Sea Fever

I have a confession! It concerns a long-running love affair that has lasted all of my life and will remain with me until I draw my last breath. It's an unrequited love from an unremitting mistress; a cold-hearted lover who bestows her favours on a whim and glories in her capricousness.

The object of my affections? The sea.

I guess it's in the blood as I am the first generation on my Mother's side not to go to sea since, at least, Trafalgar. I apparently had a forebear who fought on the Victory (and died!). I had Uncles in the Royal Navy and Grandfather and great Grandfather in the merchant navy, all of whom told stirring tales of their time afloat.

The first time I realised that I was a maritime junkie was when I went on a holiday to the Loire Valley. It was beautiful there and the bottles of Vouvray were most acceptable but I suddenly realised that I missed being near the sea. Not just a whimsical desire to paddle but a real longing to be close. Even as a kid, I would sit on the harbour arm, fishing. Not particularly worried about whether any passing fish wished to commit piscatorial hari-kari, just content to sit and watch the ever-changing moods of the water. I used to spend hours wandering the sea-shore, looking at the detritus thrown up on the tide and wondering just how far it had drifted, dreaming about exotic places and marvelling at such small miracles as mermaid's purses and shells.

Just the sound of the sea is something that brings me such a sense of contentment and, whenever I'm troubled, the seashore is the first place I head for. It seems to soothe me and puts my small life into perspective with its sheer, awesome power.

I've always used it as a playground; sailing, swimming, a bit of water-skiing but it really came alive when I first scuba dived. Snorkelling was always a large part of any holiday and I used to spend hours cruising across the surface, gazing down at the life below me. Some places, like Turkey, were quite devoid of much off-shore life whilst others like Corsica were a wonderful mixture of colourful fish, sponges, urchins and shellfish.

I was inspired to write this blog when someone mentioned Lanzerote earlier this evening for that was where I had my first scuba dive.. I say first....it was my first official dive as, when I was about 20, a group of us went to the beach for the day. We were all into snorkelling and had masks and tubes. However, one of our number had bought the whole scuba kit and I, like a fool, asked to try it all on. I donned the neoprene and strapped on all the bits and the inevitable happened; I heard a small child say "Ooh look, there's a frogman!".

Now, me being me, I just had to play to the audience and, although with hindsight it was a stupid thing to do, trudged down to the water in order to show off. I had every intention of staying above the surface and just sort of swim around a bit. Sadly, the beach shelved very gently and I found I was going out quite a long way with the water only reaching my waist. By now, of course, there were a few people watching and so I figured that all I could do was lay in the water and sort of crawl along the bottom to look as though I was swimming. This worked well for a while until I became aware of the flaw in the plan.

You see, the beach in question is at Shoreham which is a port. Being a port, there is a need for deep water and the dredgers had actually carved a fairly steep channel which I realised when I suddenly dropped like a stone as I found the edge! Suffice to say I managed to extricate myself and learned an interesting lesson about weight belts in the process. I tried to wander nonchalantly back to my friends but I can still vividly recall the jelly-like feeling in my legs as I walked back up the beach.

Anyway, back to Lanzarote. We were given a 30 minute lecture on safety and equipment and off we went. As I took those first few breaths below the surface I was immediately conscious of the sheer privilege of entering this undersea world. Suddenly I was in an evironment of which most only dream and I knew I was hooked. It wasn't all easy going as the need to monitor one's buoyancy is paramount and this is controlled via a valve on one's BCD (Bouyancy Control Device), a sort of life-jacket which can be inflated or deflated at will via the air tank.

Unfortunately, it takes a while to get used to the amount of air needed as there is a short delay in reaction so, one moment, I was lying on the bottom and the next, shooting up to the surface only to sink like a stone once more as I vented the BCD in panic!

I did a few more trial dives on various holidays and then, after I retired, I took the plunge (gettit?) and enrolled on the PADI Open Water Diving course. It was a proud moment when I received my dive card (that's it, over there <) as it meant I could dive anywhere across the globe to a depth of 18 metres. Sitting on the seabed 60 feet down, hand feeding giant rays is an experience never to be forgotten and it's not only abroad where the waters teem with life. Within half a mile of me now is the English Channel which has an abundance of fish and shellfish to boggle the imagination.

Seeing an 8 foot conger face to face can be a bit daunting but it's very much a case of live and let live below the waves from a human point of view. As long as one remembers that we are merely guests then the only real danger comes from a diver's own stupidity.

I haven't dived for a while now. One day I will realise my ambition to swim with sharks - a much-maligned creature whose evolutionary perfection I truly admire. In the meantime, I shall continue to love, fear, admire and respect the ocean.

John Masefield summed it up a lot better than I ever could with his poem 'Sea Fever':

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.