Going Under part 5 : Alone in the Dark

Going Under: part 5

Signal, orientate, regulator in the mouth, time check, elevate BCD and down we went. Lorna and I had been buddies together for this second dive at Vobster Quarry and the Dive Masters words were still ringing in my ears. 

"Stay close together and don't bloody wander off!" 

Steve or Jellie as those who knew him well called him was as unjelly-like as you can possibly imagine. He was bald headed, sported a broken nose and was robustly built. He was a firm but fair kinda man and had earned our respect, which was useful, especially as , to a degree, our life was in his hands. 

It was the first of two days on our Open Water scuba diving exams and things had not gone well on our first dive. The trainees, including myself, had made several bad mistakes, and this had not inspired confidence in Steve and his Dive Master team. One of those coaches, Andy, had taken an obvious dislike to me.

Lorna gave me the signal to descend and under the watchful gaze of Steve, Jellie, and the rest of the anxious-looking group nearby. We slowly let out the air from our buoyancy jackets and sank below the surface. 

The plan was that in groups of three , that's two trainees buddied-up and one supervising DM (Dive Master) we would descend down a shock line, which could be 'shot' line, but I was too shy to ask which it was. Essentially, is was a line of rope fixed to the bottom which divers could follow in their descent. It almost guaranteed that all divers would arrive in the same place. Well, that was the plan, I guess.

The last time we dived it was down to 5 meters This dive was taking us to a new low of 18 metres. No wonder the DMs were nervous going into is one. No one had told us. 

Stone quarries are obviously man made and as such it is clear to see the man-made digging that has happened over time. Even in a flooded quarry like Vobster you could see the workings of the quarry. 

The five metre level we had dived first time had an edge, like a precipice, a clear line which demoted deeper water beyond. The shock line of rope which Lorna and I followed down disappeared into a rectangular shaft-hole, of about 4X4 metres, with one side open. We descended into this shaft, urged on by Jellie,  who regularly checked, with the familiar hand signal, if Lorna and I were 'OK'.

To my relief, I was 'OK', due to my new found, ' get the f*** on with it attitude' I had discovered in myself. A glance into Lorna's mask told me another story; she was far from ok. The poor girl was terrified. The line of rope we slowly dropped down disappeared into a black shaft, it was testing our fears of vertigo and claustrophobia all wrapped into one. 

I looked into Jelly's mask, it was clear to me he wanted to separate the wheat from the chaff here; he wanted to see what we were made of.  Then I spotted his torch, which he unclipped from his belt. He switched it on as we approached the opening to the shaft. He shone the light down and the sides of the white stone were illuminated as was the the thin line of rope disappearing into the gloom. What I could not see, however, was the bottom.

Down we went into the shaft first jelly, then Lorna and myself almost side by side. I wondered what the rest of the groups following made of this.

Continuously holding my nose and blowing, I had never had to equalise the pressure in my inner ears quite this much; I had never been this far down before.

Eventually, Jelly turned and face upwards. He had reached the bottom and was kneeling on the bottom. He signalled to us to do the same. Lorna and I let go of the rope and we both knelt down nearby linking arms, which was good practice to keep groups together. 

Jellie once again checked we were fine, and we both signalled we were although my heart was beating fast. 'Take long slow breaths', I kept telling myself. All I could hear was the sound of my regulator and the bubbles I breathed out passing close to my ears.

Jellie shone the torchlight on a wall of the white stone shaft. The bright light picked out a cloud of silt we had disturbed and in it tiny fish darted. We waited. Occasionally, Jellie shone his torch back up the shaft looking for the others. Where were they? They were taking their time getting down here. In that strange way, despite the near total silence, it is still possible to interpret people's moods and I felt Jellie's anxiety growing. 

I looked at Lorna, I could hardly make her out in the darkness and the silt-cloud when the beam of torchlight was pointed back up the shaft. Then it happened. Jellie suddenly  turned to Lorna and gave her a clear 'stay here' sign. He then turned to me and also showed me the flat of his hand. Then he turned and made his way to the shot line and began ascending into the darkness. He was leaving us! Surely not! The sod was leaving us 18 metres down in near darkness. In disbelief, I tracked the beam of light upwards as it disappeared into the gloom above us. Feelings of pure, cold fear started to whelm in the pit of my stomach.

I looked back to Lorna who was squeezing my arm tightly. I could just make her out. Her eyes were wide, the poor girl was frightened. I could see by her bubbles that she was breathing shallowly and fast. I encouraged her to breathe slowly and deeply. Shallow breathing at depth can be very dangerous and it can bring on panic. 

My own fear suddenly left me, I was much more concerned about Lorna at that moment. I unhooked my arm and reached out for her hands. She responded and we gripped each others hands tightly. As the light drew away from us we were enveloped in darkness. I could only make out the whites of her eyes now, even in the short distance we were from each other. It was time to pray, and hope that someone would be down for us soon. We waited and we waited...

Going Under Part 4 : By The Seat of My Pants

 It was 5:30am and I was pinned to my sports seat and grateful that i had no time to eat breakfast this morning. I was driving shotgun for Cartwright, a trainee diver like myself, clearly a 'BoyRacer' , but I had him down for 30 plus, so I thought he should know better. "What is this fellow doing?"  Cartwright was leaning forward in his seat, nose pressed close to the windscreen. 

Bar offering a few grunts of acknowledgment I stayed quiet. Allowing him space to concentrate and allowing me time to remember the Lord's Prayer. 

We were travelling in convoy and were not late, although he drove like we were. Full on the accelerator or hard on the brakes, Cartwright did not know the meaning of coasting. 

We followed two 4x4 brimming with dive trainers, trainees and their dive kit. We travelled in an Evolution ( Japanese sports car, I forget which make) but it was supped up and pimped to the max. The dashboard in front of me looked like something from The Enterprise, with all manner of digital dials and monitoring gadgets, on the dash up the sides and on the low ceiling between our heads.  

I took the opportunity to enquire about them when a set of traffic lights had the impertinence to stop us in our screeching tracks. Cartwright was quiet, polite and well spoken, but edgy, always edgy, like he had committed some terrible deed in his past and he feared that the very next person to speak was about to expose his secret.

I made him jump and he looked me with wide eyes, perhaps he had forgotten I was there. Behind the wheel of his baby he was clearly wired. 

" Oh, all this? It's all highly important. This is my turbo indicator and this one tells me the temperature of my fuel..."

I had little time to ask why it was vital to know what temperature your fuel was as on the 'A' of amber Cartwight had pushed the pedal to the floor and once again my face was sucked back into my headrest, I felt folds of cheek skin gather at my ears. 

In an hour we had arrived at Vobster Quarry, a disused stone quarry that had been allowed to fill with water and then converted to a scuba diving centre. 

Steve 'Jellie' , the Dive Master gathered the 6 trainees together and apologised for the change if venue. We was a stocking built former Rugby player. Bald as a coot, but felt as home being under water, as out of it. 

Due to storms out at sea, the first day of our Open Dive exams would not be off the coast of Weymouth, instead it would be in the more reliable setting of the quarry.

" It's probably a blessing in disguise," Jellie remarked, " The water is fresh water and still. We won't get carried away by surges and currents. It's a good introduction to open water diving. Right guys, hope you enjoy the day, get your kit together and we dive in 30 minutes!"

The sun was creeping up and starting to offer some warmth, although, to be fair, it was October and it wasn't cold. 

Scuba diving is one of those a activities where a great deal of (expensive) kit is required. None of the trainees had there own, so we were borrowing the clubs equipment. Air tanks ' tins', buoyancy jackets ( BCDs), lead weights were all heavy and cumbersome, while wet suits, hoods, gloves, fins and masks, made being outside the water uncomfortable and just plain awkward. 

In the water, however, it's a different story. 

We all took a big step forward off the jetty and into the cold dark waters. I was greeted by a sloosh of chilling water down the length of my spine. Wet suits are not designed to keep water out, that's for dry suits.  A wet suit takes water in, but then a layer of water close to the skin is warmed by the body and it is that which keeps you warm, in theory. However, a loosely fitting wet suit will create pockets of circulating water which will remain cold. As for mine, I could not complain, it felt tight on the surface, but was now fine.

Three by three ( that's two buddy trainees and a Dive Master) descended to about 5 metres. We swam around a for a while and then gathered together at the bottom for some basic skills and drills from Jellie. At least that was the plan. It took forever to get everyone back together at the same point. The DMs were working overtime with flooded mask issues, dropped fins, trainees swimming off, even one inadvertently inflating their BCDs resulting in an uncontrolled ascent to the surface with the DM hanging onto their leg. This is not life threatening at 5 metres, but can by lethal from greater depths.

Underwater speech is useless, of course. So, instead, divers use a type of sign language that can make themselves understood. With experience it is possible to have conversations underwater and even interpret the mood of the signer. When we had finally gathered into some sort of order, kneeling at the bottom in front of Jellie, it was clear he was mucho pissed off. We had learned many of the hand signals one can use under water, but Jelly was using a few new ones that were probably not in the book anyway and, although delivered in total silence, we got the message loud and clear.

Back on the surface he continued to barrette our forlorn bunch, " ....it's as though you've learned NOTHING from five weeks in the pool! We couldn't even get all the skills done in that first dive! You guys dive that badly again and we'll just get back in the cars and drive home! You'll all fail!" Then Jelly dismissed us and called his DMs together for a secret debriefing while the rest of us got our tins refilled and grabbed coffee.

We felt terrible! I, too, had messed up. At the bottom I had spotted the rear part of a aeroplane, one of many old vehicles sunk to give divers something to look at. I drifted closer to it for a better look, but once I turned around I had lost my DM Andy and buddy Cartwright in the silt cloud. Visibility was only a few feet. Luckily, another DM, coming up behind,  had seen me peel off and she collected me and led me to the meeting point. Her name was Kim and her and Andy were an item. Andy was a policeman by trade and was not happy with me at all.

Later, I was checking my kit when he sidled up to me, "I got my nuts chewed off 'cos of you". Andy's chiseled features were grim.

"Sorry?" I pretended not to know what he was talking about, but I knew.

"You going off sight seeing like that! " he growled. " Always stick to your buddy!"

I took the lesson, but didn't like his manner with me. I remained calm, but turned to face him more face on.

"Look, I'm sorry. The visibility was bad. I'm not used to...."

"You will be sorry!" he cut me off, eyes narrowing, " Jellie wants you with him next dive. Try and lose him down there and you'll know the meaning of 'sorry'!" 

The tense eye contact we exchanged as he moved away was only broken my a much, softer, kinder voice. " Don't worry about him," it was Kim, his partner and fellow DM.

"He's just annoyed that he lost you and I found you". She smiled attractively. " Just remember to stick close to your buddy, really tight. "

"I know I f***ed up, but it's just his attitude," I explained.

 "All the DMs are a bit edgy with this group, it's not just you. We've got a lot of pressure on us, too. Next dive we are going much deeper. Jelly will be keeping an eye on you. "

We exchanged smiles and I returned to sorting my kit out determined to make it a good dive.

"In the water in 10 minutes! " came the call from Jelly. " Rich and Lorna, you with me!"

 As determined as I, and the rest of the trainees, were to not make any more mistakes we were not to know what was to happen next. Six trainees were going into the water, but only five were coming out..

Going Under: part 3

' I've never seen anyone as calm as you on there first time underwater' .

'Thanks' I sputtered as I spat out my regulator, heart pounding hard under my buoyancy jacket. Bruce was an experienced Divemaster and I took the complement as it was intended. I had surprised myself. I had just finished a frightening first scuba experience under water.

The sensation of being under water is unlike any other. Even swimming underwater is a different experience. I mere fact that you can actually breathe, artificially or not it's mind blowing. And that's the key; as long as you can get you mind 'used' it  you are fine, but if your mind is 'blown' then you will soon discover that diving is not for you.

What worked for me and the it was probably the reason I took to diving was that I could breathe and that comforted me. No matter how deep I would dive, and in qualifying it would be mo more than 18 meters, telling myself, ' You can still breathe, so you are ok', really helped me.

After 5 weeks in the pool and classroom I was given the all clear and invited to attend the qualifying weekend, in Weymouth. This would be the real test for myself and my 5 other fellow trainees. Could we transfer what we had learned in the pool to challenge of open water?

Going Under : Part 2

Going Under : part 2
I cant actually recall what got me thinking about taking a scuba diving course. Yes, well, of course it had everything to do with turning 40, but diving?
I have never been a strong swimmer, I learned late and did not enjoy my experiences of school swimming lessons. Even now the smell of chlorine sends me straight back to that new town swimming centre, when, at the age of 8, a swimming coach named Mr Salmon ( no kidding) leaned over me at the side of the pool. With Popeye arms the white vested 60 something would crack a weak joke before sending children to their watery doom.

" What did the canary eat for breakfast?  Tweetabix! "  Push....SPLASH!

At that time I couldn't even swim!

I never voluntarily choose to take my kids swimming and the Jaws films traumatised me as a teenager ( except the third one, of course, which was just made for giggles).

Everything points to a man who would never, in a million years, choose to risk his life by offering himself to the cold embrace water.  Yet, here I am. And why?

For the past 5 weeks Tuesday evenings were given over to making the short joinery to a local pool and learning to dive with Scuba Club. At 10 in the evening a small group of us were being put through our paces by our Dive Masters.

"Isn't this bloody amazing! " Stanley, another trainee diver, would say to me.

" Yeah, I guess" " I would reply.

At that time I didn't realise how amazingly bloody it would become...

Going Under: part 1

Going Under: part 1

I stepped off the train at Burnham only because my ticket had told me that if I had wanted to get to Weymouth from Brighton that I should travel ' via Burnham'. I thought this was a change point, where I could pick up a direct train. The platform was deserted and the automated, message, announcer, woman was announcing the departure of a train to Bognor Regis.

"No mate, there's no train to Weymouth from here you should have stayed on that train to Southampton." I had clearly amused the proprietor of a smallest eat-in platform cafe I had ever seen. " You'll have to get the next one at 12:57 now". He smiled, not unkindly, and showed a string of yellow teeth. He was in his late 40's with a sailor style crewcut with a grey T shirt pulled tightly over a portly frame, which made it look as though he was wearing a buoyancy aid underneath. 

 I thanked him for his information and was about to order some food when a tanoy speaker crackled into life over his left shoulder. It was too loud to talk over the monotone announcer so I wait eyed patiently for it to end. 

"The train arriving on platform 2  is the 12:30, Southern service to Bognor Regis. Calling at Bognor Regis. This train is made up of 3 coaches and is calling at Bognor Regis only!"

We maintained eye contact throughout the announcement and now it had finally ended I  ordered a chilli pot noodle, an anaemic sausage and brown sauce sandwich and a cup of dark brown hot liquid, which may, or may not, have been coffee.

With 45 minutes to kill I sat in the small space dedicated to seating and took in the room. As well as the usual confectionary there was a book table displaying train and railway books from bygone eras, some of these looked very old. The walls were adorned with photos and paintings of attractive steam engines. Under foot was a cracked, but beautifully ornate tiled floor, this little cafe had bags of character.

"Is this floor original?" I asked. 

"It's all original," said the man. I wondered if he was including the sausage sandwich when he said that.  "This floor is from 1910, as is the windows, doors, pretty much everything!"  My molars crunched into something hard in my sausage sandwich.

"We don't want to change like all those new stations with all their pumpkins and lemon trees.." The geriatric speaker behind him crackled into life again but the man, seeming unaware of this fact continued to talk, his lips moved, but I could only hear...

"The train arriving on platform 2  is the 12:36 Southern service to Bognor Regis. Calling at Bognor Regis. This train is made up of 3 coaches and is calling at Bognor Regis only."

"....which is why we sell jellied sweets in pots" he finished.

"Doesn't that speaker disturb you?" 

"What speaker?" He asked. I pointed out the obvious black trumpet shape next to him screwed to the wall. "Oh that, no I don't notice that anymore".

"There are a lot of trains going to Bognor Regis from here?" I observed.

"Every 6 minutes on platform 2, regular like." he said proudly.

"Every 6 minutes! Don't you ever get tired of hearing the words Bognor Regis? I have only been here 20 minutes and it's driving me crazy"

His brow furrowed. "I never thought of it like that," he said.

I thanked him for the food and waited for my train outside on the platform. The next time a train was announced to Bognor Regis I peeked through the window of the cafe to see the man staring hard at the speaker on his wall.

Five more times the trains to Bognor Regis were announced and he still had his eyes fixed to that speaker. 

When my train finally pulled away, I could just make out the poor cafe owner desperately stuffing serviettes into the bell of the speaker.

Inner Journeys

Turning 40 has turned out to be a positive experience for me, so far. I made a conscious effort, fed by an unconscious yearning, to do more for myself. Being a father of 3 with a demanding job would no longer be an excuse for not making time out to feed my soul. I've never quite understood the concept of 'finding oneself', but if it meant finding more out about myself then that would be a worthwhile experience, I think, but perhaps this is not so.
Only yesterday I was listening to Terry Waite. He was the keynote speaker at the Headteachers conference. It was a sober and thought- provoking precursor to , the more frivolous, beach volleyball and indulgent eating, drinking that would follow.

Terry had spoken in solemn tones if his 5 year captivity in Lebanon, during the 1980's. Most of this time was spent shut away in a small cell, on his own, in silence, sometimes in darkness with nothing to read.

He spoke about an 'inner journey' that he took in a desperate attempt to preserve his sanity. He described it like any other journey one would make by travel : exploring , opening doors, looking inside, questioning and trying to understand things better.
He described the 'good' that he found inside himself on this journey, but also the dark parts and 'evil' he found there.  He said that this discovery had disturbed him immensely and rather than securing his sanity, nearly tipped him over the edge.

It was surprising to believe that a man who had filled his life with numerous self-less acts of courage to save the lives of complete strangers could ever have such an evil within. Yet it was there and he had seen it. That time spent on his own was the vehicle of this discovery.  This resonated with me, as most of the activities I had planned to do now turning 40 were solitary. I was choosing to on my own. I will have plenty of time to make ' inner journeys' of my own and I can only hope that I'm not alarmed of what I find there.

Hadrian's : Every great thing must....

Breakfast wasn't the best at the Cornerways B&B, in Carlisle. The bacon looked like it had been cooked by body heat alone and, by way of contradiction, the egg had been crucified, a Wayne Bobbitt sausage completed the items on the plate which were all swimming in bean sauce. This was bewildering as I couldn't actually see any beans. I declined the extra round of toast and left as quickly as I could.  

The sun was shining, finally. Although this seemed like a wonderful backdrop for my triumphant procession to the end of the Hadrian Trail, it proved to be a hindrance. I got very hot, very quickly and, whereas, I had been cutting back on water over the last few days as I was not getting through 3 litres a day, now I was getting through the water fast.

 My mission was to walk the final 15 miles to Solway village and get back to Carlisle again before my train left at 3:30pm.  I got in the walking frame of mind early on and powered on.

I ignored the sights of historical interest, the beautiful view was now background scenery, even the iPod was off. It was a time for concentration and reflection.

It was strange to consider the  journey I had come on in just 5 days, and I am not talking about the distance. I had changed. I was now a confident walker ( although I hadn't cracked the camping thing yet). I had started today with no plasters on my feet and I was not missing them. I hadn't taken my daily dose of Nurofen and I didn't feel i needed it. My feet had toughened, the skin had become like leather. My shoulders had also changed shape, they felt stronger and wider. My calves and thighs were rock-hard and my buttocks could crush boulders...small ones. When starting out my backpack had felt awkward on my back, like giving a friend a piggyback on a drunken night out down the street. You're always relieved to put them down.  The pack felt natural on my back now, it was almost part of me, it actually stopped feeling heavy.

On the second day of the challenge I honestly had doubts that I could do it. I contemplated  giving in and was already preparing my excuses for those at home. Day 3 was the big turning point. It was as if my body had said to me, ' You idiot Rich! You did no training and look at what you've done to our feet!' My body rebelled, it ached me, it bled and blistered me and even when I wanted to rest, it would not allow me to.

On day three we had come to a compromise. I would ensure that we would try and sleep in a proper bed each night, if we could, but we would carry on with the walk and the body had better get itself sorted. To my amazement, it did!

I can't remember exactly when the last visible feature of the wall disappeared, but by the time I'd crossed the marshes around Port Carlisle, the trail was following a large grassy bank. The wall disappeared again and I lost the trail, my compass told me which direction it should take and I found a length of wall jutting out into the mudflats around the bay. I think that was the end of it. A sign said that a great Roman fort originally stood on the sight, but no visible signs were left. Things was danger of turning into a bit of a damp squib.

 I hadn't expected fanfares, or a welcoming committee with a ticker tape parade or a medal, but there was no ending. Nothing. I needed an ending, I needed closure.

Wandering further into Burness-on-Solway, more by habit than direction, I spotted a  wooden signpost I recognised, it was the final sign for the Hadrian's Wall path. I was so happy. It directed me to a small path that ran down to the waters edge. The tide was out, but I followed the path to a secluded garden where ornately carved benches were dotted around and at the centre was a small wooden structure. Carved above the entrance was the face of Emperor Hadrian and beneath, in red, were the words: "Welcome to the end of the Hadrian's Wall path, Ave Terminvum Vallis Hadirani Vagusta Pervenesti"
I have no idea what it meant, but that didn't matter.

 On the floor was a tiled mural of wading birds in the bay. It was nice, simple, but in some way fitting. I was satisfied I had finally finished. I had my end.

I took a moment to catch my breath and take it all in. I felt a strong and profound sense of achievement flow through me.

Moments later, I was joined by an Italian walker who'd I'd spotted several times behind me on the trail from Carlisle. We swapped stories and I asked him to take a photo of me, he obliged and then asked me to take one of him - with my camera! I did and he asked he immediately left quite happy that I had this memento of him being there.

I picked up my bag, took one last look across the bay, took a deep breath and left to find my way home.