Gord
11-12-07, 17:53
This was less an incident (although technically you might classify it as such) and more of an unpleasant experience. That’s how I felt about it at the time, when it was actually happening – that is, when I was in the middle of it. Afterwards, I had mixed feelings – a bit shaken, but to be honest also just a tad exhilarated because of the mix of negative and positive factors.
A factor in this episode was my impatient streak. Always a bit of a brat, I want my toys and I want to play with them now. In this case it was the new car that I’d bought. May 2002, that black Volvo S70 which I drove for a hundred thousand miles and wrote off last year in Inverary. Back in the Spring of ’02 the car less than fifty thousand on the clock when I picked it up from Arnold Clark in Govanhill, and it felt brand new. It had been a lease car, and the guy who’d driven it had been commuting between Glasgow and Manchester apparently, or something along those lines. Motorway miles only. Showroom condition. A lot of car for the money. I picked it up on the Tuesday and I wanted to drive it. Get that joy of motoring thing. A snaking A-road. Scenery. Tight turns and beaucoup gear shifts. Everything a Volvo driver craves, eh.
Wednesday was frustrating. I got to drive my new car exactly five miles between my house and my office. That’s the return journey distance. But I had a diving weekend to look forward to: an Eastwood trip to Lochaline with the club rib. Just the Saturday and Sunday … but maybe I could take Friday off and get up there early. Maybe get a couple of sneaky solos in on the pier/wall… hmmm.
Wednesday evening I booked off work for the Friday and phoned a mate in Fife who I hadn’t seen for a couple of years. He’d got married to an aroma therapist or something and gone to live on a very small farm where he was growing potatoes and children. Tom and Barbara.
He said, “What do you want?”
I said, “Haven’t seen you in a while, my old china. Thought I’d pop by Thursday evening…”
I didn’t say, “I want to drive to Lochaline via the Neuk of Fife in order maximize my motoring pleasure. I want to get out of town.”
Thursday evening I caned the S70 up the M80 and into the Kingdom. Sky bleached blue, roads thinly trafficked. Top Gear conditions. Couldav been a photoshoot. Car didn’t disappoint. All too soon I was rolling to a stop outside my mate’s small holding. He came to the door with an infant in his arms. Said infant had some sort of curd smeared all over its gob. My mate accosts me thus: “You look like some sort of minor Belgian dignitary in that f‘kin thing. Where’d you leave your driver?”
This guy has always been a good pal – we’d climbed a lot of mountains and such together. A lot of beer under the bridge. A lot more that evening, and a meal of some sort of beans and curried veg. Possibly the same splat that had been on the snapper’s visage upon my arrival. I think I said something at some point which upset the eco-aware idealogical balance of the household. There were some difficult moments relating to global warming or economic systems or something. Some people make me remember that I’m a twat. Pub was ok. Beer was no better, but abundant. Can’t remember sleeping that night – possibly on floor or couch. Remember waking up rough. No breakfast.
Hit the road sharp at 1030. Car still rocked. I was pleased that I could get all my dive kit and a load more in the boot, then close said boot leaving my valuables visible to no passing ned. Sky still blue, but deeper now as the early summer sun heated the land and the morning grew in confidence. Stopped in Crieff to acquire large plastic bottle of Irn Bru: 1.5 litres of orange liquid sugar – reached the parts and cleared the head. By noon I was in the queue for the Coran Ferry and the sun was beating down. A glorious day. Sparkling water, green and purple hills, fresh air with a hint of chill. Best dive sites in Europe just over the hill. Yes.
I cruised in towards Strontian on the A861 and then took a left at the bridge over the head of Loch Sunart and gunned the engine up into the Morvern hills. I’m admiring the view and my phone goes off – Ericsson T39, beautiful little flip-phone, introduced 2001, now deceased: gone but not forgotten. Phil’s trying to hitch the boat to his Mondeo in Cathcart: can I come round and help? No, I’m cresting a mountain in a special episode of Fifth Gear, starring me and the S70! The road is begging me to drive it hard. What? When will I be there? In about 10 minutes. Maybe I’ll get a dive in. Maybe two! I’ve got the air. It’s about 12.40. The day is young. The sea will be sweet and blue. All is right with the world.
Phil’s talking on the phone. I’m listening. He’s telling me about who’s coming. He says he wishes he was there too. We agree that solo diving is ok. I’m gagging for that salt water, that neutral buoyancy, that light in the green, that visibility. See you later: I button the phone off, snap it shut on my leg and throw it into the glove box. The road bends and descends. I see the sea and the sea sees me.
--//--
The thing about impatience is that it builds and feeds on itself. The internal clock that drip-feeds your sense of time drips faster … faster … faster … Impatience is like a drug, especially when stoked with a smidgeon of adrenaline. The car was parked up on the gravel in front of the LDC. I’d already dropped my kit in pieces in the broken little car park above the lumber pier in front of the hotel. A kilometer down the lane. I’d stowed my clothes and male grooming products on the snuggest looking bunk. I’d eaten a pasty. I hurried back down on foot with an empty kit bag to stow my clothes while I dived.
If you haven’t dived the pier at Lochaline, it’s not to be confused with the new pier where the Calmac ferries dock. It’s further along, and is used these days by barges which carry tree trunks up the Sound to Oban. Hence it is covered with bark and wood debris. But you don’t actually climb onto the pier – you stop short, by the hotel. The hotel looks across a small car park (5 cars max), across a little lane, across a little beach, towards the mouth of Lochaline which is right there. Lifting your eyes you’ll look across the Sound toward Mull, about a mile across the water. The entry point of the dive is the little beach, just over some rocks from the little car park, the lane and hotel.
Standing in the empty car park, on the broken, cracked concrete through which weeds and grasses pushed, I donned the LJ’s … thinsulate … the DUI … arms tied around waste … kit connected.
… Before W**king Release A Fart … 250 in a 15 … 210 in a 3 …
… Overheating now … need to be in the cooling water … I used a steel coat hanger which I’d straightened out and fashioned a hook in … to … stretch … round … and … snag my … zip. Kit hoisted and on. Mask, hood, gloves, computer, torch, fins … The bag I stashed behind rocks … I plodded over and onto the little beach. The weather was fine and the sea was calm. At least it looked calm. I hadn’t thought to check the tides or gather information for a risk assessment. I was a confident sport diver with about 100+ logged dives. Novice nerves a thing of the past. Confident.
Impatient.
Phil had given me the topography. Wade into the water at the beach … swim down … out …
I swam out gently at a depth of about 3m … 4m … 8m … my kit was in order. Cylinder pressure holding fine … all systems go … 12m … and the sandy bottom flattened out. I saw scuttling crabs, waving their claws, cocky in their samurai armour, nipping below the odd frond of bladder wrack … sea grass … 12m … 12m … and then, as described, as expected, the lip of an abyss. The beach just stops and you hover at the edge of a cliff which drops off to around 80-100 metres. Into the gloom. The dive plan is: drop down to your target depth, turn south (left if you face the wall) and work your way along and up. You’ll swim along the cliff below the pier. The wall is full of life and the void is thrilling.
I paused on the lip of the chasm and peered over, my knees resting on the sand and my chest over the edge. I reviewed my plan. I was solo diving, so my only backup was my pony. I intended to limit my depth to 20m.
Over I went.
[to be continued …]
A factor in this episode was my impatient streak. Always a bit of a brat, I want my toys and I want to play with them now. In this case it was the new car that I’d bought. May 2002, that black Volvo S70 which I drove for a hundred thousand miles and wrote off last year in Inverary. Back in the Spring of ’02 the car less than fifty thousand on the clock when I picked it up from Arnold Clark in Govanhill, and it felt brand new. It had been a lease car, and the guy who’d driven it had been commuting between Glasgow and Manchester apparently, or something along those lines. Motorway miles only. Showroom condition. A lot of car for the money. I picked it up on the Tuesday and I wanted to drive it. Get that joy of motoring thing. A snaking A-road. Scenery. Tight turns and beaucoup gear shifts. Everything a Volvo driver craves, eh.
Wednesday was frustrating. I got to drive my new car exactly five miles between my house and my office. That’s the return journey distance. But I had a diving weekend to look forward to: an Eastwood trip to Lochaline with the club rib. Just the Saturday and Sunday … but maybe I could take Friday off and get up there early. Maybe get a couple of sneaky solos in on the pier/wall… hmmm.
Wednesday evening I booked off work for the Friday and phoned a mate in Fife who I hadn’t seen for a couple of years. He’d got married to an aroma therapist or something and gone to live on a very small farm where he was growing potatoes and children. Tom and Barbara.
He said, “What do you want?”
I said, “Haven’t seen you in a while, my old china. Thought I’d pop by Thursday evening…”
I didn’t say, “I want to drive to Lochaline via the Neuk of Fife in order maximize my motoring pleasure. I want to get out of town.”
Thursday evening I caned the S70 up the M80 and into the Kingdom. Sky bleached blue, roads thinly trafficked. Top Gear conditions. Couldav been a photoshoot. Car didn’t disappoint. All too soon I was rolling to a stop outside my mate’s small holding. He came to the door with an infant in his arms. Said infant had some sort of curd smeared all over its gob. My mate accosts me thus: “You look like some sort of minor Belgian dignitary in that f‘kin thing. Where’d you leave your driver?”
This guy has always been a good pal – we’d climbed a lot of mountains and such together. A lot of beer under the bridge. A lot more that evening, and a meal of some sort of beans and curried veg. Possibly the same splat that had been on the snapper’s visage upon my arrival. I think I said something at some point which upset the eco-aware idealogical balance of the household. There were some difficult moments relating to global warming or economic systems or something. Some people make me remember that I’m a twat. Pub was ok. Beer was no better, but abundant. Can’t remember sleeping that night – possibly on floor or couch. Remember waking up rough. No breakfast.
Hit the road sharp at 1030. Car still rocked. I was pleased that I could get all my dive kit and a load more in the boot, then close said boot leaving my valuables visible to no passing ned. Sky still blue, but deeper now as the early summer sun heated the land and the morning grew in confidence. Stopped in Crieff to acquire large plastic bottle of Irn Bru: 1.5 litres of orange liquid sugar – reached the parts and cleared the head. By noon I was in the queue for the Coran Ferry and the sun was beating down. A glorious day. Sparkling water, green and purple hills, fresh air with a hint of chill. Best dive sites in Europe just over the hill. Yes.
I cruised in towards Strontian on the A861 and then took a left at the bridge over the head of Loch Sunart and gunned the engine up into the Morvern hills. I’m admiring the view and my phone goes off – Ericsson T39, beautiful little flip-phone, introduced 2001, now deceased: gone but not forgotten. Phil’s trying to hitch the boat to his Mondeo in Cathcart: can I come round and help? No, I’m cresting a mountain in a special episode of Fifth Gear, starring me and the S70! The road is begging me to drive it hard. What? When will I be there? In about 10 minutes. Maybe I’ll get a dive in. Maybe two! I’ve got the air. It’s about 12.40. The day is young. The sea will be sweet and blue. All is right with the world.
Phil’s talking on the phone. I’m listening. He’s telling me about who’s coming. He says he wishes he was there too. We agree that solo diving is ok. I’m gagging for that salt water, that neutral buoyancy, that light in the green, that visibility. See you later: I button the phone off, snap it shut on my leg and throw it into the glove box. The road bends and descends. I see the sea and the sea sees me.
--//--
The thing about impatience is that it builds and feeds on itself. The internal clock that drip-feeds your sense of time drips faster … faster … faster … Impatience is like a drug, especially when stoked with a smidgeon of adrenaline. The car was parked up on the gravel in front of the LDC. I’d already dropped my kit in pieces in the broken little car park above the lumber pier in front of the hotel. A kilometer down the lane. I’d stowed my clothes and male grooming products on the snuggest looking bunk. I’d eaten a pasty. I hurried back down on foot with an empty kit bag to stow my clothes while I dived.
If you haven’t dived the pier at Lochaline, it’s not to be confused with the new pier where the Calmac ferries dock. It’s further along, and is used these days by barges which carry tree trunks up the Sound to Oban. Hence it is covered with bark and wood debris. But you don’t actually climb onto the pier – you stop short, by the hotel. The hotel looks across a small car park (5 cars max), across a little lane, across a little beach, towards the mouth of Lochaline which is right there. Lifting your eyes you’ll look across the Sound toward Mull, about a mile across the water. The entry point of the dive is the little beach, just over some rocks from the little car park, the lane and hotel.
Standing in the empty car park, on the broken, cracked concrete through which weeds and grasses pushed, I donned the LJ’s … thinsulate … the DUI … arms tied around waste … kit connected.
… Before W**king Release A Fart … 250 in a 15 … 210 in a 3 …
… Overheating now … need to be in the cooling water … I used a steel coat hanger which I’d straightened out and fashioned a hook in … to … stretch … round … and … snag my … zip. Kit hoisted and on. Mask, hood, gloves, computer, torch, fins … The bag I stashed behind rocks … I plodded over and onto the little beach. The weather was fine and the sea was calm. At least it looked calm. I hadn’t thought to check the tides or gather information for a risk assessment. I was a confident sport diver with about 100+ logged dives. Novice nerves a thing of the past. Confident.
Impatient.
Phil had given me the topography. Wade into the water at the beach … swim down … out …
I swam out gently at a depth of about 3m … 4m … 8m … my kit was in order. Cylinder pressure holding fine … all systems go … 12m … and the sandy bottom flattened out. I saw scuttling crabs, waving their claws, cocky in their samurai armour, nipping below the odd frond of bladder wrack … sea grass … 12m … 12m … and then, as described, as expected, the lip of an abyss. The beach just stops and you hover at the edge of a cliff which drops off to around 80-100 metres. Into the gloom. The dive plan is: drop down to your target depth, turn south (left if you face the wall) and work your way along and up. You’ll swim along the cliff below the pier. The wall is full of life and the void is thrilling.
I paused on the lip of the chasm and peered over, my knees resting on the sand and my chest over the edge. I reviewed my plan. I was solo diving, so my only backup was my pony. I intended to limit my depth to 20m.
Over I went.
[to be continued …]