Who in their right mind would dive in Britain when they could fly to Egypt for £4.25 return?
I would. In fact, if I hear another smug little over-bonused City puppy tell me, I’m a fair weather diver, actually, a warm water, white beaches man. Never felt the urge to dive in the UK, I will stuff his PADI certification up his open water and dangle his manhood from my weightbelt.
The past, said someone profound, is another country. If so, the Prime Minister of the country I learned to dive in was Ricky Tomlinson. Whereas this one is ruled by Hugh Grant.
I remember Easter at Bovisand: The ice crystals sparkling on the tubes of the inflatable, the bearded canteen ladies (all now sadly awaiting trial in the Hague), the Olympic farting finals in the dormitories, the hand-to-hand fighting with the local fisherfolk, the seductive tang of diesel and carbon monoxide from a rusty cylinder, the slap of under-size flatties on the boards of a leaky Zodiac…
Those were the days – when men were men and women just an intriguing rumour.
It still brings a tear to my eye when I remember Bomber Grayson whipping his set off at 40 metres and hitting his demand valve with a rock to get it working again. They won’t teach you that in your bloody PADI Advanced.
But UK diving isn’t only about suicidal practices and nil visibility. If the English Channel is the North Yorks Moors, then the Red Sea is Leicester Square. Your tropical waters are teeming with life – but most of it looks as if it’s on the game. Lionfish hang around under the arches like down-market hookers. Parrot Fish scurry busily about like West End dope dealers - and that Moray over there is clearly out of its brain coral.
And you may have flown half-way around the world to get there, but honestly, you could be anywhere. The Red Sea, the Caribbean, the Philippines: only a marine biologist could identify the dive site by the fauna. A... |
