YDIVE - Central London BSAC Scuba Diving Club

It had been a wonderful trip, in every way imaginable, apart from an Egyptian variation of “Deli Belly” which made a passing acquaintance (quite literally) with my stomach during the first couple of days on board Sea Serpent. The boat itself was as comfortable as you could wish for; the crew were great and, well… just about as helpful as you could wish for. There really is nothing quite like being handed a freshly mixed fruit cocktail, almost as soon as you’ve got your fins off; Something Stoney Covey might look at, perhaps!

The diving had been superb from day one and with the inimitable (Thesaurus suggests, peerless, unmatched, one and only and incomparable, as alternatives. They’d all fit) Ali Baba, the dive planning and life on board were never dull. A nice selection of maverick divers from around the world, to fill the boat and really you couldn’t have planned a better week. Even the notoriously “uncertain” weather and currents that had some of us stocked up with bottles of pills, raw ginger and acupuncture bands (keep looking at the horizon and you’ll be fine) failed to materialise. The sea state was as flat as I’ve ever seen in the Red Sea, for the entire trip: hardly a ripple in sight.

Brilliant. Put the pills and ginger away, organise the gear, relax and get stuck into The Elfinstone and then The Brothers. Stunning, stunning, stunning! And so we dived: In gentle floaty-floaty currents, in almost no current at all and in currents that has us shifting backwards along the reef at a rate of knots, in spite of frantic efforts to propel ourselves in a forwardly direction. (Well, for about a minute anyway). I can’t remember, whether the legs and lungs gave up first, or if that part of the brain controlling logic and survival suddenly kicked into life, but I do recall that quite a lot of air seemed to disappear, in a remarkably short period of time. Anyone one who’s dived the Elfinstone, probably understands. For the next 6 days, the diving was, for the Red Sea at any rate, probably as good as it gets. Our two guides (Big) Ahmed and (Little) Ahmed were superb. Ali Baba seemed as if he was only along for the ride and joined us for most of the dives. Some bonus, eh?! A truly inspirational man.

And so a weeks diving and a thoroughly enjoyable holiday were about to come to an end. The final evening’s entertainment was ahead of us, but not before a much anticipated night dive: Some people love ‘em, some people hate ‘em. I’m in the first camp. I’ve learnt over the years, to leave excessively powerful torches on the boat, so as not to turn night dives into day dives. These days, I prefer just a limited amount of illumination, so that if necessary, I can sort out my camera, in an effort to get that ever elusive picture of…who knows what. And so, as Sue and I jumped off Sea Serpent’s platform for the final time, it was as the sun began to set on a cloudless horizon. Next morning, we’d be heading back to land and the blistering heat of Marsa Alam. Before then though, we’d enjoy the dive.

Extract from my dive-log of that day… “Great night dive, memorable for the loss of my camera.” Hmmm... The great thing about night dives is that they tend to focus the attention. Everything seems more intense. And so it was. On reaching the sea bed, we finned over to some frantic torch waving to find a wonderful, huge octopus slithering away into the darkness. A really wonderful way to start the dive (just a shame about the photo: too much back scatter, as normal). From there, Sue and I finned slowly off on our own, to find some real darkness, away from the others, to enjoy the atmospheric but occasionally spooky nightlife. Now taking photographs in to total darkness is not an easy art. It’s okay for Techno-nerds with all their digital point and press rubbish, but I’m talking 35m, i.e. use up an entire film on a single fish, in the hope that 1 or 2 images might be usable, when the slides come back from processing in two weeks time. With my newly acquired wide-angle lens and up-rated strobe (thanks JD), the results of this trip could only surpass my previous efforts.

So with camera safely clipped on (I always use 2 clips for security – one steel karabiner and one smaller plastic back-up), our search was on for a still or slow moving subject on which to use the remainder of my final film. And then, as if pre-determined in some way, there he was. Sitting on the sea-bed, below and a little to the right of me, partially camouflaged, a small cuttlefish of some description. Just what I wanted. Not exactly a Great White, or even a Manta but a willing subject nonetheless. I signalled to Sue and we gently descended to our newly acquired little friend who still, at this point, seemed to be resting peacefully. I gave a little squeeze on the stab to remove excess air, so as to lie as close to the little fellow as possible. Much to my amazement, a couple of pictures were taken, before any movement and even though our little friend then became “airborne”, he willingly stuck around for a brief photo shoot.

Great, another first for the album! Full of self-congratulation and not wishing to damage either my subject or his surrounding home, I pressed gently on the inflator of my stab and lifted slowly away from the sea-bed. As the air gushed into the stab, I heard a small pop. Odd, I thought. So still carefully holding my camera, I released the air and gently descended to the sandy bottom again, where I checked all of my releases and then checked them all a second time. I checked my weight belt; I even checked my torch clips and computer straps. Sue gave the okay, as far as she could tell in the darkness and off we went again. The rest of the dive was wonderful, even to the extent that the final frames of my film were used up on a sleepy Blue Spotted Ray that was also apparently yearning for a career in modelling. After 30 minutes of heavenly diving in the darkness, we ascended to the calming influences the vast dark sky, a bright moon and a million twinkling stars. Is there a better way to end a dive trip? Quite simply, No!

Although we were in no rush to be collected, (little) Ahmed duly arrived with the Zodiac to pick us up. As Sue clambered out of the water to rejoin her jettisoned kit in the boat, I unclipped the steel karabiner of my camera, while still enjoying the relative peace of the moment. Seconds later, as I pointed the beam of my torch down through the clear dark waters below for one final time, it was with horror that I saw about £1,100 worth of camera gear had already descended to about 12 meters! “Oh no”! (or something similar) I screamed. Sue franticly suggested that I go after it, but I was diving on Nitrox and quite frankly, I didn’t fancy the idea of descending again (on my own) so soon after coming up, particularly as I had no clue as to where the current might be taking my pride and joy… or indeed to what depth. And so it was: Step forward (little) Ahmed. Having listened to my pathetic groans of dismay from the other side of the Zodiac and having immediately understood that there was no way I was going back down alone to rescue the still descending camera gear, he grabbed Sue’s gear, wrapped the weight belt around his waist, clipped himself into her Stab as if he’d been using it for twenty years (remember it was pitch black, apart from the moon light) and asked me for my torch. How fortunate, that I’d hardly used it during the dive.

By this time, in spite of the amazing speed of Ahmed’s operation, the camera had drifted down, down and away, as the Zodiac, Sue and I seemed to be heading in on the breeze, towards the moored Sea Serpent. Ahmed didn’t say goodbye, but I’m sure he would have if he’d had more time. For the next twenty minutes or so, Sue did her best, to comfort me over the loss and I tried to persuade myself that cameras, lenses and strobes, no matter how recently acquired, are really only material things and that after all, life and living are far more important than mere “things”. You can get strangely philosophical, when you’re floating about in a tiny inflatable, under a star-filled moonlit sky. As Sue and I watched the surprisingly bright beam of my torch, sweeping back and forth across the clear waters below us, we both agreed that Ahmed was in fact, by this time, searching entirely the wrong part of the Red Sea. I knew where we’d been picked up and it certainly wasn’t close to where Ahmed was looking. A gallant fellow, but nevertheless, unlikely to find anything other than sand and more sand where he seemed to be searching. In any case, he’d been gone too long.

Hey, it had been a wonderful trip and well… worse things really do happen at sea. With Ahmed, at last, making a slow ascent towards us, I tried to remain up beat, whilst at the same time trying to place a financial value on the lost gear. Why had I bothered to take it in on the final night? I hardly ever get decent results from night dives, anyway! Eventually, the torch beam rose next to the Zodiac and Ahmed broke through the surface with a forlorn expression on his face. “Sorry mate, I looked everywhere”. I was expecting the news of course, but those words of such solemn finality were like a dive knife to the heart. After a moments total silence, the true, depressing reality of the situation hit home… For the first time all week, I felt truly sick!

Then…

…As Ahmed’s hand came splashing up through the glistening sea, accompanied by his very own watery version of a trumpet fanfare there it was! My camera, still attached to its wide-angle lens and the recently acquired up-rated strobe!

Ahmed, you’re a God! I yelled. I pulled the man out of the water, as if he’d just save my life. What a man. Sadly, plying Ahmed with glass after glass of alcohol that night was not an option. Huge hugs and frantic hand shaking were the order of the day, the night, the next day and in fact most of the rest of the trip, as we sailed back to land.

Ahmed’s efforts on the night of July the 12th 2005 went way beyond the call of duty. I got my camera back and even managed to secure my first ever picture of an Egyptian cuttlefish at night. It’s not a great photograph, I grant you. But, as they say, every picture tells a story…Oh, and just in case you ever hear a small pop as you inflate your Stab, take it from me, it’s quite possibly that little plastic clip which prevents your camera from floating off when you least expect it.

Ahmed, you’re a good, good man. Thank you, again. And thanks to all associated with Sea Serpent and Tony Backhurst Scuba who made the entire trip such a memorable one, for whatever reason…