Once, in a beautiful, pristine Minnesota lake some friends and I discovered a classic crappie hole. After losing some jigs on something down below, we decided to dive and see what kind of cover was so popular with the crappies. We first trolled past the hole dragging our anchor (a paint bucket filled with cement) until it clunked against something down below. When the anchor hung up on the obstruction, we began to dive. We found a huge crate woven from rough planks and filled with stones. (Later research disclosed that it was the foundation of an old diving platform.)  Stuck fast to the planks was a tremendous variety of lures-- including the jigs we had lost. Trolling pike and walleye anglers used to hang up on this unexpected snag with such regularity that we would simply harvest the planks every couple of weeks.
It was the discovery of the diving platform that made us practically abandon our fishing for the new sports of lure hunting and exploring the depths of the lake. We used to go out to the crappie hole and take turns riding the anchor down to see what had hung up there. The grid of ancient boards was covered with algae and lake weed that clung to it like sodden flesh and the depths seemed to wash most of the color out of our eyes. The scene below was black and white for the most part, but once I was struck by the red color of a favorite home-rigged beetle lure my brother had lost. I found it clinging down there, its white body and red eye stark against the furred, gray board it had snagged upon. My brother was very glad to get that beetle lure back.
Occasionally you would hear the muffled bump of cement against wood as someone rode a spare anchor down to meet you. The sound down there was the way people describe the sound in a fog, with none of the treble left in it and just a ghostly mumble when any sound was heard at all. Most of the time, though, there was only silence against the ever present ringing in your head.