A bit quiet in here innit? A few reasons for that, the main one being is that I now have a seperate blog for the general Orkney life stuff - you can find it here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/islandblogging/blogs/005592/index.shtml
I wanted to try to keep this blog for much more of the diving side of my life, and since the flow is currently like Army Poridge (cold, gray and lumpy) there is very little of this going on. However, there is plenty of farmy type stuff going on, so have a mosey over to the BBC (i have to behave over there, no sweary words etc - bum) and check out what im up to.
The main diving thing at the moment is that i am going to London to pick up an award from BSAC (British Sub Aqua Club) for the rescue in June. London is further away than Iceland, so thats going to be one hell of a train journey!
Anyhoo, gale force snow at the moment, but there are 15togs of goose feather and four wooden walls between me and it so thats fine.
November 22nd, 2007
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Arriving back on the farm I went through the usual 24 hours of not feeling quite right. Suddenly all the things i needed i had left on the boat, plus it was almost like worrying about a child that had been left alone for the first time. Knowing we had doubled the ropes to the pier and that she was in an excellent berth did nothing to still the stress deep inside.
Finding a webcam in stromness whcih allows you to view the harbour helps a lot - it can be found here - http://www.visitorkney.com/webcams.asp and the Stromness one is the second image down. Sometimes it doesnt work, you just need to refresh the page until it does. If you cant work it out, you can just see the stern of the boat to the right of the picture. I’m very tempted to go and give the camera a little knock to the right, just so you can see the whole boat hehe.
The farm seems to be slowly dissolving to mud, the finest squishiest mud is all over the yard, piling up where cars regularly drive. Great for standing in when you have your wellies on, not so great if you have your trainers on…..
I would add some photos, but the deepstop seems to be having a small problem at the moment and i can only do it with code….and thats a lot of stress for some piccies…..
Hazel and Carolyn are due to go away to sell some sheep this week, but the weather is forecasting storm force 10 although it is gusting at 75 (which is hurricane force if you didnt know) so they might not get off island. Bugger.
November 6th, 2007
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And with the turning of a key, the dive season for 2007 comes to an end. The rumble that has been a pivotal part of my existence for the past months slowly comes to a stop as the 500hp engine falls silent a few feet below us. A high five is exchanged and i feel strangely empty in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly i am no longer the deck hand on the Valkyrie, well, for the next 6 months anyway. The boat has been moved to her winter berth in the harbour safe and sound, all ropes doubled for extra safety. Soon enough the contents of the galley is packed away into boxes and i leave for the farm.
I guess the question is now where do we want to go next?
October 27th, 2007
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Well, for a few days I find myself back on the farm, doing lots of little jobs to help the world carry on turning. Well, the little bit of the world that is Northfield anyway.
Today the flow looked like a mirror as we drive towards Stromness to move the boat from one berth to another. Some days the dive boats out on the fleet look like tiny toys lost in a steely gray infinity. Other days they seem so close that if i shouted loudly the divers would turn to see. Sometimes Hoy is the same. From certain views it seems distant, almost smaller than it really is. Other times it looms over Stromness and the flow like a sleepy giant, lazily surveying all that lies below its rocky slopes.
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Well, due to a severe lack of funds, the holiday to somewhere warm has been consigned to the dustbin. Maybe next year.
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After many people said i should submit an article to the diving press, I did. Sitting with baited breath, the email landed in the inbox……and it was a polite no thanks which read very much like a standardised response to when people submit an article - its great, but not what we are looking for right now. Uh huh. So a few weeks later i put together another bit of something and send that off too. Another no thanks followed suit. So i tried. Maybe i am not destined to have my words put into print. Hell, you get to read the uncensored, un-spelling-mistake-corrected version on here for free! Hurrah!
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It has been years since i dived out of a rib. I did all my training diving out of one, many moons ago, so when the opportunity arose to dive with Kevin Heath, a thoroughly nice bloke who has a total and utter dedication to finding and identifying wrecks, i nearly ran all the way to Stromness to hug him and say YES PLEASE! Kevin has his own rib, and since the boaty will be doing a whole load of bugger all from a week from now, it seems like an excellent way of keeping diving over the winter. All we need to do is run the engine to run the compressor, we can even use the lift to lower gear into it. Hurrah for easy diving! I dont really want to dive a new wreck for the “glory” or for the spidge (thats the tatt people bring up off them to let rust in their garage), because wrecks really dont do an awful lot for me. They have to be a “special” kind of wreck. I enjoy reading and learning about the human aspect of a wrecking. Who were the people who worked on this ship, how did it end up at the bottom of the sea and is this really the wreck people think it is? Im a fussy moo too, i like them to still look like a boat. Hopefully diving with Kevin will allow us all to keep wet over the winter, and for him to look at some marks he has been working on.
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A year ago someone left my life. It amazes me how much a part of who i am this person actually influenced. Splicing a rope, i cant help but let my mind wander. I recall him showing me how to push the strands over and under, and i am still utterly incapable of doing a crown knot for an end splice.
I remember the passion he had for everything he loved, and i remember the day it all ended. The surf was huge, a strong easterly wind had piled the grey water up into huge rollers which crashed with their fury onto the beach. Kayak surfing is something i was never good at, but i did enjoy playing in the soup. But he was a natural, choosing the wave with fearless vigour, paddling like mad until the surge picks you up and launches you forward, the acceleration pushing you back against the back rest in the kayak. I remember that day as i was unable to even get to the soup, the waves even here were too unpredictable for me. The yellow boat, sat on the drying sand, seeing the paddler within it struggle to even get themselves free from the leg braces inside the plastic shell. I recall the air thick with swearing, the agony etched on his face as the vertebrae in his back finally gave up. From then on the passion was gone. He swore never to get into a boat again, something i could never ever do. That took courage, to give up something you love to allow you to stay mobile.
Years later we shared fishing trips from a friends boat, but the fire had gone from inside. Maybe it was the knowledge of what he was missing. I will never know. This was only a small part of the reasons why he took his own life. But he lives on in all of us who knew and loved him.
Rest now, we will never forget you.
October 18th, 2007
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Grabbing some binoculars from the drawer I peer with some difficulty towards the shore of South Ronaldsay. We were making for Kirkwall, Orkney, a five hour journey by sea from Stromness via the Pentland Firth. A rolling easterly swell gently pushed us to a five degree roll, severely diminishing my ability to focus on what had caught my eye. But, despite the roll, I could make out a huge rusted boiler pushed up onto a rocky beach below the patchwork of green fields dotted with cows.
This sighting remained forgotten about until we met up with Kevin Heath, a local diver with a huge talent for finding and researching wrecks. He informed me that the boiler was that of the Irene, a 2,300 tonne Liberian steamer which was wrecked after issuing an SOS that she was drifting out of control in a force 9 south east gale. The vessel finally went aground on the shore of South Ronaldsay on the 17th March 1969. The whole crew were taken off the stricken boat, with no harm coming to any of them. But this is only a tiny fraction of the story.
As you would expect, the lifeboat had been launched to assist with any rescue, named the TGB after an anonymous donor, it battled from its home port of Longhope, a small community in South Walls, Hoy. To get to the position of the Irene, it had to pass through the Pentland Firth.
The Pentland Firth is a fearsome stretch of water that separates Orkney from the mainland. The tide surges through this narrow space, rushing around the now abandoned islands of the Swona, Stroma and finally the Pentland Skerries with their characteristic double lighthouse. Working on the liveaboard the Valkyrie has meant that we have to through the firth occasionally, and each and every time it makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. These days it is filled with the vast bulk carriers heading east or west, channel 16 alive with their calls notifying the coastguard they are entering or leaving the Firth. These turbulent dark waters have become the graveyard of many a ship, and making 2 knots backwards against the current in a back eddy, I can see why.
The comparatively tiny lifeboat entered this wild stretch of water in the raging southerly gale, finding that the tides had met with the awesome opposing force of the wind and created a terrifying situation. At 8.40pm, forty minutes after launching the lifeboat gave her position as 3 miles south east of Cantick Head Lighthouse on South Walls, five miles from her launching place.
At this point she would be entering the tidal race which can make nine knots, versus the gale force winds whipping the sea to a fury. At 9.30pm the TGB was sighted by the lighthouse keepers on the Pentland Skerries, around four miles south east of her previously reported position.
The last reporting signal from the TGB was picked up by Wick Coastguard as she still ploughed north to assist the Irene. This was the last that was heard from the TGB.
The following afternoon after a massive search Thurso Lifeboat found the TGB floating upside down four miles south west of Torness with extensive hull damage. Once righted in Scrabster harbour seven bodies were found in the wreckage. Six of these were in the cabin, one in the Supernumerary and the coxswain still at the wheel with a broken neck. The eighth member of crew, the motor mechanic was never found. Coxswain Daniel Kirkpatrick, Second Coxswain James Johnston (son of Mechanic), Bowman Daniel R Kirkpatrick (son of Coxswain), Mechanic Robert R. Johnston, Assistant Mechanic James Swanson, Crew Member Robert Johnston (son of Mechanic), Crew Member John T Kirkpatrick (son of Coxswain), Crew Member Eric McFadyen. They left seven widows, one widowed mother and eight children, all of whom were pensioned by the RNLI.
Picking our way down the grassy slope to the pebble beach we can see the remains of the wreck poking from the glistening smooth water. Soon there are sections of plate, twisted and unrecognisable as any part of the ship. Two huge boilers lie among the jumble. A complete section of what was once the deck has been bent over, the wooden planking still attached to the underside where it has remained protected from the weather. When the Irene was run aground she was totally intact, what little is left of her is testament to the awesome power of the sea.
Sitting quietly on a section of plate I can’t even imagine the fear felt by the guys in that lifeboat in their final moments. The sheer bravery of going out in that kind of weather is unimaginable to most people, the irony that the stricken vessels crew actually walked ashore is never far from my mind. Somehow it seems so unfair.
Leaving the wreck to her peace, she seems an unlikely monument to those men lost attempting to save her.
Sometimes it is easy to forget the impact the sinking of a boat has. Not just on the people on board, but on those who go to their aid. The tiny community of Longhope was devastated by this tragedy. Fathers, sons, brothers all lost going to the aid of others.
Photographs are here: -
http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/porgthediver/TheIreneSouthRonadlsay
October 11th, 2007
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September blog
Concrete wet from the nights rain reflects the gray of the sky above and drips are blown from their rest by the wind, torn into droplets of spray and carried off to fall elsewhere. Tides ebb and flow, leaving the harbour walls darkened from their passing and life surges on surrounded by the ever moving waters.
A group not turning up for their booking is a new concept on me, but a very welcome week off. Batteries are recharged, jobs caught up on. Sleep.
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The Girl Mina has been a regular sight in Stromness harbour and around Orkney for many years. Skippered by Terry Todd, she has probably been over the Pentland Firth more times than the Hamnavoe! Sadly after a mishap on the slipway she fell, and despite valliant efforts to keep her afloat with pumps and ropes and to later mend the broken planks, it slowly became clear she was beyond repair. I hope Terry finds himself another boat, the harbour would never be the same without him.
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The wind swirls around the outside of the Stromness Hotel, catching a small scrap of red paper and tumbling it end over end in a ceaseless spiral. The pier head cat soon is in hot pursuit, bouncing, prancing and pouncing on its helpless victim only for it to escape the claws and paws and continue on its journey fluttering skyward.
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Hazel at the museum at Lyness. The propeller is from the Hampshire which is wrecked off Marwick head. It is now a war grave and no diving is permitted.
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One of the best things at the moment for me is my bike. The last time I used to zoom around on a bike I was about 12, I guess I had forgotten how liberating it is to be able to go out and simply go to places you wouldn’t have the time to walk to. In the mornings I load up the basket on the front with my groceries, the handlebars also providing space to hang bags full of bread and milk and meat for the day.
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Aftermath of the trimix course.
I cant really remember the last time I actually bought some dive gear I really needed. Sitting here I struggle to even think what it was, possibly my dry suit, unless you count consumables like zip wax and silicone grease. Maybe it was my camera….
Anyhoo, suddenly I have a diving shopping list again. I would like (note its like, not need) an ali stage, probably an ali 40 or a 7l, some regs to go on it - I suspect eBay might happen to the regs I have for deco as I really liked the ones Rob lent me for the course. I would also like an argon bottle setup, but they are megabucks too. Hazel wants me to get new regs, as she has a distinct dislike for my current ones…possibly something to do with Ben saying they are franken-regs, but they work just fine.
The last thing I need to do is to get the fourth element top a very special person bought me altered. It fits ok in the body, but is way too long in the arm which makes it impossible to wear under my dry suit as the excess material bunches around my forearm and cuts the circulation off to my hands. Numb hands are never nice, but you try doing anything useful when you cant feel below the wrist….oh dear.
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Diving by feel.
Imagine a dive where you feel your way around a wreck, trying to work out from the jumble of rust and jagged edges quite what it is you have found. Imagine putting your gear on with your eyes closed, tightening straps by feel, listening for the click as the plastic finds its home. Imagine using your every sense other than your eyes to monitor depth, time and ascent rate. Sound like an advanced course where the instructor has taken your mask? How about doing this every time you dive.
This is what a dive is like for Mark, a blind diver who dives an inspiration unit, a feat of achievement for anyone, let alone someone who cannot see. I was unsure of what to make of the whole thing - having a disabled diver on the boat. In the past I have worked extensively with young people with all kinds of disability, including partially sighted and blind people. Despite this I was worried that he would have problems that I couldn’t ever help him with. However, after a few hours he had worked out the layout and bumped his head just as much as every other person over 6ft tall does.
The diving side of Mark’s holiday was a well rehearsed super slick operation. Kitting up was made easy by him putting his kit in exactly the same place each time, gloves inside one fin, mask inside the other. A familiarity with his equipment which I envied meant that more often than not he was first into the water ahead of everyone else.
Diving on his inspiration with a talking computer attached to his mask strap allowed him to keep a constant check on what was going on, it telling him the time every two minutes and the depth every meter. A buddy line to whoever he was diving with also allowed a safe amount of freedom, along with held hand signals to avoid bumping into anything underwater.
Finding a gun, a chain, a porthole and placing Mark’s hands on it means he has a good idea of what he is diving on. At the end of the dive more held hand signals indicate that it is time to ascend, Mark’s talking computer keeps him safe with his ascent rate.
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End of the season
November looms on the calendar. The day we haul the ropes onto the pier for the last time this year. Giving 100% all of the time means that by default there has to be a time where you cannot. Maybe I have arrived at this place, but I know I am struggling.
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Waking up and knowing something is not right, I struggle up the ladder and into the galley. A cup of tea usually helps to settle my nerves, but as I sit in the wheelhouse in the chilly air I gradually recognise what is wrong. My bike is gone. Groaning with the acknowledgement that someone has taken it, I resign myself to having to walk to the shops again, to carrying the huge heavy bags. It is only on my return as I step over thegap I glance down to see a familiar yellow shape in the green of the harbour. Someone has thrown it in. A grappling hook is found and soon it is retrieved from the bottom of the harbour, the saddle oozing water, I just know I am about to get a soggy arse for a few days. A good spray with grease and I hope the damage is not permanent.
Less than a week later and the same happens again. I wonder if it is the wind, but it would have to be some wind to manage to throw a bike four feet into the harbour. Maybe it was, ,maybe it wasn’t. I don’t know. I just struggle to know what I have done to offend someone that much.
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October 9th, 2007
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helen |
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Really sorry for the lack of activity, but i have been a little busy….. not that its a bad thing of course, keeps me out of mischeif….. hehe
There is a blog entry on its way, but i am suitably unorganised to have brought it with me to the farm. Nowt ever changes.
Take care,
H
October 7th, 2007
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The harsh alarm cuts through the relaxed atmosphere in the wheelhouse. The DSC automatically sets the radio to channel 16 and we both stand waiting for the announcement to come over the crackly speaker. Gale force 8 expected soon, then 10 minutes later expected Fair Isle Imminent. An air of order comes over the boat - this kind of weather is never nice, especially now in the middle of the season when boats can be unprepared for it. Hard and Fast seems to be the norm with summer gales - they blow themselves out in a matter of hours, but even so the imminent forecast means that it is expected within the next 3 hours - right when we would be dropping our divers in. Wisely they call the dive and we head back to the welcome sight of Stromness before the weather turns.
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Tiny red sparks drift upwards on the turbulent swirling currents, carrying them onward until they fade from view in the dark infinity. Straw and hay flare and vanish into ashes, cardboard becomes a ghost of itself and crumbles in the air.
There is something hugely satisfying about burning a huge pile of rubbish.
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As the light fades from the crystal blue to gentle yellows and orange we cycle around the tiny harbour of Stronsay. The boat safely tied to the solitary pier, voices carry over the still evening air. Reassuring in the coming darkness, lights on the navigation buoys in the narrow channel blink their message to infinity.
Stronsay is a small island in the Northern Isles of Orkney. Its harbour once almost solid with herring fishing boats now lies almost forgotten, less than 10 boats now lie sheltered from the sea within its confines.
Papa Stronsay has a monastery on it, the buildings looking very un-churchlike as it actually has a herd of cows and a flock of sheep to care for. Cycling to the tardis like shop I nearly run over a nun. I hope my soul isn’t tarnished any more than it already is by this, although on the grand scale of things I think its probably pretty low on the list of bad stuff you can do.
Gazing over the narrow stretch of water that separates us from them, it might as well be an entire ocean. To get to this tiny island from mainland UK you would need to get a ferry to Orkney, then get to Kirkwall, get another ferry and then find someone to take you over there. Committing ones self to such solitude to dedicate themselves to a religion is admirable, casting off anything you might have had plans for, to live a life of simplicity where you take only what you need from the world. Not having to worry about where your mobile phone is, where your next meal will be coming from or if there is enough money in the bank. The flip side of the coin is obvious, but I suspect this kind of lifestyle has its immense rewards which for those with the strength to do it will reap.
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Taking the opportunity to jump in the water with Rob before my trimix course in the coming week I am full of the plans I want to do, which he completely breaks into bits, making me do the things I really should have been practicing but haven’t. A few out of gas drills are woefully inadequate, the spikes on the hood might be good for a giggle but they really do interfere with the long hose deployment. Damn. I wonder if its bad karma from JJ for the halcyon logo? I seriously struggle with the shutdown, the valves being far to stiff for me to move easily. A broken wrist a few years ago which was not set until it was out of alignment causes me pain with every turn, and the other wrist I broke this year also aches. Both of these can be worked on though - lots of shutdowns with stripped and lubed valves, plus a repositioned backplate mean this is ok. My trim goes to ratshit when I try to do anything, but then this was something I expected. Oh yeah, and the Freediving I did the other day has definitely worn off - a 45 minute dive to around 6m, and I used 90 bar - I would do that to 35m and use the same normally. Stress doesn’t even come close! I knew I wouldn’t be where I wanted, but the way I feel about the whole thing now has echoes of how I felt after my fundies, the mountain being so steep I don’t know if I can climb it.
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Fighting with the duvet I wrestle it into the clean cover and prepare to hunt out the elusive buttons to complete my task. Hazel shouts down the hatch to me, and even from her tone I know there is something wrong. Hurrying to the bottom of the ladder I am met with a pale and anxiety filled face.
She tells me that a local diver has been lost on one of the wrecks and the skipper of the boat he was diving from searched the wreck and recovered his body. Such a truly brave thing to do, I would struggle to have to do it myself.
I first met him years ago on one of my first trips to Scapa, and he was a regular diver when people had spaces, as are myself and Hazel at the thin ends of the season. I always remember him as being ready and sitting there tapping his fins on the deck, as if it would hurry the rest of us up as we struggle into our gear.
A week later we all sit in rows in the tiny packed out kirk, the chairs having long run out by the time the minister takes his place at the head of the congregation - standing room only. Clutching damp tissues we laugh, and also sometimes struggle to hold down the tears as the man we all knew is discussed by those who loved him most.
I know the water is warm and the vis is good where he is now.
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Trimix course with Mark Powell
Trimix is something I have wanted to do for a long time. When I first wanted to do the course a few years ago it was for the wrong reasons, as a diving status symbol, that I was a good diver to everyone, that I was more qualified than the average person on the boat. Maybe I would have been one of these people who had the huge green and yellow stickers proclaiming their set to be full of nitrox once I had that ticket, but once the course was complete then I could get some different stickers which scream that I use the devil gas itself - trimix. Back then depth was a measure of how good you were, how brave you could be and a deeper dive was better than a shallower one.
A whole lot has changed now, I really do enjoy the animal life a whole lot more than looking at twisted metal, so why even consider doing trimix then, when the vast majority of sealife is in the top 20m of the water column?
I do enjoy wrecks, the German fleet up here are a divers playground. But to make a wreck really worthwhile then for me it has to be intact. By the very nature of the sea, the deeper the wreck the more intact the wrecks tend to be. No quest for diving tat, shining brass portholes to proudly adorn a dusty garage floor, I enjoy looking, not taking. The other thing is that I am more often than not solo, especially within the flow. I seldom get to dive the deeper wrecks, so when I do, I want to remember them and have my wits about me. A dive while narked and solo is just asking for trouble. So I organise to do my course with Mark, an instructor with an excellent reputation and hopefully the patience of a saint.
Our first dive is more of a checkout dive, so he can see where I am at and we jump in on the Kronprinz Wilhelm. Heading aft we see everything we really want to, guns, big guns and even plenty of fish. I see a large hole just asking to be investigated, and since John Ollerton has lent me a 10w Halcyon torch I feel confident enough to have a mooch inside. The wedge shaped opening is huge, and hiding right at the back is a tiny spot of green light. Finning inside the patch of green gets bigger and develops into a diver sized hole. Perfect. We both swim through the wreck and emerge on the hull side to be faced with an immense wall of the most delicate plumose anemones, feathery arms softening the harsh starkness of the hull plates. Back over the top of the wreck and I send up my SMB and we surface without issue.
The next dive is where we start to add things - in this case a 5l stage cylinder with 50% in it. We aim to practice a few skills involved in using a stage to make sure I am up to the rest of the course. This instantly pushes me outside of my comfort zone. I have done very little diving this year, let along any with a stage. Last year I could count the number of dives I had done with a stage on one hand simply because the vast majority of anything I did tended to be the second dive of the day, hence shallower than the first.
Finding an interesting looking hole I peer into the cavernous void, almost forgetting I have a buddy for once. Bought back to reality with an out of gas signal from Mark, I crash into the wreck as I struggle to turn in the restricted space. The long hose catches on my manifold and I find it almost impossible to deploy it. My buoyancy goes to ratshit, I have stirred up a huge cloud of crap and we have been in the water for under 10 minutes. I want to go home.
Being asked to perform the outwardly easy task of unclipping and laying down the stage, then reattaching it I hope for more success. It cant get worse really. Unfortunately I really struggle with it, partly because I had a bent D ring on the wrong way round. Unwilling to simply admit defeat, I battle on for what seems like hours, but to no avail. Thoroughly annoyed with myself and feeling like I am about to find if I can cry underwater I have to ask Mark to re-clip the stage. I attempt a shutdown, but my buoyancy and busy fins really make it awkward, I seem to crash off everything and anything. Feeling totally down, beaten and fed up we ascend. Once back in dock I go and hide downstairs, mainly because I know what a total disaster the dive was and I so do not want to talk about it, but soon enough a shout comes down the hatch and I have to face the music.
Mark is far less critical than I was, saying that I simply needed to practice, pointing out that since he is up here for three weeks, we are hardly in a hurry. I simply don’t believe him, my view of myself and where a trimix diver should be are so far apart its beyond what even 3 weeks of diving can achieve.
First squeaky wind dive.
A dive on the James Barrie is perfect as my first trimix dive, and I silently hope that it will re-affirm why I want to do the course. It’s a dive I have done many times on air or nitrox, therefore is a good comparison for the difference a little squirt of helium makes. Descending the shot we go to the bow, peering into the long empty hold. The fish life down here is amazing, cuckoo wrasse so brightly coloured they wouldn’t look out of place in the tropics dart around the superstructure. Getting to the wheelhouse I peer inside with the torch beam highlighting the slowly decaying metal skeleton. Getting to the stern the current is beginning to pick up so we stay on the deck side of the wreck. Back to the bow and I notice the huge ball of net still in the foc‘scle. Two minutes of our planned dive time remain, so we ascend to the top of the whaleback and I start to get ready to send up the SMB. Reaching to my pocket I have just pulled open the Velcro lid when the flash of Mark‘s light alerts me to the fact he has run out of gas. Bloody careless if you ask me….. :o).,I deploy the longhose without any problem, my buoyancy staying steady and the hose not getting caught on the manifold. We do the ascent to 21m - our gas switch depth on my back gas via the longhose then he switches to his stage and we continue to do our stops and surface with no problems.
Does trimix make a difference? Yeah, course it does. I noticed so much about the wreck I wouldn’t have ever seen. The massive lobster in the aft section, clouds of tiny fish, the glass still in one of the windows. Awesome visibility. The only downside is that I suspect that if we do more stops than the twenty minutes or so we did I will feel the cold. I might have plenty of bioprene on board, but by some strange paradox I seem to feel the cold more than most skinny people. I guess somewhere in the world there is a skinny bird who is constantly too hot.
Our next dive is on the F2, a dive I know so well I think I could do it blindfolded. This does little to stop the fear I feel deep down, a fear not of the dive, but a fear of failure, of being unable to do what is asked of me. I teeter on the edge of calling it, the not trying being better than trying and failing, but as I shuffle to the divergate, I get a very knowing look from Rob and I know it is something I have to do. Looking back, if I had called that dive there is no way I would have completed the course. Years of being told you are no good at more or less anything you try to do leaves a mark.
On the dive itself I practice playing with the stage, it is still causing me problems so I hop off to Scapa Scuba to buy some nice shiney bits and bobs to help sort it out (like the worlds biggest dog clip to get used to, then swap to the smaller one once I get the hang of it again). I do a shutdown which is much better, my buoyancy is stable, with less than half a meter difference in my depth, but my busy fins still push me forward. At the end of the dive Mark hands me his stage as well as my own, I feel about the size of a jumbo jet and have the directional stability of a weeble. The joy of a steel and an ali stage. Oh dear.
The Kronprinz Wilhelm with Mark and Rob.
Diving with Rob is a rare pleasure, something to look forward to and enjoy. However this is slightly skewed by the virtue of Mark hanging around to cause chaos and be evil on the ascent. The dive itself was excellent, mooching in and out of holes, despite the halcyon light deciding not to work at all. I use Rob’s back up light as mine is hidden at the bottom of my pocket (I later decide to move it and find the batteries are flat). The ascent is made more interesting by having an instructor playing hide and seek behind my back - at one point he is below me purging a dangling reg (after a gas switch, the dog clip having come untied just before I jump in….dammit) and my immediate reaction is to clip him around the head and waggle a finger in his general direction but I manage to stop myself. I guess its too many years working with animals….
The line from my SMB also manages to mysteriously get tangled in my manifold, but I can tell when something is about to happen as suddenly there are only two sets of breathing rather than three. I had mentioned that I listen for where my buddy is a lot, so Mark had decided to hold his breath so I wouldn’t know he was close by….which is a great theory, but when the noise stops I get paranoid.
One thing that is really starting to bother me now is the busy fins - it is so frustrating to not be able to simply keep still while on deco or doing a skill or drill. The more I try to keep them still, the more they seem to move, almost subconsciously as if they have a mind of their own. I am also aware that I have two pairs of eyes on me.
Safe in the knowledge that both of them are friends, that they are both there for my own good seems not to be so much of a consolation. I would even go so far as to say it made me even more critical of my diving. Having one person to compare yourself to is bad enough, but two such skilled divers makes me feel about an inch high. I know this is the total opposite of their intention, but I cant help compare my trim, my skills and my general comfort with theirs.
Surfacing with such mixed emotions from the success of avoiding the planned screwups, but adding some of my own I’m not sure how I feel about the dive.
The rollercoaster of emotions is something I find tough. Surfacing from one dive feeling elated, then surfacing from another ready to sell all my gear on eBay. Not sure how many people get a hug from their instructor halfway through a course, but it helped.
After a night in Burray we do the UB116, a German U boat blown to bits after a torpedo being detonated by the navy actually turned out to be 7 torpedoes. Descending the line pipefish entwine their spindly tails in the furrows of the rope. Their slender bodies adorned with eggs, they gaze upon us with a look of curiosity as we slip past them. The wreck is small, tiny in fact and nothing I can see resembles any part of a submarine. However, the wreck lies on white sand, pristine and almost glowing. A shroud of tiny fish nearly obscures the wreckage, silver bodies acting as if they had one brain, moving as a single entity away from us. A mooch around the wreck and the outstanding visibility almost makes you forget her depth - at almost 30m it feels like less than half that. I guess its an easy wreck to get far more deco than you planned. Having been right around the wreck I get all macro and find a spectacular nudibranch munching its way along an algae covered plate. Pointing it out to Mark it takes him a moment to notice what I am pointing at, I guess not everyone is a slug head like me. Leaving the slug to his lunch we ascend, practicing gas switches as I have two stages.
The next day we plan two more dives, but something is saying to me don’t dive. I don’t feel ill, just out of sorts. Something is not right, I cant put my finger on it, but even Mark notices too and I decide to can it before I get any further. I would rather be on the boat wishing I was in the water than in the water wishing I was on the boat.
Underwater knitting.
Mark prepared me for the dive by saying that he was not going to hold back. Great I thought. I’m going to be wrapped up in string, have my mask off and be playing with a stage.
We descend to the Rodean, a silty wreck in around 18m and I tie off a primary around 1m from the shotline and a secondary just next to it on a handy bit of metal. Making my way off from the shot I start to be able to make out bits of wreckage, but the vis is low at around 5m. We come across the remains of an outboard engine, plus loads of other junk which seems to have been dumped onto the wreck and I continue to lay line until I get to the end of the reel where I clip it off. I know I have broken one of the golden rules - I have not been consistent with the way I have tied off to each anchor point, but this is not the time to worry about it just yet.
Mark signals me to remove the stage, which I do and place it on the seabed, compensating for the change in buoyancy and then re-clipping it without issue thanks to the new supersized dog clip and fixed D ring.
Next is the nasty bit - I have to remove my mask and hand it to Mark, and once I feel comfortable I remove my regulator and keeping my hand around the line make my way to the next tie off point, some 10m away. This is where the Freediving comes in, and this is really no stress whatsoever. In fact, I can feel the mammalian diving reflex kick in and lower my heart rate and off I go.
Once I get to the end of the line I make a fundamental mistake - I let go of the line and have to ask for my mask back to get re-orientated. Once this is back on and I am happy, off it comes again!.
I need to remove my stage, swim back to the end of the line, turn around and swim back, re clip the stage and replace my mask. Suddenly I see flashes of light over my closed eyes and donate my longhose in the general direction of the flashes, which is then taken by Mark. On arriving back where I left my stage, I know there is something wrong. The stage feels too floaty, too big and just not right, a quick check finds that its not mine, its Mark’s ali 40. Git. A little further along the line and I find my stage, and re-clip it with no problems.
Replacing the mask, we go back to the end of the line and Mark explains I have to reel back in the line blind, so off the mask comes once more. The simple Kent Tooling reel is excellent for this, and I find the first few tie ins no problem to undo.
A grip around my elbow and then a seeking hand up and over my head to my reg tells me that once again there is a need for me to part with my primary. I spit it out and switch to my secondary. I undo almost all of the rest of the line blind and with a diver on the longhose. The regulator is finally returned to me and I find a tie in where I cannot seem to make heads or tails of it. Feeling what it is tied onto, I work some slack into the loop and simply slide it off the top, around a foot from its original position. Cheating? Hell yeah! Once back at the primary tie in I unclip the line and stow it, then my mask is returned to me. We exchange ok’s and make to move away from the shot to send up an SMB. Only I cant. Some sod has clipped the reel back to the shotline in the cloud of silt I created while faffing with the mask. No idea who that could have been. Honest.
Ascent with a gas switch and finally to the welcoming serenity of the surface, safe in the knowledge that I coped with everything that was thrown at me. Yeehar.
Toxing diver lift
The F2 is a dive I know very well, and seeing the two guys on their course laying line opened my eyes as to how even a simple and incredibly familiar wreck can become confusing as soon as you are task loaded. After a few meters of line had been laid and divers passed by the vis was deteriorating to a fraction of what it was, landmarks are suddenly gone and although I know pretty much all of the wreck - I struggled to pinpoint where I was. No wonder the guys on the course got lost so easily.
The end of my trimix course was to do a toxing diver lift. Toxing is when a diver has what can be described as a seizure when the partial pressure of oxygen is too high. This is why getting the MOD - the maximum operating depth - right for any gas you are breathing, even air, is vital. A toxing diver lift simulates when a diver makes a mistake and swaps onto a mix too rich - there is too much oxygen and they fit. This simple sounding procedure goes anything but to plan, with my “victim” sending me into fits of giggles with his fake tox, but it was realistic enough for his buddy to react and try to sort it himself, forgetting I was supposed to do it instead. Getting him ready for the lift I add gas to his wing, but find we are going up too fast, so I ditch gas, but then we are too negative and crash back into the bottom. A couple more of these and I give up, the scenario is not helpful anymore and I need to practice it when there is just me and someone else, not another two people watching adding the pressure for me to be perfect. I guess I will have to have another go at some point this week, but despite surfacing from the “I’m going to be horrible to you” dive feeling high as a kite, after this dive I felt so bad at not being able to do a simple lift, I really don’t care if I never qualify.
Another go.
Me and Mark jump in on the bottle dive, a flat bottomed bit of seabed between Fara and Lyness where a lot of the ships were moored up during the war and ejected their rubbish directly over the side. This makes for a great rummage dive, and since we are on spring tides a fantastic drift too. We seem to get a lot more tat than the other buddy pairs, including some lovely bottles, pots and a couple of shell cases each. At the end of the dive we leave the bag on the bottom and ascend the SMB line where Mark simulates toxing, and I lift him without issue to the first stop depth, switch gas, then continue another 3m. Yeehar! We surface and Mark tells me that I am now officially a fully qualified trimix diver. Feckin scary or what?!
Friday and we plan to do the Markgraf to take advantage of having a buddy and my new toys to play with - squeaky wind and deco software. The previous evening is spent playing with various gas mixes and profiles, finally settling on 21/35 with 50% for deco, a 30 minute multi level profile with around 32 minutes of deco. The really worrying thing is that we also did our gas blending courses (both the nitrox and advanced for me) and I cooked my own gas - eeeek!
Going down the shotline to the bottom we pass several large guns, and then find a tempting hole to have a mooch inside. I was worried that with the mix I might be *too sensible* to go inside - simply that it is the narcosis that gives me the bottle to go inside - but passing under the hull I feel perfectly within my capabilities. A butterfish is curled around a tiny segment of plate, leopard spotted gobies scoot off to avoid the invaders. Walls of rusted metal curve away from us and we swim parallel with the wreck until it gets too low ahead of us, so we turn and retrace our fin strokes, I am glad my trim and buoyancy are ok and the space we have passed through is devoid of silt.
Exiting the wreck we head forward and find another hole to mooch in, there being a gap on the other side of the wreck which would let us swim all the way through. This cavernous hole is filled with broken pipe, twisted machinery, the cogwheels rusted to almost obscurity. Again after what seemed like a very short time we exit and continue forward, where the hull meets the silt, I know we are approaching the bow. A couple of slabs of armour plate lie against the hull here, and I am impressed at their thickness - a good 6 inches. I can see why they removed the armour for scrap.
Ascending right up the very point of the bow, the sheer size of the curve on the metal prow is impressive to say the least. We need to be at 30m, but the top of the wreck is in about 36m. Arse. Getting to 30m and then finning aft we finally see a big chunk of wreck standing proud which will allow us to do our multi-level profile. A broken area of plate is covered in plumose anemones and suddenly the shotline emerges from the green ahead. We are nearly at the end of our planned bottom time, so begin to ascend, the current making me instantly want to send up a bag, but the line is empty so I decide to stick with it. After around 4 minutes other divers arrive at the shot and I signal to Mark that their bubbles will give me vertigo, and I bag off.
The next 25 minutes are spent me trying to backfin and failing, crashing into each other (my fault from my crappy attempts at finding reverse gear), scissor paper stone, light sabre fights with the torches and charades (jaws was the film if you were wondering….). I got pretty cold towards the end and considered mugging Mark for his suit inflation cylinder, although he did offer the hose to me at 6m which would have been the equivalent of a jet fighter refuelling in midair. I cant remember when I have enjoyed the whole dive quite so much, even the deco was spent giggling.
The afternoon was a dive for the two guys who were doing their wreck course on the F2 as the weather was less than nice. About to stand for the dive Barry (Baloo) deposits another stage onto my D rings, so now I have the ali 40 and another cylinder around about an ali 60-ish. Arse. Despite my protestations with a wry smile Mark says it would be a good thing for me to practice with so with the cries of “it’s a stage-a-saurus” I jump in. Squeezing through the swim through on the barge I am actually pleasantly surprised that I am not wider than I feared. Something is not right though, my buoyancy is well off, and I am constantly having to ditch gas from the wing. Bringing the inflator to my ear I can hear the bubbling of gas. Arse, arse and double arse. Bloody halcyon bloody crappy bloody wings! I make Mark aware of the fact I am not too useful as I am grappling with the damned thing, but it is not a major issue - just don’t expect me to do anything other than ascend, if it gets worse I will disconnect the wing inflator hose and run off the suit. At 6m, I take my eye off the ball for a second and that’s it, I’m off up - no amount of ditching gas from the wing and suit seems to help, and before I can disconnect the wing hose I am on the surface.
On getting back aboard the boat I am mugged again by Barry, who adds every single stage and bit of kit he can find, I think it was 5 or 6 in the end, plus a yellow SMB and Hazel’s reel. Oh dear.
Freediving
The air in the flow was utterly still, so I climbed into my semidry and ask Mark to spot for me if I freedive. It is a total rarity for me to have someone who knows what they are looking for when being surface cover. The ability to spot for a samba or a blackout - both signs of pushing it too hard is possibly something he should have kept quiet about. I hoped this extra safety factor would allow me to get outside of the comfort zone I had been diving within for such a long time - the under a minute dive to less than 10m.
As it turned out Hazel had already warned him that I would be pushing it as I would take advantage of having a spotter. Aware of the eyes on me, I breathe up and descend into the green to the bottom of the line down the side of the boat. I reach the bottom at 12m and return to the surface - this is hardly pushing me at all, and so I ask her to add more line to get the weight to 20m - in my mind a good target since I am out of practice. Descending again I feel the pressure on my ears, following the thick blue rope into the darkening green, I can suddenly make out dark and light patches below, the bottom comes into view only 5m or so beyond the end of the rope. The lead blocks hang tantalisingly in view, less than 3m from my glove, but I know from the urge to breathe that the surface is a long way up and turn back. Glancing up the boat looks tiny, an even smaller figure with fins on gazing down silhouetted against the pale shimmering blue of the sky. Finning up I feel the kick of my diaphragm the urge to breathe huge now, but the elation of getting to 17m is buzzing through me. Breaking back into the cold of the air I immediately begin to breathe up again.
As soon as I put the monofin on a clock is ticking - the fin hurts my feet to the point that I will get cramp after around 10 minutes, fifteen at the most. If I am not quick with the next dive I will be unable to dive due to the lack of blood flow in my feet. The other factor surprisingly hurrying me along is the fact I have a spotter - someone in the water. I cannot help but worry he will be getting cold and bored watching me fanny around.
Three minutes clicks over on the Suunto D3 and I power back down the line, already feeling the lack of coordination heralding the end of the session - my feet are going numb. I get to 12m and stop, knowing the bottom is below me, calling me down to see if I can better my previous. It smarts my pride to not venture deeper, but despite my screaming ego there is nothing down there worth dying for, or rather scaring the crap out of Hazel and her banning me from even having so much as a bath over 6 inches deep.
Watching the 30 seconds click over on the computer I slowly head back up, taking my time, trying to increase the time rather than the depth on this dive. Getting to around 7m I know I have over cooked it and haul on the line to increase my ascent rate. At 4m I know it is going wrong, the overwhelming urge to breathe is so strong, I give the out of gas signal to Mark and break the surface barely able to keep my head up. He grabs me and yells at me to breathe, but I am way ahead of him, gasping for air.
A small samba, all a normal part of freediving and nowhere near as bad as people like to make out, but a lesson in not pushing my luck, and maybe tailoring my expectations to my abilities. A distinct lack of practice and static dry holds means I am woefully under prepared for the dives I attempted. Lesson learned.
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For the first time in what seems like months I am truly alone on the boat. For such a long time people have been staying for more than a week, and I have had someone on board on the Saturday. Seeing the boys off I have to admit to having a small cry, such a fantastic group from YD, I think I will miss them all. One person for the second time added a new dimension to life for all too short a time, and I wish he had been here to hold my hand through the last week of my course.
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The sunlight seems to be noticeably weaker than a few weeks ago, its colour fading from the almost intense blue white light to a much softer yellow. Autumn is on its way, marching relentlessly over the land, turning leaves from green to brown. Along with the shedding of the leaves comes the inevitable gales, and we seem to be losing more days to the weather than ever before. Both of us are tired, physically and mentally. This is one of the most intense things I have ever done, and if all goes to plan, next year will be even more so. Just 10 more weeks before we are done, and under 6 before our first day off in months. I plan to sleep, maybe sleep some more and then possibly sleep, just to be sure. Oh and do some washing.
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Letting go.
Some of us carry with us baggage. I don’t mean a huge hold-all filled with clean socks and pants, but something in our heads which we feel somehow obliged to keep hold of. Wondering why we do this lately has let me lose a lot of it. A profound conversation with one of the most spiritual (not religious) people I know made me almost DIR my life. Do I need this (whatever your personal this may be) for my life just now? No. I don’t. So don’t take it, leave it where it can’t do you any harm.
Practice and become good at the things you need to do each day and don’t take short cuts because you will be screwed the day you can no longer use the short cut.
Do everything you can as well as you know you can, using the best of what is available. Life is too short to wear cheap pants.
But he biggest thing is the letting go. Things that people have said and done that have annoyed me, really burned deep and all it needed was for someone to say let the buggers go and you will feel a lot better.
So I did. And I do.
A close friend had a quote from Buddha which really meant something - roughly along the lines of “holding onto a burning coal to throw at someone will burn you much more than it will burn them“.
Being bitter and twisted about anything is such a waste of energy, such a waste of life. I could sulk at everyone who I feel to have wronged me, but I think that being nice to someone who feels you should be being nasty is so much more effective.
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The YD invasion.
Th great YD invasion is over for another year, suddenly Stromness is filled with friends and there are twice as many days tales to catch up on. Team Foxturd are joined by Team Hollywood and I am invited out for a meal with the whole group on the last night which is made extra funny by Howard’s nice new hood. How very apt it is.
September 10th, 2007
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Ok, i did have a nice big blog update to go in here, but somewhere between the boat laptop and the library it seems to have fallen off the memory stick. Maybe its hanging around the bottom of my pocket with all the bits of fluff and tissue that has been through the wash….
I will be back later with it, somehow. Here is a piccie of some fish to keep you amused.
September 10th, 2007
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Seeing the jar of blackcurrant jam slowly rise from the space where it had been wedged, hover in midair and then crash to the floor, breaking into a million glittering shards was slightly surreal. The slowly expanding pool of stickiness testament to the weather knocking us around. Making our way around Copinsay to Kirkwall the swell knocked the boat over to 45 degrees, a bloody long way, making everything in the galley slip and slide, clinking of plates and glasses all trying to break loose and cause havoc.
And so begins our journey to Hjaltland, the old name for Shetland, meaning High Land.
Sunday dawned bright and sunny, and we head out to dive the Disperser, a wreck in Kirkwall Bay. The white bulk of two cruise ships leave the safety of the harbour and head out via the String, we watch their bows for a hint at how the swell might be.
Dolphins.
Lerwick High Street
Soon enough we are heading out of the String ourselves, the gentle waves pushing us up and down. Heading North we ride the gentle rollers, the boat taking it all within her stride. Ahead of us appears Fair Isle, a dark shape under a plume of clouds. The double lighthouse of Sanday is off to the West, and we power onwards over the deceptively smooth sea. It may be glassy surfaced, but this hides some huge rolling waves.
If Elvis ever had a bike, i reckon it would be like this……
Towards Fair Isle the sea becomes much more confused, the tides pushing and pulling the boat as well as the swell and we pass to the west, the spectacular cliffs rising above us like a giant monolith. Looming from the shroud of mist comes Sumburgh head, with the Roost - a massive tidal race - below it. We plan to pass well to the east avoiding it totally, but the direction of the waves means we have to pass much closer, being once again bounced around by the swells. Night slowly creeps up on us from the east, the last dying rays of the sun turning the high clouds vibrant orange, the glassy surface of the sea reflecting it back. Silvery light turns the before welcoming sight of Sumburgh into a daunting black shape under the pale blue skies.
Lerwick High Street
I take the wheel while we motor up the side of Mainland Shetland, only waking Hazel when we are level with the bottom of Bressay, where the harbour limits come to and we have to radio in. Finding our berth in the Albert Dock, I first set foot in Shetland at 3.30am, dropping the thick yellow spring rope over the white painted bollard. Walking to the stern to grab the stern line I come face to face with a huge seal, later named Nick (Neck seal….nick seal….ok, it was funny at the time), he looked at me as if to say “oi, you woke me up, got any fish?” which is what I have decided that most animals up here say - Bonxies (Bonksies - the Great Skua) definitely say it, as do Malliemaks (Fulmar) which follow the boat hopefully wherever we go. A long lie in followed, making sure that we are awake for the days diving.
Lerwick High Street
Fish Fish Fish and you can even tell what it is! Its a scorpion fish by the way.
An urchin…
The first day and we decide to dive the Lunokhods, a Latvian Klondiker which ran aground in a fierce storm. The white lighthouse and radar station sit on top of the cliffs, and just to the south of them lies the wreck, in some kind of irony. Dropping a shot onto what we identify as the bow, we drop the divers in and reverse off, to see the shot disappear below the waves. Bugger. The bow is some distance from the rest of the wreck and is in fairly deep water. The divers we asked to tie it in say it was being dragged away from the wreckage and they were unable to tie it to anything.
A spectacularly ugly fishie thing i found while wandering around town.
We head back in to Lerwick for the surface interval and sit along the Albert Dock quite happily pumping bottles while the divers make the most of the town.
Dan E struggling into his kit.
In the afternoon we venture to the Pionersk, another huge Klondiker wrecked on the treacherous rocks of Shetland. The bow still protrudes from the water like a huge rusted shark fin, pointing to the skies. The majority of the wreckage lies to the west of the bow, and we find a shotline attached to one of the huge block sections of the wreck - probably the accommodation. A long slow swell makes loitering for the divers uncomfortable, plates slipping and sliding and we nearly lose a few. Divers surface astounded at the size of the wreck and the intact sections. Good vis makes for an excellent dive, we head back to Lerwick for the night.
A bloody great plumose anemone.
Next on the list is the Glenisla, a small freighter carrying coal which was sunk in a collision with the Glenelg in Bressay sound. Lying in around 45m of water, she is renowned for excellent visibility. Dropping the shot into the wreck, we watch the blue line snake out into the dark, and soon divers are dropped to check it out. An hour or so later they reappear with tales of 25m vis, the numerous “cheese wedges” of phosphorous lying amongst the beams and plates and the huge numbers of tiny fish swirling inside the deck spaces.
Shetland Coastguard - this is where all the nice people who tell us what the weather is doing are. We paid them a visit and it was great, they didnt even chuck us out of the control room when they got a shout!
The Pionersk is our target for the afternoon once again, the weather thwarting our attempts at diving anything outside the shelter of Bressay. The long but powerful swell from the east has hardly let up at all, and once again the contents of the galley slip and slide all over the place. Everyone gets to see bits of the wreck they missed last time, and much questioning is had over the various mysterious bits of wreckage left from this huge ship.
The view from the Knab.
Dives completed during the week are as follows: Pionersk, Glenisla, Gwladamena, Samba, Lunokhods
Lerwick High Street
Friday. The day I have been waiting for - I get to dive. Look out Shetland, here I come. Kitting up I am last to leave the boat, only to connect the dry suit feed and find the nipple connection has been cross threaded and leaks profusely. Cursing enough to make the sky a definite shade darker and possibly make the wood of the bench before me start to smoke. Swapping it for Hazels inflator unit, I finally enter the water to dive the Glenisla, a dive where they previously got 25m visibility and had decided they wanted to do it again. Dropping down the line I know I am seriously stressed out. Arriving at the deck I take a moment to take stock, calm down and chill out. The vis is far less than 25m, more like 10 or 12 at the most, and I make my way forward, quickly arriving at the bow, dropping down over the side to the seabed. The wreck is far larger than I thought it would be, and the drop down to the bottom seems to take forever. Resting on the seabed is the anchor, but at 45m, I dare not linger long. Back up to the gunwhale and back aft, I peer into her holds, the wooden decking long gone. Boilers like small round bombs sit underneath the silty ribs, huge shoals of tiny silver fish swirl and dance. Further aft I start to see the cheese wedges of phosphorous which are mentioned in the guide book white and innocent looking among the silt and broken bits of mental. Glancing at my computer I see that I am into deco already and decide to call it a day, grappling with my new SMB (a very tidy small one made by Halcyon) I set it off, watching the spool spin in my hand it slowly dawns on me that this is not right….I have the wrong spool. Bugger. This one has only got around 25-30m of line on it, the one in my other pocket connected to my main blob is the one with 40m of line on it. Buggeryfuckit. The line comes to an abrupt end and the spool vanishes off into the green above me, I curse a fair bit and decide to spend a couple of minutes searching for the shot which has to be close by, but while I swim I get the other SMB ready for deployment just in case. Seeing the blue line heading up into the green I ascend to my deco stops, to surface elated at the dive. A couple of hours later I get to dive the Lunokhods, dive with loads of life and i play with the camera. Jumping in and swimming up the geo (a small inlet), i can see wreckage below me. Descending down i am among bits of plates, pipes and a surprising amount of brass. Lots of it infact. Making my way deeper i start to see more and more bits, but also the vis improves and there is more life. I get all snap happy and take lots of pics.
The ferry and Shetland in the background.
Big Beautiful skies.
Ooooo dolphins!
Lying in my bed, the warm arms of sleep finally embrace me, only for the alarm to bark its wake up call and drag me back to reality. 1am, time to get up. Releasing the last of our ropes we motor out of the harbour and start our journey south, timed to give us the easiest ride with the tides, their immense force pushing us onward and south. Taking it in shifts, I take the wheel at 6am, cranking up the music and chilling out, scanning the horizon for fair isle and any ships.
Weather just like home.
Alun who is 6′4 and his drysuit, which was made for someone who was probably very good at basketball.
Us, in Lerwick Harbour.
The shining gray fin breaks the surface and surges onward, disappearing from view. Wondering if it was my tired brain playing tricks on me I get off the seat and take a closer look, only to see two more fins. Checking the auto pilot I dash out onto the whaleback and stare down at 6 or 7 dolphins riding our bow wave. For a few moments I wonder who is watching who, they are alone in their joy, playing, jostling for space at the very bow, cutting around each other, weaving and dodging. This is a site I have to share, and so I holler down into the accommodation that we have dolphins on the bow. Soon there are 10 divers stood on the bow, pressed against the railings all armed with cameras. The pod stays with us for over an hour as we pass the dark brooding shape of Fair Isle. A fantastic way to start the day, we remain hopeful of seeing more cetaceans.
Arriving back into Stromness I wave off Hazel and some of our group and crawl into my bed, thoroughly knackered but with the warm glow of knowing we have been somewhere new, somewhere exciting and somewhere i absolutley want to go back to.
The motley crew for the week.
The Lunokhods-1 no idea what this bit of it is, its waaay too big to be a liferaft holder which is what it looks like - its around 6m long to give you an idea of the vis.
August 2nd, 2007
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