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There
are those cruel moments in life when the wisdom of the words
"Well it seemed like a good idea at the time" come back to
haunt me. It happens to us all, I know; and this is the sad
tale of how it happened to me. (I was going to submit this
anonymously, or else think up a vaguely amusing nom de
plume such as Ivor Wetone or Sue Ball, but it would never
have worked; as soon as you saw my decrepit figure clinging
against all reasonable hope to the bar-maid's apron, you'd
have known it was me 'what did it'). So here we go: living
proof that truth is stranger than fiction.
Ahem!
I
had been asked to go to the Red Sea and knock out a critique
of a new live-aboard based in Hurghada. The words were important,
but decent photographs were vital. Now, in mitigation of what
follows, let's admit that its very easy to let such an apparently
simple request go to your head - especially when its made
in the later hours of an evening and on licensed premises.
'Done', I cried, attempting to sit upright while simultaneously
brandishing my empty glass in the direction of the speaker.
And 'done', gentle reader, was exactly what I had been, except
that, in the best traditions of such things, I just didn't
know it yet.
I
had been on plenty of trips to the Red Sea and other paradisiacal
places for divers in the past, so packing wasn't a problem.
The usual formula applied: camera gear (85%), dive gear (12%
and clothing (3%). Things to go awry almost at once. However
- and I have to hold my hands up for the first appearance
of Captain Cock-up in this story - a 'friend' (I use the word
loosely) had told me the night before that the proposed Tube
strike had been called off, and that I'd have no problem getting
myself and my heavy bags to Paddington to catch the Gatwick
Express. All this I duly logged in my mind, before ordering
the last round - the ubiquitous - 'one for the strasse',
as the Press corps have it. The sharper eyed amongst you will
have seen my mistake: the Gatwick Express doesn't go from
Paddington, but from Victoria, where I arrived the following
morning, after a hellish hour of sweaty heaving and cursing.
(by the way, if any of you know the middle-aged ticket collector
who guards the entrance to the District & Circle Line
at Victoria, apologise to him for me will you).
Once
at the airport, I found the ticket waiting for me, and things
started to look up. Then I joined the queue for Excel Airways
(motto: 'We've got your money and don't give a toss') and
heard that there was to be no hand luggage allowed at all
inside the aircraft, with the exception of a toothbrush. Happily,
I had foreseen some kind of buggeration and whilst others
were shovelling toothbrushes and toothpaste in transparent
plastic carrier bags which the checkout charlies were pleased
to give us, I was busy transferring all my film - some 50
rolls - into my coat of many pockets. This meant that I tended
to rattle when I walked, but I figured that I could claim
some sort of nitrogen bone necrosis if challenged (which I
wasn't).
Then
through three differing X-ray machines and body_searches -
why do I always get the guy with halitosis, rather than the
Israeli girl soldier look-alike? - and into duty free. Nuff
said, you might think, but no, fate had yet another little
Mickey Finn to drop into my unsuspecting glass of hemlock.
At the very door of the aircraft, we all got stopped, turned
back and had to occupy the stifling hot transit room at Gate
16 for half an hour, and for why? Because some lunatic had
phoned in a bomb scare, that's why, and due to the international
situation, etc, etc, blah, blah, blah. (I should like to warn
BSoUP members of a delicate disposition - especially those
who dwell near Turnpike Lane, Mr Williams, if that is indeed
your real name - that the Special Branch are even now tightening
their net around you. You have been warned).
On
the plane at last, and as usual, I fall asleep before take-off.
I awake some 30 minutes later to find - a) I've missed the
chance to buy an alcoholic beverage and b) that the bloke
sitting beside me has been violently sick into three obviously
inadequate paper bags and has sat there in an unholy mess
because he 'didn't want to wake me'. You couldn't make this
up, could you?
The
plane is full, I then notice, what you might be called your
Typical Divers Abroad (hereafter TYDABs). There are blokes
shouting and ringing the flight attendant button and demanding
more beer; there are apparently dozens of impressinable young
children, all screaming at full volume without an attempt
being made to shut them up (and I though that was what those
miniature bottles of spirit were for); and there were hit
squads of impeccably made-up zombies in sky-skivy outfits
flinging trays of hot food about with the kind of grins you
know Jack Nicholson's Riddler character in that Batman film
must have been modelled on.
It
just gets better and better, eh? At last we arrive on the
fabled live-aboard, and its nice - nice to the point of sheer
bloody luxury, in fact. Lets hope I have now said goodbye
to Capt. Cock-up for good. I head for my bunk and go up the
wooden hill to Bedfordshire.
Next
morning, I encounter my fellow travellers for the first time
in daylight, and I suddenly get a funny feeling that I'm caught
in a time warp. Aren't these the same oiks I didn't like the
first time round, when we bumped into each other in Essex
in the early 1990's? Have I really got to buddy up with some
poor old guy who last dived when Hitler was a boy and who
just wants to follow the dive guide and do as he's told and
promises he'll 'absolutely, definitely' stay behind me if
I'm taking a photo?? Am I really the only person on this vessel
with a still camera?? Yes, yes, and yes again, dear reader-lings
- and lets be honest, you were way ahead of me there, weren't
you?
The
week's diving quickly descends into TYDAB heaven; we hit each
site running, flash along the reef and get the hell onto the
next one (Repeat dives? To try out different lenses? Are you
mad?). Moreover, there are two young women amongst the club
group who have taken over the boat, and they took an instant
dislike to each other from Day 1. One is slim-ish, homely
looking and only occasionally resembles a maddened foghorn;
t'other has to be seen to be believed, but let me just say
that if you imagine a five foot tall version of Pamela Anderson
Lee, with hair that gives Harpic a bad name and boobs so evidently
false that embarrassed sniggers follow in her wake, you'll
get the idea. Added to which, she'll never buy a mobile phone
- you could hear from one end of the boat to the other,
Each
day's diving is followed by beer fests of increasing ferocity,
until Wednesday, the dive guide admits they are fast running
out of cans of Sakara and Heineken. This of course, is taken
by the TYDAB horde as a reason for proud celebration, and
it is decided that they'll just have to drink the wine as
well. They've got stamina, this bunch, I'll say that for them.
Once beneath the waterline, a similarly gung-ho attitude is
evinced each tries to dive deeper, longer, and with less regard
for human and marine life than his mates. I am vainly trying
to get a selection of halfway decent portraits of them, but
have to wait for them to re-enter the light zone each time.
The guides and crew are bemused, and resort to playing 3 hour
long video tapes of the epic life story of Osma bin Laden
in the stateroom every afternoon - presumably in an attempt
to rebut the tide of western degradation they can see lapping
around their toes every day and night.
I
raise the idea of having a freshwater tank placed on the dive
platform for the soaking of cameras, computers or any other
delicate instrumentation; within minutes a small bucket is
placed carefully in one corner, and I look at it despodently
and then at the dimensions of my Subal outfit and strobe.
As I raise my head again, I note that the bucket's now being
used to rinse out the well gobbed masks of all and sundry,
so I decide to stick to showering said camera outfit instead.
Time
passes. I keep my head down and at one moment of weakness
even find myself longing for the next BSoUP Splash-in....
Ah
well, it was a good try, I suppose; but tell me, are you sure
Doubilet started this way? |
