AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wrote this particular entry on Sunday
avfter an Extremely Traumatic Experience. Obviously the best way to deal with
an Extremely Traumatic Experience is to talk about it extensively so it’s a
teensy bit long. Enjoy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sometimes life in Cuba can be more similar to life back home
than you expect. This morning, for example, I woke up heavily bruised, with a
pounding headache, back-brushed hair skewing in various directions, some barely
explained grazes on my knees and vivid memories of spending several hours the
previous day hanging on for dear life to a giant of a man aged about 45. In
England, I would associate this combination of symptoms with a night at Bop or
perhaps even Erasmus (the 45 year old man being my old friend, Michael, the
bouncer. Obvs.). Obviously Erasmus doesn’t exist here so the causes were quite
different: YESTERDAY I went on a SCUBA DIVE!!!!!!!!!!
BACKGROUND INFORMATION: It may surprise you to know that I
am actually NOT the world’s most proficient swimmer. I did successfully obtain
my 50 metre swimming badge aged approximately 10 years old, though I could only
do this by swimming on my back, as I couldn’t swim on my front because putting
my face in the water freaks me out. However, despite this fact - and despite
the fact that any fool could tell you that scuba diving most definitely
involves putting your head under the water - as we were cruising toward our
diving spot of choice, this was the narrative going through my mind: “I’ve
never done scuba diving before. Maybe I’ll have natural talent for it, which
I’ve never known about!” I pondered. “I love fish. I love aquariums. I can
already tell that this is the sport for me. Maybe I’ll keep it up in Britain. I
could get certified. I could become a trainer; that would be a great summer
job. Maybe I’ll even find some buried treasure on a shipwreck and become a
millionaire!” The prospects were very exciting.
We arrived at a small bay in Playa Giron, a beach in the
infamous Bay of Pigs in southern Cuba. The sea was so clear it looked like
liquid cling film, the sun was shining and the view was breath-takingly
beautiful. We chose to dive because it’s one of Birthday Boy’s passions. Bajan
Housemate and he are very experienced, so they split off to go on some kind of
intrepid adventure, involving a sunken American warship, and which I imagine to
have been rather like the opening scenes of Titanic.
The rest of us were left with several cheerful, portly Cubans who cheerfully
showed us what we were meant to do and cheerfully helped us do up our wet
suits. It was all going ‘swimmingly’ (if you’ll pardon the pun), and I
thoroughly enjoyed both the wet suit and the goggles. This was the high point
of the morning. In many ways, as soon as I had to enter the water, things began
to go dramatically downhill.
First of all, I had to put on this huge jacket with a tank
full of oxygen, as this is vital for you to be able to breath whilst under the
water (as there is no air underwater). I
did not ask exactly how heavy this tank was ( I shall estimate that it weighed
approximately 100 kilograms) but I can tell you that once it was on I couldn’t
stand up without assistance, and one of the portly gentlemen had to assist me
into the sea, where I promptly toppled backwards due to the weight. The portly
gentleman hastily filled my jacket with air so that I floated on top of the
water, bobbing up and down on my back (or, in his words, with “my inside-up”).
At this point I was encouraged to put on my flippers. I tried to bend forwards
to reach my feet but what with the puffy air filed jacket and the 300 kilo
oxygen tank on my back, it was remarkably difficult to move, and being unable
to reach my feet put me into a fit of giggles which made all movements
COMPLETELY impossible. Portly Gentleman had to put on my flippers for me, while
I flapped around and rolled over, and I no longer knew if I was laughing from
amusement or embarrassment. I was surprised to note that nearly every other
member of the group successfully walked into the ocean and put on their
flippers without any assistance.
Anyway, we all bobbed around for a bit and I got carried
away by the current because I was bobbing too much, and had to swim back and
got all tired, and then we had to spit in our goggles(!) and put them on and we
saw some fish and got excited and all these sorts of things. Then, one by one,
my companions had their jackets deflated by a portly gentleman and ducked under
the water.
What then happened is a bit of a blur to me, but I’ve tried
to piece it together for your reading pleasure: When it was my turn, I went
under, mouth tightly clamped around the mouthpiece, and accidentally breathed
through my nose, which caused my goggled to steam up, which surprised me, so I
opened my mouth to express my shock and breathed in water and panicked and had
to be resurfaced. Portly Gentleman cheerfully reminded me that when I went
underwater, I had to breathe. I thanked him, put the horrible thing back in my
mouth and bobbed around for a while, hoping he would leave me there. However,
he obviously was very keen to see the fishes again as he went back underwater,
grabbed my hand, and took me with him!
I imagine he was hoping that once we were under the surface
again I would realise that it wasn’t so bad after all, and that as long as I
breathed through my mouth and kept my mouth shut, I would be okay, and I would
be able to let go of his hand and swim off and enjoy the coral. But I did not
let go. I held on to that man. He pointed at fish, I nodded enthusiastically,
and kept hold of him. He pointed at my companions, who mainly seemed to be
taking to diving like ducks to water (if you’ll pardon the pun), and I observed
and nodded and waved at them and kept hold of the man. He repeatedly asked me
if I was okay and I replied (using the scuba diving special signal) that I was
– and I reinforced my tight hold of his arm. I held onto that man extremely tightly, as if
my life depended on it, and stayed with him for the complete duration of the
dive. I think three times I considered letting go, when I was distracted enough
by the fish and the coral to calm down a bit – or just after he accidentally
dragged me along two feet of coral and I cut my knees - but the thought of it
gave me mild heart palpitations and made me breathe faster which made lots more
bubbles come out of my mouthpiece that hit me in the face, which alarmed me
(and the fish) and then I just held on tighter. At one point I contemplated
letting go and swimming to the surface, where it was safe, and waiting there
until everyone was finished, but I had an inkling he wasn’t about to let that happen.
Then I no longer knew if I was holding him or he was holding me – it was very
confusing.
Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime, he tapped me on
the head and pointed upwards, and I stood up out of the water, only very nearly
avoiding toppling onto my back again. I was shaking and wobbly, and made my way
slowly out of the sea and, with the help of a portly gentleman, climbed back up
onto the rock where the coach was and took off my jacket. Then I saw Bajan
Roommate and I had a little cry because I’d been so scared but I’d had to be so
clam for so long to avoid panicking and drowning. Then I had a little wee
because I’d needed one in the water but hadn’t wanted to wee on Portly
Gentleman and also I find it difficult to sea-wee.
There were two others who had found it a little perplexing,
and had also made use of some hand holding (though only I had kept a grip of my
man for the entire trip), and we all took a bit of time out to regather our
Selves. Some of the group were sorry to get out, and had loved every minute. I
find that very suspicious. I haven’t felt that close to death since the Great
JLS Riot of 2009.
However, in conclusion, I did manage to see a sting ray
floating along on the seabed. I recognised it because I have seen them in
Birmingham Sea Life Centre, which I can enter for free with my Blue Peter
Badge. I love a good sea life centre and plan to do all future sealife viewing
at this venue, and NOT whilst scuba diving. J
Kisses from the Caribean,
Sarah
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