church-side wisdom and wonder

I emerged from the south entrance of the church at Z, there to find two elderly men leaning against the wall, drinking in the view of a tour bus disgorging slow-moving Britons. I studied them studying the world, and then noticed what seemed to be stone cannon jutting from high up on the church wall. Typically you'll find bronze cannon on the church porch, but these were sculpted stone barrels. "to what end," I asked the senior pair, "are these cannon up there?". They chortled at the question: these are gutter-spouts, they explained. Where in Northern Europe you would find vomiting gargoyles clamped onto Gothic cathedrals, here these stone muzzles shoot out water when the rains are heavy, and the church roof is draining. Limestone, baroque aggression sent a completely different message from the granite demons of the North. This church was like a caravel, a warship, a castle. The yellow guns spoke of aggression, paranoia, and fear subsumed under brash bombast and declarations of might.

The two old guys, having gifted me a fact, insisted that I remain for "one more", a saying in Maltese. "If anyone asks you, tell them that El B from from this town told you this one" was the preamble and set-up, and then: "the lazy man enjoys the riches of the hard worker" and finally filthy laughter from the pair of them. the coda: "in life it's not how much you have, but how you pass the time!" and more grins, flashing occasional teeth.

After thanking them for the local lore and universal wisdom, I wheeled away, one boy in tow and the other on my back. The men vocally delighted in the blonde hair and the "obviously English" boys mutely shadowing me. And off we went.

Epilogue:

Retreating from the church, a slow encounter with three approaching lasses evolved into a dumb show, a mute display of amazement and wonder. They spoke neither to me nor to each other, but pointed, touched, beckoned and gasped, all in perfect silence. The blonde boy holding my hand was the lure, but the grand surprise, the jack-in-the-box, was the Julian on my back; each stared, drew breath, grasped her nearest comrade, and put a hand to her mouth. This was pure delight. And so they moved on, sharply dressed, to church.

the little blue hole, zonqor point, malta

so this book by peter lemon described a mini blue hole right near the dive shop i frequent. the book was a gift from friends here, so i resolved to say 'thanks' by taking them on a dive which, but for the book, we would never have done.

i scouted ahead and walked down a terrible, though wide, track on the limestone coastal edge. stopping to survey some cracks in the sloping rock, i was surrounded by birdsong. 'how refreshing', i thought, but only in the moments before i noticed the battery of caged birds on poles, marshalled around a broad field. these were living trappers' toys, planted up off the ground to lure wild finches and such down to the be-netted soil*

after some scrabbling and scrambling on scree and soft rock, i discovered the hole, which was sucking in sea. it was about ten-fifteen paces from the shoreline, and sheltered from land-side by a big shelf of rock above. a quick scan around pointed out a couple of entry points: key thing here is that you're supposed to dive into the open sea and then swim through the access way and visit the hole. eventually Mark proposed a wise giant-stride entry point, which was spot-on. it landed us in a fish-full bowl formed by boulders and gulleys.

side-note: this is all supremely tiny scale. daylight is visible throughout the dive. and i calculated that you could swim from the hole to the open sea on one breath.

it took us 45 minutes to empty our cars, parked up on the dirt-track, and shuttle the bits of kit down rubble ramps and stretches of blonde rock. this activity warmed us up no end, and to punctuate all that wrestling and dragging of equipment with some close-range neoprenics was ... unwelcome. later, when we surfaced inside the hole, i was uncomfortably warm even after 15 minutes submerged.

my dive profile would resemble a neolithic saw-blade, or jaw-blade even; there were many ridges to cross as we swam parallel to shore, and none of us could resist ducking down into the cracks to eye-ball the fireworms and sea-pens and various nefarious tiny things.

faunal highlight: an octopus clutching a decaying fish (a small comber, methinks). after the usual stare-out it began to spill out of its hole, and in doing so seemed to offer up its snack. one inking later, it had calmed itself sufficiently to float up over the shell-strewn flat patch and do a mid-water eating dance; with tentacles flailing it tucked into the fish carcass. our minds supplied the requisite Dr Zoidberg noises.

we spent an hour or more underwater, with plenty of time to float down and just watch things happen. at one point i found myself with my head nearly jammed into a cleft in the reef. i was overwhelmed by the proximity of all sorts of ridiculous and horrendous creatures. a knot of fireworms to my left, sick, slick sponges at the corner of vision, several invasive species of crab shifting position defensively. i backed away, conscious of having been in a curious mental state: the realisation had come upon me that this place was, while trivially shallow and close to normal life, irretrievably alien.

*as we piled our kit back into the cars, the bald trapper ambled along the edge of the field, and then set course for Mark, my dive buddy. in Maltese he gently requested that, next time, we should park further down the path so that we "could enjoy going down under water" while he could enjoy bird-trapping undisturbed. we deduced that our cars' proximity reduced the effectiveness of his trapping field. i muttered a cowardly "fuck you, and i'm glad we did" as he strode off.

Air Dive in Seattle

This was a freaky and unsettling experience. To wander through passages underground with rusted pipes overhead, wooden planks piled up either side, and railings canted at odd angles, and yet NOT BE UNDERWATER. I tried a deep breath but it did not raise me off the ground, and after a while i stopped checking overhead nervously to make sure my tanks didn't bang or stick on rusticles.

We took the Seattle Underground Tour, a guided walk under the sidewalks and dipping into basements of buildings around Pioneer Square. This bizarre underworld is the rescued remnant of a historical accident; the streets were heaped up higher than the mud, and much higher than the original ground on which the buildings were planted. eventually the city put roofs over the pavements. This was better than climbing a ladder to get up onto the road, and better than tumbling off the street 12-30ft down to the sidewalk to go into a bar or shop. Insanity, greed, and commercial expediency combined to make this tour a) exist and b) good fun.

on not diving

so here i am within an hour's drive of some famous diving spots in the Pacific Northwest. but all my kit is in fair England, and with it my will to take the plunge. why?

is it because some friends here have lost a friend to diving in the last few months?
or because my wife and boys are so far away?
or because this is a business trip and to get bent or worse would be unprofessional?

no. i refuse to dive in a rented wetsuit and unknown kit.
this is drysuit diving, anyway.
what if something happens?

that last question is the killer of any action or venture. something bad might happen. hence best to sit in a hotel room and belly-ache?

to the giant squid exhibition we'll go. and to the aquarium. i'll buy books on whales and squid and diving. i'll eat sushi. smell the sea. maybe take a cruise to spot for orcas.

dive another day.

Newhaven Arm

A gathering of the tribe to dive and devour.
Kate overdue by some days.
Alex besotted with Alan.
A long, relaxing dive east, parallel to the shingle beach and up along the arm's bouldery base.
It went thus:

A plaice or flounder that would not budge
chose not to flee but grip the ground
defeating my tail tweaks
Two Green eels
Curious/cautious lobsters, blue
Mullets grey and red
Blennies and wrasses and spider crab carcasses
Velvet swimming crabs,
Not swimming but mating
Kelp fronds waving
A fossilised sea urchin and on the shingles
Air-side
A bucket of mackerel and two surly men
rescuing their dead fish from the surge

Dry heaves and wreckage

Braving the waves we went to sea.
Bang, drop, wait, slam. Door handle in the kidneys. The weightless float, drop, the stagger.
The impact of the rising boat. Wham.
The sheet of water soaking the deck, The worry of getting your dry suit wet. Twinsets jumping and twisting,
rebreathers banging and stages scuppered. The forced remarks, the stoic few already kitted up and down and up and roll and down and cups of tea returned to the sea.
"None but us" we bravely said.
"None but us" softened the blows, dried our eyes and blew our noses
Another dive boat on the wreck, "none but us and them then" our St. Crispin’s spirit diluting, washed away on St. Patrick's day.
Thinking about the lift, crashing down on your head or flinging you out of the water, flipped
like an over enthusiastically spatula’d egg. Images of divers like Orca tossed seals, flinged and flung. Soaked and wrung.
Trying to remember something to forget.
Kitting up, struggling, dumbly watching others struggle.
"Can anyone see my drysuit hose?"
"Is your pony reg supposed to be underneath your BCD?"
Looking up at your buddy to see if he's ready, back at your kit, quick eyes on the horizon, tears of frustration at unhelpful gloves.
Looking down on your buddy, sky, waves, sky, waves, Rolling, bowling, penny a shie.
Coconuts lined up and ready to topple. "Those about to dive...."
Too scared to spit in your mask, breakfast isn't effective anti-fog.
After you? No no after you.
The first pair jump off a cliff, the next step up into a wave.
Now you see them now you don't
Soon you'll be them, hope you won't.
Standing at the transom, trying to work out where the boat will be. Up, down a foot in front and flipped behind.
"Go!"
"What?"
Gone.
Alone in a bowl of green.
On display on a mound of grey.
Up to the shot, down to the shot, up and down and down and down.
Calm and green then black.

Silver stars and constellations, bubbles are all that's left of your buddy.
A rope, some bubbles, a hand, a signal. Into the black.
Torch out to check computer, ears letting you know you're dropping.
Drysuit gripping, air in slowing, easing.
Suddenly a Jacuzzi, buddy freeflow? No, diver soup. An intoxicating blend of wholesome BSAC served with crunchy PADI.
Pair of divers assembled from the dark. Expressionless confusion of kit and limbs.
On their way up and out, can being back on the boat be the lesser of evils?
Are you my buddy? Are you my buddy? What about you?
Masked inquiries Are you my buddy's fin?
Black turns grey and a metal post appears, drifting past and up.
Grey turns brown and metal meets mask.
White anemones and oaten pipe hydroids tickle the torch.
More divers' parts appear and move away. Diverse parts, disembody in the fog.
Signals and invisible shrugs.
Reels are brandished, interrogation lamps flicked turned on.
Transfixed in the glare, dimly aware of frantic gesturing.
"I thought you were my buddy, but you were just undercover"
"Where’s my brief"
"How long can you hold me without charge?"
Read my hands.
"How do you say I'm happy to fossick here for a bit?"
"WHAT?"
"WHAT?"
Only one signal left that might convey any meaning. It’s a fair cop."UP"
"up?"
"UP"
"up?"
"up?"
"up"
"UP"
"UP"
Up and out of it.
First past the post, sinking out of sight.
Torch on computer, dry suit and ears bubbling.
Hello rope, nice to see you.
Black turns to green and buddy appears.
Transformed from monstrous shape to human, it's not the torch wielding, flailing maniac from the depths but buddy boy. Nice to see you buddy mine, how the devil are you?
Who were those confused muppets down there? Certainly not us.
Safety stop? Why not.
This is more like it, if there was anything to see I'd want to see it. Bouncing line.
Computers clear and up into the waves and down and up and up.
That's a big one. All right down there?
Over pressure valves burbling, wings spread.
"WHAT?"
"WHAT?”
"YES?"
“MBWA MKUBE MBWA?”
“WHAT?”
Wall of boat, hull in a hole.
Up on the lift. Gently eased from fire to pan.
Straddling, straggling stagger across the deck. A full boat all divers up. Rolling eyes and rolling gaits.
Some saw the three minute buoys from the rebreather boys and stayed a bored.
How was it?
Black no viz.
Who’s doing the second dive?
errr.
Diesel tea and cardboard biscuit.

Wraysbury Dive Centre

Wraysbury is a miniature lake (or large pond) just off Junction 13 of the M25. But the glamour doesn't stop there. Underwater sights include containers, taxis, a blue boat, silt, fresh-water mussels and clams, and parts of trees. Surely no Red Sea resort can boast similar attractions?

For 32 whole minutes on Sunday 25th February this body of fresh water was also host to a curious-looking three-bodied, three-headed diver (see picture). King Tad of the North was flanked by Jim and Matt, eager to protect him from the on-rushing schools of lake-friggles. A sunken river-boat was the main non-silt-based highlight. Its head was admired but not used, even though it was far cleaner than the porta-loos being used by desperate waddling divers, top-side.

• Hero of the half-hour: Jim, who used inch-perfect navigation to return the trio back to their launch platform. Or a few feet to the right of it.
• Special guest star: a fat swan, sporting a heavy, black-footed limp as it lurched over the gravel and launched itself onto the water.
• Special mention: Heathrow airport, for providing the aerial display of unsettlingly huge jets a mere 1000 feet above.
• Dive stats: 6 quid a head, cheap sausage sarnies, plenty of tea and cheesy chips on tap*, a mini-dive-shop on site, and the occasional cantankerous swan. Average depth: 7m. Drive time to site: 90 minutes. Dive time at site: 30 minutes. Faff time before and after: 200,831 minutes.

* Part of our surface cover team demanding supplies