of sponges. Love's four-man crew, which included two divers, had harvested them during a recent three-week expedition. They found wool sponges and yellow sponges and wire sponges. Love expected to sell them for about $10,000 and divide the profits with his crew.

"It's a very hard business," he said. "It's hard to find people who will go to sea for weeks at a time, and it's hard to find divers who like this kind of work. I like it, but it's hard. Sometimes I'm on the bottom for hours."

A half-century ago, young men in Tarpon Springs traditionally followed their fathers into the profession. Now, parents, like parents everywhere, want a better life for their offspring. They want their children to go to college. If the kids come back to Tarpon Springs, they are more likely to wear designer ties than wet suits. In a Matrix world, sponge diving is a black and white movie.

Yet the sponge industry hangs on in Tarpon Springs. Synthetic sponges now flood markets, but the real thing continues to be in demand. A big wool sponge commands $15, wholesale, on the docks. "There's lots of sponges out there," said Theo Billiris, who grew up in the sponge industry in Tarpon. Recently another blight hit the Mediterranean, putting Greek divers out of work. Billiris' uncle, George Billiris, flew to Greece to recruit out-of-work divers for Tarpon Springs.

"There's nothing like a Greek sponge diver," Theo Billiris said. "They don't mind being on the boat for weeks, they don't mind the hard physical work under water, and they don't mind the smell of a sponge drying out on the deck. We've got a crew of Greek divers out there right now."

Even divers from the old country are using new-fangled equipment. To see a Nick Toth helmet in action in Tarpon Springs, a visitor has to pay $7 and take a tour operated by the St. Nicholas Boat Line on Dodecanese Boulevard. The highlight of the 30-minute trip is a demonstration dive for a sponge.

Wil Kilmer needed help getting into a clumsy dive suit made from rubber and canvas that weighed 18 pounds. He slipped his feet into boots that weighed 12 pounds each. Over his back and chest he wore another 70 pounds of lead. Then came the breastplate, another 22 pounds, followed at last by the dive helmet, which weighed 38 pounds. Kilmer lumbered across the deck like Frankenstein's monster, straddled the gunwale for a moment, then tumbled overboard, attached to the boat by a line and an air hose.

He floated for a moment, then sunk to the bottom in a tremendous burst of bubbles. Later, after a mighty gravity-vexing climb up a ladder, he sat on the deck and caught his breath. "It can be very exhausting," he said. "It can be claustrophobic working in that suit. Some divers can't do it. They freak out."

A sponge diver, no matter the equipment, always works into the current, virtually running in place to move forward a few feet at a time. The diver uproots the sponge with a small rake and places it into a mesh bag. When the bag is filled, it's hauled to the deck.

Kilmer, 36, learned to dive in the Navy. When he isn't working for the St. Nicholas Boat Line, he inspects bridge pilings and the undersides of ships up and down the Atlantic seaboard. "I wear modern equipment," he said. Among other things, he wears a lightweight fiberglass helmet that includes a two-way radio.

"I've never done any sponge diving," he said. "I'm curious about it. It must be tough."

Nicholas Toth can read, write and speak Greek. When he was in high school, he worked in his grandfather's shop on weekends and during the summer. Later, he studied political science at the University of Florida.

After graduation, he wasn't sure what he wanted to do. College professors urged him to apply to graduate school, and he even thought about pursuing a career as a translator. On the other hand, he loved the sea just as his grandfather did. He decided to stay in Tarpon Springs.

One year at his grandfather's side turned into two decades. His grandfather passed away, and Nick has labored alone in the dimly lit shop for more than a decade. When he isn't building helmets, he fixes boating equipment. He can build an anchor or a boat ladder, or fix a rudder. He prefers building dive helmets, his specialty and his art. The one he is working on now was commissioned by a New Jersey collector who hopes to open a dive museum. It will be displayed like a precious sculpture.

People tell Toth that he is an artist. Many artists die poor, of course, though he won't. His wife, Ann Clark, is a psychotherapist. They are financially secure.

They have a son, Beau Clark, who is a Los Angeles actor who recently made a horror movie, DarkWolf. Jack Nicholson got started making "B" horror movies, too. The point is, Beau Clark will not be learning the family trade soon, if ever.

"I hope I will always make dive helmets," Toth said. "Even if it's one or two, that will be enough. When I make them, I'll feel a connection to Tarpon Springs, to history and to my grandfather. That's something special."

But just in case, he wants to get a real estate license.

- Jeff Klinkenberg can be reached at 727 893-8727 or klink@sptimes.com

To see more about Nicholas Toth's craft, or to order a helmet, visit Toth's Web site at www.divinghelmets.com

Past 14 Days March 16, 2008 March 15, 2008 March 14, 2008 March 13, 2008 March 12, 2008 March 11, 2008 March 10, 2008 March 9, 2008 March 8, 2008 March 7, 2008 March 6, 2008 March 5, 2008 March 4, 2008 March 3, 2008 Search further back

© St. Petersburg Times. All rights reserved.