My (Almost) First Dive
02 May 2005
Trip report by Tom Butler
First published in London Diver, August 2005
Finally, the day had arrived. My first real dive in the ocean. Ian picked me up at my flat early Saturday morning for the drive to Pembroke. Bank Holiday weekend, but the traffic was light, the sky clear and the sun bright. The omens were good.
Driving through Wales, I reflected on my odyssey from desk-bound banker to club member and soon-to-be "scuba diver". Residing near the Seymour Centre, I joined the facility to socialise and to minimise the caloric consequences of too many business lunches and dinners. I spotted the BSAC ad in the glass display case at Seymour [instantly becoming quite possibly the first person ever to do so… Ed] and memories of the 1950s American TV hit, Sea Hunt came back. Lloyd Bridges, the star, somehow surviving adventures from "attacking killer whales" to unexpected bouts of "narcosis of the deep" had mesmerised me then and I still imagined myself in his shoes (or rather wetsuit). After a couple of wrong turns into the "sun parlour" and the squash court, I finally found the clubroom. Jim offered a trial dive and I was hooked. Weightlessly swimming in the pool, I had become Mr. Sea Hunt. I signed up immediately and paid my dues. Now almost a year later I was on my way to the real thing.
Ian and I arrived at the slip around 11:30 am and started scanning the horizon for sight of the RIB returning from the morning run. What a beautiful sight as it came into view and tied up. We helped unload the kit and I felt like a long time member already. A light lunch and we prepared for the afternoon expedition. Jonathan was not due until later in the day and Keith was in charge until then. He decided the afternoon dive would be a shore entry at St Brides Bay. As I heard this I felt some relief, thinking it would be a leisurely walk across the pebbled sand and a smooth transition into the water. Keith must have taken pity on this novice and figured it would be safer and easier for me. Of course, what I didn't realise was that beaches in the UK don't look like beaches on Long Island!
Ian managed to drive the car past the parking lot and half way to the "beach" where we unloaded the gear and I kitted up as he returned the car to the parking lot. By the time everyone else had arrived and kitted up, I was just figuring out how to snake my left arm through the dry suit sleeve, which somehow had disappeared. Finally, I got everything on and found I felt more like a beached whale than Lloyd Bridges. Making my first ocean dive in my spanking new DUI drysuit, I wanted to make sure I wasn't too light… 15 kg on the belt, 2 kg around the ankles and a few more kilos in the BCD pockets. I was determined to get under. What I hadn't anticipated was the sheer exhaustion brought on by kitting up, traversing down the slope across slippery rocks, and then balancing and putting on my fins. I felt like I had just run a marathon, trying to catch my breath with my heart rate accelerating off the EKG chart. Too late to turn back…
After everyone else had gone in, Keith took me under his wing and explained clearly, "… just turn around and back in until we're ready.". I pulled down my mask, put the regulator in my mouth and suddenly felt as if I was in a tunnel unable to catch my breath. My expensive mask immediately fogged over and I was on the verge of sucking the bottle dry before we had even started. Keith's words floated over, "just lie back and try to relax.". OK, I'll give it a try. All that damn weight… My mask was half in and half out of the water. Panic takes over. Despite the fact that I'm breathing, I feel like I'm drowning. I can't find the inflate valve on my BCD to try to put more air into it, as I keep grabbing my pressure gauge instead. Can't be me, must be the stupid Cressi design. Keith still very patiently asking, "Do you want to try to go under?". That was the problem, I felt like I was going under! Calming down a bit, I signalled Keith, "Not today, let's go back.". Ever patient, he instructed, "Just stay on your back and fin toward shore.". Still gasping for breath and my heart pounding, I realise I can fin and get back ashore… just need to calm down… and gradually I did, a bit. Keith gave me a hand, practicing his towing technique. Then, I was on my own to fin. The shore was only about 30m away, why was it taking so long. My legs were getting tired. Finally, Keith's voice again, "You're going around in circles.". Now, I remembered… look over your shoulder from time to time (practical lesson for me!). Looking over my shoulder, I spied stern-eyed Joe up on the rocks looking down. Of course, this being BSAC No.1, we had to have a safety observer [that's right Tom, my altruism in volunteering for shore cover had nothing whatsoever to do with my reasoning, "a shore dive, on sand, with no viz, balls to that idea…" - Ed]. Somehow, I thought my display of skill might go unnoticed, as if it had never really happened. Of course, as I finally did make it to shore I realised that all the other divers had already returned and were pretending not to take notice of me. Kind folks.
What went through my mind as I unkitted. First, I'm too old for this sport; and why didn't I just PADI it! In fact, I might have just quit then if everyone hadn't been so supportive. "Don't worry about it… those things happen… it'll be easier rolling off the RIB… not so unusual on the first dive…". By dinner that night we could even laugh about it as we planned for tomorrow's try at a first dive. The experience did give me some lessons. First, listen to your body; if it's telling you to wait and catch your breath or even skip a dive, don't be hard of hearing. Second, it takes a lot of dive experience to get comfortable in the water. Third, try a little less weight next time; and finally, BSAC No.1 is a great bunch of people. In terms of expedition history, though, I really don't think we should characterise my effort as an aborted dive. I never got under the water; let's just refer to it as an aborted swim.
Postscript
I did manage to make two dives the next day, first down the anchor line in 8m of water in an adjacent bay to the previous day's fiasco; and more memorably 16m off Skomer Island, both dives under Keith's guidance. Both dives also offered the benefit of search experience for Keith and then Joe and Morgan as my weight belt mysteriously dropped from my fingers both dives while boarding the RIB. Thanks to everyone who made Pembroke memorable for the right reasons.
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Labels: pembrokeshire, trip report
Hard Hat Diving Oop North
22 February 2005
Trip report by Jamie Obern
First published in London Diver, April 2005
There is something about UK divers that makes the ultra-stylish Italians cringe. Maybe it is all the garishly coloured fleece and GORE-TEX® we insist on wrapping ourselves in. Maybe it is our insistence on functionality over elegance. Perhaps it is because the average BSAC male diver is a pasty white colour, of stocky build and has more hair on his bottom than his head (no guessing why I haven't described the average BSAC female—besides you are all gorgeous...). But if divers are on average a little odd then it is the nautical archaeologists who are helping to pull the average towards the weirder end of the scale.
For those of you that don't know, a few of us have been creeping off to do NAS courses since last year. We've been measuring boats and fixing lines, learning about protected wreck status and dendrochronology and trying not to laugh at some of the other students' dress sense. Just like the BSAC run courses, some of the NAS courses are more interesting than others—but when we first heard about the technical diving weekend we were unanimous in thinking that this would be one of the most interesting. It was a weekend playing with all the commercial diving equipment—hard hats and under water comms, surface supplied air and helmet mounted video cameras so that the dive supervisor can see whatever you see. As soon as the annual course dates were released Ricky, Mel, Dave "the Skid" and myself booked in.
As you might expect, nautical archaeologists are not well known for being party animals so when we arrived at our NAS recommended B&B, the Three Fiddles Public House, we were somewhat confused. It was heaving. Taxis bringing in the locals for their Friday night out on the town were arriving every 10 minutes, such was its popularity. The temperature may have been below zero, but the locals seemed immune. The 'blokes' were all in short sleeved shirts, un-tucked and with the top three buttons undone of course. The women all seemed to be in a competition to parade as much flesh as possible. And they weren't just skinny young things either—Hattie Jacques would have fitted in perfectly. I would have said that their mothers would not have approved—but I reckon the mothers were also in the competition. By stripping down to just jeans and a T-shirt I almost fitted in—but then Mel gave the game away with her big baggy jumper and complete lack of exposed flesh. We left to get some dinner as quickly as possible—our blatant open mouthed and amazed gaping was not going down well.
Just before we left we quickly scanned the pub for any other members of the NAS contingent. They were not hard to spot—oddly coloured fleece covered islands in a sea of lipstick, hair gel and cleavage. Now that we were in tune with the local tribal dress it was a relief that Dave and Ricky had not laughed louder on entering the pub. The sandal wearing, toe-ringed man by the door turned out to be their NAS room mate.
The actual diving was very interesting. After a very brief overview of the kit we were pretty much left to get on with it and learn as we went along. All of us got to dive twice in the full kit, plus the chance to dress the divers, act as tender, as comms supervisor and do a pot dive. Having the four of us in the same team was very reassuring, especially when the first diver of the other team was seen to be making frantic jelly-fish impressions immediately on having been clamped into her helmet. No one had turned on her air, or showed her where the bail out supply was located. Upon querying how this could happen, the answer was simple—well, she hadn't asked for her air to be turned on. Obviously an optional extra, then. Even by the last dive on the Sunday the same team still hadn't quite got it together—sending in their last diver without the bail out gas supply turned on.
Ear clearing turned out to be more complicated than expected. Encased in a 10 kg helmet with integrated comms and air supply meant that a simple nose pinch was impossible. The solution was a 'V' shaped neoprene covered prong which could be moved in and out or rotated through 360 degrees by the diver. With no clear explanation of how to use this devise everyone seemed to come up with different ways of wedging it against (or even up) their nose so that they could clear. Cleaning the helmets after each dive became very important.
We worked with one diver per team diving at a time. The plan was to spend some time getting used to the kit (no fins to aid movement and a natural tendency to topple over due to the weight of the helmet) and the rest of the time practicing survey work on two blue plastic boats that we purposely weighted down and tied to the bottom of the tank—it was an archaeology course after all. Some of us spent more time than others pretending to be spacemen, trying to do somersaults and generally giggling, shrieking, shouting and creating havoc (no difficulty guessing who...). Roger, a university lecturer and the most popular member of our team, was the opposite extreme. He only wanted to do the survey work and whilst the rest of us measured to an accuracy of 1–2 cm he insisted on measuring to the nearest millimetre. Not very successful when certain other members of our team were spending time deliberately hijacking the survey exercise by loosening the boats so that they were able to move about by about 20–30 cm. With the computer modelling afterwards proving difficult (unsurprisingly) Roger was spotted in the corridor re-measuring the boats that we had now recovered from the tank.
The other amusing game was to torment Dave "the Skid" whilst he was diving. Having settled him at the bottom of the tank with my reassuring tones coming through the comms system, he was less than amused to hear Mel's cackling and realised that 'the mad woman' now had control of his air supply. But it could have been worse – I had to deal with Roger as my comms supervisor.
Finally for those of you wondering why I keep referring to our current club president as Dave "the Skid" I will explain. It had nothing to do with the snow and ice that greeted us on the Sunday morning. On the Friday night, their toe-ring wearing room mate had gone to bed early and Dave and Ricky, being considerate chaps, decided not to switch the lights on and just got ready for bed nice and quietly. Unfortunately, an earlier occupant of the room had not been so considerate. Having had a nasty bowel accident, he had avoided the inevitable embarrassment by switching beds and making it look like the original bed was unused—hence the chamber maid had not changed the sheets. Dave woke to discover that he had spent the night lying in a rather large and ominous looking brown stain. Whilst he has our sincere sympathy for the mental trauma he must now suffer, we still struggled not to laugh—probably much like you will struggle not to laugh the next time you see Dave "the Skid" Marks.
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Labels: NAS, trip report
More Boat Handling
06 February 2005
Trip report by Morgan Peat
First published in London Diver, April 2005
February is generally a bit too cold and murky for a proper diving weekend, so a handful of London No 1-ers ventured off early this year on the next best thing: a boat handling course.
Megan, Alex, Jonny Wilmot (a.k.a. "Sicknote") and Jon Chapper (as an 'observer') signed up for the RYA Level II course, which covers boat handling up to a level equivalent to the BSAC boat-handling certificate. Joe, Tobias and I had already completed this course. We instead opted for the RYA Intermediate course combined with a BSAC Diver Coxswain assessment.
The weekend kicked off (as always) in the pub. Failing to find anywhere decent near our B&B in Selsey, we chose the nearest pub that had passable real ale. Unable to talk much over the pumping music we indulged in a pool competition, several pints, and a curry. Saturday morning took us to Wittering Divers, our base for the weekend. Taking a course run in a diving shop is definitely not to be recommended. Although the standard of tuition is high, the staff are all friendly and the tea and coffee flow like water, it is nigh-on impossible to walk past rows of shiny new dive kit several times a day without feeling at least tempted. I don't think anyone got away without buying something, and Sicknote walked out with several hundred pounds worth of new drysuit!
Our course kicked off with a few hours of theory. Since we had all completed our Day Skipper theory course (or were in the process of doing it) this was fairly straightforward. We went over our knowledge of collision regulations, lights, sounds, buoy shapes, etc. We did quite a bit of chartwork, calculating set and drift of tide, and depth of water.
The last task before lunch was to form a passage plan between two points in 'unfamiliar waters'. We were each given a start and end point on the chart. The job was to determine a route between the two, calculating tides, depths, etc. We had to write ourselves notes adequate to navigate the passage without resorting back to the chart. This was done by noting compass bearings, items of interest that we would see (slipways, buildings, etc), and the buoys and markers we would pass.
After lunch we went onto the water for an afternoon of practical skills. This started with a quick 'play' to get used to the boat, learning how she handled. We then completed the Level II assessment course (coming alongside, reversing, picking up buoys) to prove that we were competent enough for the rest of the weekend.
After that we took it in turns to follow our passage plans, one person behind the controls while someone else gave directions. I am pleased to report that we all successfully reached our destinations and all navigation (even mine!) was spot-on. The only slight incident was a minor argument with a sandbank, where our instructor's final directions, "You're getting too close. Turn to port. Turn to port. TURN TO PORT!!!!!!!!" were misconstrued as a turn to starboard. We got off the sandbank OK though thanks to a nifty bit of boat handling by the instructor, and the whole incident was watched with wry amusement by the twenty-or-so people racing dinghies nearby.
Saturday evening was a fairly muted affair. Everyone was so shattered from their day afloat that we were all in bed shortly after dinner.
Sunday took us straight back out onto the water to complete our BSAC Diver Coxswain assessment. This consisted of various tasks culminating in locating and shotting a dive site, putting divers into the water, then retrieving them. Joe went first, using transits to find a small WWII vessel just off the South coast. The transits were fairly dodgy to say the least. One was to line up a withy [local word for a wooden stake in the water, Ed] with a water tower, a task not helped when the withy is about two inches wide and half a mile away through haze. The second transit involved lining up a yellow buoy with a block of flats, only the buoy looked black on a grey sea, and was only visible every third or fourth wave.
Still, he found the wreck easily (as verified by sonar), threw in the shot and sent Tobias and I after it. That was probably not the best dive I have ever done. At two metres (never mind the bottom at 10m) visibility was down to zero. We could only communicate through touch. Luckily the only requirement for Diver Coxswain is that divers do actually submerge: no particular dive time is required. So we effectively 'bounced' off the bottom and back to the surface, thus ending Joe's exercise.
My dive site was somewhat easier, being a small drop-off in a channel near Itchenor. To find it was simply a matter of motoring out from the shore (after finding the correct point using the chart) and watching until the depth on the sonar dramatically increased.
One shot placement, however, had to be seen to be believed. Dropping a shot is quite a tricky task for the boat handler, really. You have to drive in on one transit while keeping your eyes on one or two others, watch the sonar and control the boat. It shouldn't be a surprise if at least one job gets forgotten about, so forgetting to slow the boat down and put the gears into neutral is entirely forgivable. Mind you, I wasn't the one who had to toss a large shot weight overboard while under way at 10 knots. I just wish I'd had a camera handy to capture the look on our instructor's face.
Once we had finished that exercise, had lunch, and the shotee's nerves had calmed down, we navigated some more complex passage plans. These required much more careful preparation since we journeyed up tributaries that dried out, and we were bang on low water. All went smoothly again, besides one minor surprise. The boat handling mantra of "always keep a good look-out" was forgotten by all (including the instructor). It does rather shock you when you turn around to see a vessel five times your size right behind you!
Despite our few minor mishaps, we all passed both our RYA Intermediate Powerboat certificate, and the BSAC Diver Coxswain award. Those on the Level II course all passed too. I have been assured there were no mistakes or mishaps on the other course – either they are all naturally gifted boat handlers or they have made a vow of silence to each other. I'm sure we will find out one day. You will also note that I have chosen not to name the high-speed shotters or boat grounders, in order to protect those who can't answer back for the next three months…
It was a thoroughly enjoyable weekend, for us at least – I'm not sure about our instructors. It was also very educational, and taught us a lot both about practical boat handling and general seamanship. I do however now realise why the club is not keen on us using Percy Too for boat handling courses!
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Labels: boat-handling, RYA, trip report, wittering
Cornwall – Carn Base
31 July 2004
Carn Base, at last, 2004
…or how Conger Dick was nicknamed.
Trip report by Nigel Summersby
First published in London Diver, September 2004
I've dived in Cornwall nearly every year with the club since 1987 when I joined, we've had some great weeks diving, and some rough weeks camping! With Cornwall it's usually one extreme or the other.
We have attempted to dive Carn Base several times but, due to the difficulty in finding 'the spot' and the difficult weather and tides, have not had any success. We once found the site but had misjudged the tide. We dropped the shot and I think I could have water-skied in the current! Fortunately, we now have a chartplotting GPS on the boat which makes locating the site much easier, (just ask Jeff where the Bucks are…), and now there is also a bloody great buoy on the seaward side.
Anyway, this year we thought we'd have a bash again. The weather was superb, the sea was calm and we had an idea of when slack should be. We set off from Lamorna, taking extra vigilance around the newly discovered Outer Buck, and set a course in the direction of Carn Base (head for the Longships and turn left a bit). The new chartplotter guided us directly to 'the Base' and after scouring the general area for a bit we located a promising looking drop off and prepared the shot line. At the spot the shot was dropped and we circled it to establish the strength of the current, disappointingly it was too strong but we knew we were early so things should improve. Our attention was attracted to the buoy in the distance, and were surprised how far it was away, and it's size when we got there. With time to kill we made the most of some photo opportunities whilst waiting for the current to slacken.
I was to dive with Richard, whose diving was coming together quite well as the week progressed. We returned to our shotline to check the current and things were now looking promising, kitted up and after the usual checks we dropped in and made straight for the buoy, a swift exchange of OK's and we started our descent into the 16 metres below.
The bottom came into view as I descended first and then I caught sight of a large free-swimming conger eel. I dropped to the bottom and pointed at the eel for Richard. I could see he had seen it as he was watching it with interest, getting closer and closer as he descended. I thought, how brave, getting so close to a large eel on your initial dives. He kept getting closer and was now putting his hands out as if to grab the eel. I thought whoa! that's not what your supposed to do. At the last moment he had second thoughts and decided not to touch it, with a lot of back paddling with his hands he just crashed straight into the bottom with his knees akimbo with this magnificent conger escaping from between. Strangely, since this incident his buoyancy control has quickly improved. Oh how we laughed!
The rest of the dive was impressive to say the least. Ten metre gullies with bright white sand at the bottom, loads of life and jewel anemones everywhere. All too quickly, and after all the excitement, Richard, sorry Conger, was getting low on air so it was time to surface.
At the BBQ that evening the story was re-told and Marian came up with a nickname to be proud of… Conger Dick.
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Labels: cornwall, trip report
Weymouth Rescue Scenarios Weekend
06 June 2004
Trip report by Megan Peat
First published in London Diver, September 2004
In early June, a group of us made our way down to Portland, following the bouncing acid head directions from our hotel's website (to quote Joe, "it's the coolest damn map I have EVER seen (and I'm not easily impressed...)"), for the rescue scenarios weekend. Arriving at 9:30 pm, we managed to interrupt a mammoth session in the hotel bar by Tobias and Alex and gave Alex an excuse to wimp out – the only time I've ever seen him leave a pint unfinished!
The following morning, buddy pairs sorted, we headed out to the breakwater for what seemed to be a normal dive. One by one, we were called up to see Dave and Mel in the bow for our secret briefings, while Morgan 'volunteered' to be the first boat handler/response co-ordinator.
Ten minutes later, Tobias surfaced, having managed to loose his novice, Jamie, who happily carried on having an enjoyable dive on his own. Morgan ably managed to locate all his remaining divers, had some fun driving the rib at top speed [followed by a slap on the wrists as divers were still in the water at the time… Ed] and the 'novice' was recovered with no harm done.
I managed to be incredibly unsympathetic to my two divers suffering from a bad air fill and then proceeded to leave Joe floating face down on the surface for, I am assured, 4 minutes and 36 seconds. That'll be a hint to get some kit in a colour other than black, then! [Never! - Ed]
Morgan demonstrated that the hours spent in front of his bathroom mirror planning the acceptance speech will not have been spent in vain, with an Oscar-winning performance of a diver with a missing finger. Unfortunately, he not only left behind part of the finger, but also failed to bring up the lobster that removed it, meaning that we had to head into Weymouth for the evening meal.
This took a while to be served, leaving time for several rounds of drinks and much hilarity over Alex's confusion between hamsters and guinea pigs (think Richard Gere—allegedly—and you'll be in the right ball park). Following the meal we ordered the dessert to share, with 9 spoons, which came in a three gallon bucket and was demolished by the group in 10 seconds, despite Gillian Brown showing unexpected territorial possessiveness, not to mention amazing tug-of-war skills.
Gillian and I were sharing a room and she managed to alarm me by stating that she never sleeps past 6:00 am and likes to be up and out soon after for her open air tai chi. Needless to say, the stress of all the accidents managed to take the edge off Gillian's plans and I actually had to wake her up in time for breakfast—I'm sure that it had nothing to do with the bitter in the bar the night before!
Tobias, waiting for the signal to surface, gave a fantastic performance of a diver turning purple with the need to pee, and missed out on his Oscar only because there was no acting involved! Still, he now has a pee zip fitted, so we'll not have to witness the speed disrobing onboard the boat again!
Dave exhibited the patience of a saint teaching me how to reverse the trailer onto the jetty. [an amusing concept if you know Castletown beach—I assume you meant to say slipway?! - Ed] My thanks to him and also to the owner of the camper van parked directly opposite for unselfishly providing me with an obstacle course to test my to-an-inch manoeuvring. Having managed to get the trailer down to the water edge, Joe drove the boat on, managing to mangle a prop on the sea bed in the process, although apparently the engine dropped down of its own accord. Many of those viewing obviously thought this looked like fun and were later tempted to try damaging props or jockey wheels of their own. There will be some intense competition for the rubber prop award this year…
Overall a really enjoyable and well organised weekend, helped by the good weather. We all made some mistakes, had a few laughs and learnt a hell of a lot.
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Labels: portland, rescue, trip report
Pembrokeshire
31 May 2004
Trip Report by Joe Hesketh
First published in London Diver, September 2004
This year's Pembroke trip got off to an inauspicious start with nearly nowhere to stay. The regular campsite, Foxdales (rubbish toilets, great breakfast bar…), had suddenly decided this year that it didn't like divers, or at any rate was of the opinion that they didn't mix with families. Those keen on maintaining a rufty-tufty image would no doubt derive some satisfaction from this expulsion (a certain Groucho Marx quote springs to mind). However, despite the charm offensive mounted on 'Mrs Foxdales' by tough city lawyer (and assistant marshal on the trip) Jon Chapper (I believe the argument ran along the lines of, "…no, but we're really very nice, honestly…") local obstinacy won out and we were forced to go elsewhere.
An alternative campsite was found closer to Martin's Haven. One of only a few groups on the site, its unpopularity was not hard to fathom as you trekked a quarter-mile across knee high grass to a shower block even more condemned than the one down the road.
Only five of us were around on the first day's diving, though conditions being pretty marginal we restricted our diving to sites around the Haven (just out from Dale Harbour). After some judicious guesswork (abandoning the GPS marks which seemed accurate enough only to place you in the correct hemisphere, we followed some ill-remembered details about a couple of southerly cardinals) we 'located' the wreck of the Dakotian. At around half the stated depth and somewhat less impressive a vessel than the description Jon had read from the book, my dive (with Tobias and Gillian B) was pleasant but a little disappointing. Uncorroborated by Jon and Keith who followed us in only to spend half an hour on a featureless bottom, it wasn't until later that evening when Jon checked his guides that we worked out that we'd located and dived a different wreck (that of the Behar) completely by chance.
Much later that evening (thanks to some apparently awful traffic), everyone else arrived. Morgan, sensing it was getting late and that he was leaving civilisation behind him had sensibly stopped off to buy some sustenance at the last petrol station before Marloes. So what do you buy when you are tired and hungry after a seven hour drive—a 12 pack of beer obviously! Equally prepared was Tatiana who, on arriving at 1:00 am, then stood in the driving rain reading the assembly instructions to her tent. The girl guides clearly never made it as far as France…!
Not a bad trip all round, and despite some Olympian faffing (even by London Branch standards) on a few days we even made it into the water before noon… Some other highlights:
Gillian B wading back out to the boat with her drysuit zip undone. Those of us who'd spotted this from the beach might well have been able to shout out a little sooner/louder, but where's the fun in that…?
Megan, who after three or four unsuccessful attempts at climbing into the boat whilst it was held in the bay, finally managed to clamber in, receiving tumultuous applause from the assembled crowd of bird watchers waiting to catch the Skomer ferry.
Jon playing underwater swapshop, managing to lose two knives and one glove but find a UK400.
Alex, who after many months free of gastric calamity at sea, finally succumbed to old habits and was left helpless as his lunch did an encore in the waters of South West Wales. Those who might for whatever reason like to keep track of such things will be pleased to know he has since completed the tri-nations by polluting Scottish and English seas as well.
Tobias, who most embarrassingly got lost on the drive home. After phoning me to chart my progress and receiving the response, "I'm on the road to Fishguard" then proceeded to drive all the way to Fishguard himself, miles out of his way and in completely the wrong direction. He has since been forced to spend hundreds of pounds on an 'Anti-Fishguard Device' (a GPS unit for his Palm Pilot) in order to maintain enough navigational dignity to be able to continue to bait Morgan for his now legendary directional dysfunction. He'll no doubt try to tell you that I got lost too, though this is, of course, complete rubbish! Ha ha, to (mis)quote Mel Brooks, sometimes it's good to be the editor…!
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Labels: pembrokeshire, trip report
Plymouth 2004
12 April 2004
Trip report by Morgan Peat
First published in London Diver, May/June 2004
My first diving trip of the year was, as is traditional, an Easter Weekend in Plymouth. We had the benefit of both Friday and Monday off work to make a long weekend and get some good diving in, prior to the season 'proper'.
This kicked off in style on Friday morning with a trip to HMS Scylla, a new 'artificial reef' sunk in Whitsand Bay. You will probably have heard of her, as her scuttling was televised two weeks previously on BBC News. She lies within spitting distance of the James Eagan Layne in about 20 metres, with a slight starboard tilt. Huge holes have been cut all down her sides to allow the slightly more foolhardy to neb around inside.
We were joined at the Scylla on Friday by about two-thirds of South-East England's diving community. TJ helpfully suggested giving a unique signal to the boat upon surfacing, so that we would not mistakenly pick up other divers. Unfortunately, several other boats had the same idea, and the same signal. If we had a little less selectivity in our pickups I'm sure that, after picking up our twentieth pair of divers, we would have noticed something odd.
Saturday morning brought a repeat trip to Scylla, so there must have been something interesting there. There were less divers (we could see them all on the Eagan Layne), but still not much aquatic life. I think we can all now claim to have 'done' the Scylla, as no one seemed particularly keen to dive there again the next day.
Sunday saw us speeding out to the Eddystone Lighthouse. We had a beautiful, still, clear day with sea like a millpond. The outward journey was somewhat better than the dive, however, with the sort of temperature and viz that you would expect swimming in chocolate milkshake. A few of us left the RIB to visit the Eddystone itself and clamber about the rock. This was interesting for a few minutes, and I'm glad that those in the RIB decided to pick us up… Eventually.
Other diving during the weekend included such Bovi standards as Hillsea Point, the Mewstone and the Breakwater (both inside and out). The Mountbatten Centre once again served as our base, providing welcome refreshment from its first-floor bar.
Our evening entertainment only involved one trip across to Plymouth Old Town. For anyone interested, I can confirm that the proprietor of Platters has not significantly increased in size, and that his syrup still (just about) fits. Our pre-Platters drink was rather odd, as a local TV presenter (quite famous in 'those parts', apparently) walked into the pub, complete with full complement of camera and soundmen, producers and assistants. Tobias and Alex may have had their fifteen minutes of fame, being filmed having their girths measured to see who is the largest. Alex made friends by asking, "Is he local? He looks like it", to an extremely local-looking regular.
After such a large meal of fish n' chips, a few of us decided to take a stroll around the marina to wear off dinner. This proved slightly longer than expected, and made us miss the ferry; but provided an interesting look into other parts of Plymouth. Highly recommended. [unlike relying on the boy Peat for navigation, which is most definitely NOT to be recommended… Ed]
All in all, a very good trip; the short break seemed much longer than it was. We were very lucky with the weather, although the water was slightly cold. We even saw a (kind of) celebrity: Louise Trewhatshername (from DIVER magazine) was based out of Mountbatten too.
Posted byUnknown at 7:04 PM 0 comments
Labels: photos, plymouth, trip report
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