End of the season looms
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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