Carol’s Column

Scuba divers do it deeper

I FELT weightless floating through the eerie blue-green water.

High above, I saw the surface, a shimmering curtain, rippling and undulating slowly.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my mask, I noticed a long, grey shape swimming towards me. I kicked my flippers and effortlessly glided into a safe corner.

Slowly, relentlessly, the shape swam towards me. I lost my breath. I knew I was going to drown.

Oh my God, who will make the polony and lettuce sandwiches for the kids tomorrow morning? Who will cover their schoolbooks? Sew on their nametabs? I can’t die I thought to myself. It’s not convenient.

From the recesses of my fuzzy mind, I remembered the diving instructor’s words. “Above all, never panic. Always keep breathing — in, out, in, out.”

I felt my air pipe. There was no blockage. I held my breath in panic. Slowly I expanded my lungs and blew out then in. Air, sweet air.

I’d be able to make the school sandwiches after all.

And then the dark shape was upon me. A great white? A killer whale?

No, it was Terry Meyer, my diving buddy.

Agh, it just goes to show what an over-active imagination can do when you’re floating five metres down in the diving pool at Ellis Park.

A few vigorous kicks of my flippers and I surfaced.

I pulled myself from the water. Exhilarated, feeling like Wonderwoman — no — like Queen Neptune.

Until I tried to stand up. It was impossible.

What with the scuba tank on my back and the weight belt round my waist, I was bent over double.

What am I doing here I thought to myself as Terry emerged from the water.

The cause of my suffering. The instigator — it was all his fault.

“Carol,” he’d said only the day before, “come scuba diving with me.”

Life is short, one should try everything, which is why I said ‘yes’.

Of course I prepared myself. I wrote a will, increased my insurance and did eight press-ups.

But nothing really prepared me for what was to follow.

We would meet at Ellis Park at 7pm on Tuesday night, Terry informed me, join the Southern Suburbs Scuba Diving Club and have a little dive or two, to get the feel of things.

So there we were on Tuesday night, clutching towels around our kneecaps, waiting for the divers to arrive.

“Don’t you think we’re too old for this,” I said anxiously to Terry as we jumped up and down to keep warm.

“No, I read about an 80-year-old who started scuba diving recently,” said Terry. (We’d both placed all our spare parts — teeth, contact lenses, crutches, on the pool bench).

Just then, the divers arrived. Fit, strong and healthy. I hadn’t seen so many muscles since I shared a poached egg at the Burgerspark with Arnold Schwarzenegger many years back.

All those beautiful bodies. Who needed to learn to dive? I was quite happy to sit and watch them all rippling in the fading sunlight.

We were introduced to our diving instructors, Gerald and George, ex-navy and very professional looking, they were not to be trifled with.

George had magnificent shoulders. It was obvious his mother fed him well. I was really beginning to enjoy the diving.

They lined us up at the pool. “Right,” said George. “First we’ll have a little test and then we’ll dive.”

“Test? You got me here under false pretences,” I hissed to Terry who was flexing his biceps and shaking his calf muscles.

“Courage, Carol, have courage,” he muttered as we waited expectantly for the test to begin.

I thought of my little family. What would they think if they were to see me now? Would they be proud of their mother? Would they admire my courage?

Reality took over. No, they’d laugh themselves silly.

“Ready,” said George.

“Ready,” I replied.

The test — aah, the test. A half an hour later, I dragged myself from the water, exhausted but triumphant.

“Are you OK?” asked George solicitously.

“Great, just great,” I wanted to answer, but couldn’t find any breath.

And then came the moment of truth.

Over to the diving pool we trotted — well Terry trotted, I crawled — our tiredness miraculously disappearing at the thought of diving with a scuba tank.

We togged up. On with flippers and mask. Then came the weight belt around our waists. My knees were already buckled.

I must admit, Terry looked particularly debonair in his blue mask and matching flippers.

“Now, pick up your tanks,” said George, “and pop them on your backs.”

They looked large, heavy.

“Every diver has to be able to handle his own equipment.”

Oh, Schwarzenegger, where are you, I sighed as I battled to get the cylinder on my back.

And then in we plopped, like two stones and sank slowly, effortlessly to the bottom.

There aren’t words to describe the feeling that diving gives you but I reckon it’s totally wasted on a fish.

Oh, the Ellis Park pool isn’t Mauritius with its coral reefs. There are tiles instead of cowries and cones, algae instead of reef fish.

But what a feeling it is to be able to breathe under water.

After five minutes I was hooked — after 15 I was an addict.

But diving is a serious sport. “You must practise every available moment,” said George.

The bath is an excellent place, but to find other suitable venues can be a problem.

“Ma, you can’t go to the PTA meeting wearing goggles and flippers,” said Ralph the other night. “Mr Schutte won’t appreciate you.”

“Ralph, while your father’s talking to the teachers, I thought I’d practise in the pool,” I answered shortly.

Children really are so unimaginative.

Mind you, they’re learning.

Only this afternoon the phone rang and I heard Jamie shouting: “Hey, Merma, there’s a call for you.”

Yes, they’re learning. And you know what, I’d rather scuba dive than make polony and lettuce sandwiches any day.

Life’s short, one should try everything.

Take hang-gliding ...

Hey Terry! D’you wanna come hang-gliding?

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