Real Life Diving Adventures Part 2 - Turtle Terror!

Coral reefs; some call them the rainforests of the Ocean. Home to an incredible diversity of fish, reptile and invertebrate species, coral reefs possess a wealth of biodiversity, but this wondrous bounty of plants and animals also comes at a terrible price. The beautiful reef systems around the world that we study and enjoy are also home to a terrifying arsenal of threats, ready and waiting to seek out and kill the unwary, the ignorant and the foolish.

From the mighty moray eel, which can grow up to 10m in length and has been known to strangle divers to death, to the vicious damselfish, which use large numbers to swarm and overwhelm their victims, the coral reef is a veritable smorgasbord of danger and death.

I've witnessed my fair share of carnage at sea. One time, I startled a golden trevally, which promptly swam straight into my face before fleeing into the open ocean. On another occasion, a pack of ravenous lionfish chased my team and I from our transect line during a survey, forcing us to abandon our equipment and abort the dive. Every diver I know has their own tales of terror. Some have been menaced by triggerfish, others chased by sea urchins. I even know someone who gave themselves concussion after bashing their head whilst unwittingly surfacing beneath a manta ray.

It's easily done.

To this catalogue of horrors, I must however add my own tale of marine savagery. Never will I forget my brush with death in the ocean, nor the beast that nearly robbed me of my life.

I was working out in Madagascar at the time, and my buddy and I were nearing the end of our dive. We'd been carrying out a routine rapid reef reconnaissance dive, searching for new areas of hard coral cover to record and map. We were just nearing the end of our 45 minute sweep and were preparing to begin our ascent and make our safety stop. I checked my instruments, noting my current depth and remaining air supply, and signalled to my buddy that it was time to begin our journey to the surface. We orientated ourselves correctly, and were about to begin swimming for the shallows, when suddenly my buddy began to signal desperately at me.

He had locked his hands together, both palms down, with one hand on top of the other, whilst wiggling his thumbs in little circles on either side. I instantly knew what this meant, but I couldn't believe that it was happening. Not now, not to us. We were both experienced divers, and had prepared for all sorts of eventualities and crises, but through all our training I had never imagined that I'd find myself in a situation such as this.

I signalled back to my buddy, hands outstretched with palms facing upwards in the universal “Where?!” gesture, and he began to point frantically behind me. Slowly, I turned around to look over my shoulder, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw it coming.

Roughly four metres from where we were drifting, a Green Turtle, Chelonia mydas, was making her way straight towards us. Turtles are often portrayed in the media as gentle, ponderous creatures, but nothing could be further from the truth. Amongst the dive fraternity, they have a well-earned reputation as vicious and relentless killers, and are often referred to as the “sharks of the sea”. As I stared into the turtle's cold, dead eyes, I realised that at that very moment, I could be looking directly at my own downfall. This was to be the creature that ended my life. This hideous reptile was to be my undoing.

Repressing my initial impulse to make a dash for the surface, I turned to face the oncoming nightmare. At our current depth, a rapid and uncontrolled ascent to the surface could easily result in decompression illness, and I struggled to remain calm and assess my options. Obviously, I'd never be able to out swim a turtle. Maybe if we were on land, I would just about be able to outrun her, but here I was in her domain, and surely I would pay dearly for my trespass.

I had strayed into the turtle's territory, and I knew that the only way to escape with my life, would be to face her head on. I reached down to my leg and grabbed for my dive knife, feeling a surge of adrenaline and relief as my fingers clenched around the sturdy plastic handle of the blade. As I pulled the knife from it's sheath, I suddenly thought back to my dive training; “Remember, a dive knife is a tool, and should never be used as a weapon.” I cursed silently and slipped the knife back into it's holder. A good diver should never act in contradiction of PADI guidelines.

Nearly a minute had passed, and the turtle was closing rapidly. She was now a good three and half metres away from us, and still approaching fast. I was quickly running out of options. If I didn't act soon, the beast would be upon us, and then there would be little chance of escaping with our lives. I looked back to my buddy, who was still signalling and pointing towards the turtle. Maybe he had yet to grasp the peril that we were in, or perhaps he had simply lost his mind in terror, I couldn't be sure, but clearly it was up to me to act. If I didn't, we'd surely both be doomed.

With the turtle now only two metres away, survival instinct took over. I had to confront the creature, but I don't remember making a conscientious decision, my body simply did what was necessary to protect itself. I kicked up with both my legs, placing them between myself and my armoured nemesis. Still she came onwards, cutting through the water like a Toyota Yaris. As she closed, now only a metre from my buddy and I, I realised that, if I were to defend myself, now was to be my only chance. In one swift kick, I finned the turtle in the head, sending her spinning away into the blue.

This was our chance to escape! I motioned back to my buddy, giving the ascend signal. He replied with a sort of, “What the hell did you do that for?” gesture, which to this day I've still never really understood. We immediately headed for the surface, pausing only for a three minute safety stop.

This time, we'd been lucky enough to escape with our lives, and as we clambered back onto the dive boat, I vowed that never again would I be as reckless as to allow my life to be threatened by a turtle (hence the reason I insist on taking a cricket bat on every dive).

Real Life Diving Adventures - Equipment Malfunction Peril!

A common mistake that many people make when they ask me about what I do for a living is to assume that, just because my job involves a fairly large amount of diving, I must have lots of exciting stories to share. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Surveying commercial fish populations is in reality no less mundane than any office job, except that the office is a under 15m of water and instead of a suit and tie I wear a BCD and fins (although I would dive in a suit and tie if I had one).

However, from time to time, things do get a bit hairy out there on the reef, and it is these moments that I now wish to share, so that others can learn from my experiences. These are real life diving adventures, and I will pull no punches in my retelling of what are often dramatic and terrifying events, although some names have been changed at the bequest of those involved and their families.

Equipment Malfunction Peril!

It was a clear, sunny day as we headed out into Chole Bay to conduct a routine reef health assessment. A light breeze played about us as we kitted up on the deck of the dive boat and the mood was relaxed and light hearted as we conducted our gear and buddy checks. We were to be diving in three teams of two, carrying out point counts of key fish species at a range of depths across sheltered patch reef near the centre of the bay. The team were all fairly experienced, having carried out similar survey work on the reef for the past few months and nothing was out of the ordinary, except that I was wearing a new long sleeved rash vest that I'd found in a bin round the back of the dive equipment store. It smelt a bit musty, but I'd been feeling the cold increasing towards the end of our most recent dives, and a bit of a whiff seemed a small price to pay for the warmth and comfort that this spandex top was certain to provide. I wasn't sure if it belonged to anyone, but it was in the bin anyway, so I assumed that no one would miss it.

We donned our gear and entered the water, utilising the backwards roll technique. The team then split into buddy pairs and spread out across the reef to carry out underwater visual fish censuses at a variety of depths. My buddy and I descended and reached our first survey point with no problems. We then commenced a ten minute point count, recording the species and size of individual fish from key species as they swam within our field of vision. After ten minutes, the survey was complete, and we moved onto the next site at the slightly shallower depth of 8 metres.

As we approached the site, I realised that something was going very wrong with the dive. I attempted to move my right arm, so as to unclip the dive slate on which I was to record the next set of data from my Buoyancy Control Device (BCD), but found that my movement was a little bit inhibited. I looked down to my wrist and, to my horror, realised that the sleeve of my new rash vest had caught on the zip of the pocket on the right hand side of my BCD. Not only that, but the zip had jammed slightly, making it a bit difficult to free my wrist

My first instinct was to try and tear my arm free, but doing so would risk ripping the spandex of the rash vest around the sleeve. Considering that this rash vest didn't even belong to me, that just wasn't an option. I struggled to remain calm and think rationally. Although I've been diving for a number of years, I could feel fear building up inside me. I was well aware that an equipment malfunction at depth, no matter how minor, could put not only my life, but also that of my dive buddy at serious risk. In an attempt to free the trapped vest sleeve, I tried pulling the BCD zip open, but this just made things worse as the spandex sleeve became further entangled in the zip mechanism.

I battled to remain calm and attempt to figure out a way out of this situation. Immediately, I tried to signal to my buddy that I was in trouble, but with my right arm a little bit trapped by the BCD zip, this quickly proved to be difficult. I tried to signal to my buddy, but I just couldn't get his attention with my right arm pinned as it was. Fortunately, my dive instructor had taught me how to give signals with both my left and right hands, and with my left hand still free to move without obstruction, I was able to warn my buddy that I was in trouble. I gave the “Problem” signal, using my left hand, and then pointed at the zip of my BCD.

I saw fear flash behind my buddy's eyes as he registered the seriousness of our situation. My buddy was also an experienced diver, but for a brief moment I feared that he too would become overwhelmed by the enormity of my rash vest nightmare and begin to panic.Fortunately for us both, he mastered his fear and swam cautiously towards me, taking care not to allow my awful situation to place him in any further danger.

Calmly, and without hesitation, he reached out and pulled the zip shut a little bit. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Surely this was madness? Would closing the zip not make the problem worse?! I signalled desperately to my buddy, trying to stop him from potentially killing us both, but he ignored my frantic gesturing. It was then that I looked down and realised that, by closing the zip slightly, he had in fact realigned the two sides of the zip, allowing it to open without problem and freeing the trapped sleeve of my rash vest.

Tentatively, I moved my right arm. Success! I was released from my temporary shackles and able to move my arm about again. I sighed with relief and signalled thanks to my buddy. His calm, quick action had saved both our lives. After such drama, the only safe course of action was to abort the dive, and we both made a controlled emergency swimming ascent, rising to the surface whilst breathing out to avoid lung over expansion injury or decompression illness.

We clambered back aboard the boat, both overwhelmed by the desperate situation that we had found ourselves in just minutes before. I was furious at myself for risking both our lives with untested and unsafe equipment. That was certainly not a mistake I'd make again. Upon return to the shore, I chucked the rash vest back in the bin, a fitting place for such a dangerous piece of kit.

My buddy and I both laughed it off afterwards, but deep down we both knew how close to the end we'd come during that dive. To look death in the eye as we both did that day was a truly humbling experience, and one that I'd certainly not care to repeat.

The Hit

I sat in driver's seat, and thumbed through the folder Aleksander had given me. It felt like the thousandth time I'd seen this stuff. Photos, home and work addresses, phone numbers, vehicle plates, even a schedule of the target's daily routine. The Russians had really done their homework on this one. Everything that was needed to make the hit was in there. They just needed a trigger man. Someone deniable in case of blowback. A synapse, committing their impulse into one swift, bloody action. Somehow, this had come to be me. If I screwed this one up, I knew I'd be on my own, but that was always the way with this job; Rely on no one but yourself. Trust only your own instincts.

My mind raced back to the conversation I'd had with Aleksander two weeks prior. We'd sat in his opulent study, watched over all the while by a huge portrait of his grandfather Vitaly, and discussed his job offer.

"We want him taken out clean. None of that fucking mess like you made last time. You are lucky that we have chosen to give you another chance." Aleksander fixed me with his cold black eyes.

"Me, lucky?" I snorted. "Not when I'm dealing with you lot."

The expression on his face darkened. I knew it was dangerous to bait these guys, but I also knew that they needed me to do the job.

"This time we don't want it looking like an accident. We have decided that it is time we send a message," Aleksander grinned. "You will find all of the information that you will be needing in this case. Same pay as before."

The Russian slid a black briefcase across his desk towards me. I popped the clips open. It was packed with green hundred Euro notes. There was a beige A4 envelope sitting on top.


"Half now. Half on elimination of the target. Simples." He gave out a little squeak. They always seemed to make that sound when they felt things were going their way. I got up and left without another word being said.

That had been a fortnight ago.

Since then I had been doing my research, scoping out the target and plotting his daily movements. I was determined not to screw this one up like I had with the Jones hit. I still don't know what went wrong with that one, but at least the job had been done and I'd got out without being identified.

Now here I was, sitting in the car, with the engine off, preparing to kill a man who didn't even know I existed. I always found that this was the moment the job got to me. A man was about to die and he didn't even know it.

But fuck it, if I didn't do it, someone else would. At least I was a professional. I'd make it quick. This guy had only been on the scene for a short time and already he'd made a lot of enemies. Many people would consider me a hero for what I was about to do this night. Hell, most of them would probably claim they'd like to pull the trigger themselves.

I had no such illusions.

It was a rainy, moonless night, and I didn't expect there to be anyone about, but I checked my mirrors and stepped out of the car. You can never be too careful in this line of work. Quickly and purposefully I strode up the long drive to the target's house. My pulse quickened as I reached the front door. A few lights were still on, both upstairs and down. This was it. I clenched the gun in my hand. My palms were sweaty, but I knew what had to come next. I rang the doorbell and heard the chorus from George M Cohan's "Over There" reverberate out across the house.

Seconds passed, each one feeling like a lifetime. I could hear his footsteps approaching.

Finally, the door opened, and there on the threshold stood Gio Compario. I pulled out the gun and fired three shots. The opera singer slumped to the floor without making a sound. For once he was silent.

"Go compare this, motherfucker."

I turned back into the cold wet night and hurried towards the car. My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone and fired off a text to the Russians.

"It's done."

I turned the key in the ignition and headed off into the night. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed into life. A new message. It was Aleksander.

"We have some more work for you. Check out the picture below. Find him. Wack him. Simples."

Attached to the text message was a picture of a bald man sporting a cheeky grin. I recognized him immediately. It was Omid Djalili.


I let out a sigh.

Goddamn those fucking meerkats.

Questioning Reality In The Condiment Aisle

Browsing the aisles of Costco the other day, picking up giant slabs of toilet paper and over sized trays of pastries that no one would eat, I turned the corner to the area where all the free sample people were battling like relief workers in a disaster zone to get their products to the hungry and the desperate, and was stopped dead in my tracks.



A ghost from my past had returned. Someone I had long thought dead, someone I wasn't even sure had ever existed in the first place. Staring out from what appeared to be a display of barbecue sauces was a photo of the grinning face of a man who seemed to be in a state of divine ecstasy brought on by a plate of indeterminate meats and vegetables. Inscribed beneath this grinning maniac was the legend, "Yes, There Really Is A Mr Yoshida!".

These words hit me like a punch in the stomach. I felt sick, then dizzy, and grabbed out for the trolley to try and maintain my balance. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but it was true.

It had always been true.

To explain this sudden and unexpected shock, one must return to a different time, a time of youth and of innocence, when Costco was new and exciting, when its promise of 144 Mars Bars for a tenner seemed like the greatest thing in the world. When I was a kid, my parents would drag me round Costco on a Saturday afternoon, and we'd return home with vast trays of cat food, kitchen towel and orange juice.

This was when I first encountered Mr Yoshida.

I didn't go looking for him, and I doubt that he was looking for me. Our meeting was quite by accident. Just another shopping trip to Costco. This time however, things would be different. We trudged round the shop, with the crowds of other Saturday shoppers, buying the usual rubbish, and then I saw it.

At the end of one of the aisles, rising far above me, were hundreds of cardboard palettes containing bottles of a foul looking brown gloop. On the side of each of these cardboard display units was a smiling man proudly stating that, "Yes, There Really Is A Mr Yoshida!".


I had no idea what to think. Immediately my ten year old brain was awash with questions. What the hell was I seeing here? Who had asked this man if there really was a Mr Yoshida? It certainly wasn't me. Why was this box telling me this? Was the happy man on the box so fed up of having to state that there really was a Mr Yoshida that he had launched some sort of weird brown beverage just to stop people asking him the same question over and over again? What lunacy was going on here?

These questions and many more haunted me on the journey home, and continued to fill my every waking hour for the next few weeks. Perhaps the man on the box was Mr Yoshida, but perhaps not. It seemed foolish to imagine that, with a world population of six billion, there wouldn't be a single Mr Yoshida on the planet. I didn't need a box to tell me that there really was a Mr Yoshida, I could have worked that out for myself. But without this bizarre message, I would never have even concieved of such a thing as Mr Yoshida. If there really was a Mr Yoshida, what else was out there, waiting to be discovered? The world had suddenly become a whole lot bigger.

Gradually, I was able to push these thoughts from my mind. Every trip back to Costco, I'd inevitabley see that beaming face and read the words, "Yes, There Really Is A Mr Yoshida!" and the whole episode would kick off again. As time went by however, these questions just became part of the general background noise. As I got older, I stopped going to Costco with my parents, and I forgot about Mr Yoshida. Even when I did go back to Costco, I didn't see the mysterious bottles of brown sauce, or the towering stack of grinning faces. I began to doubt that there had ever even been a Mr Yoshida. Perhaps I'd imagined the entire thing? This certainly seemed more plausible than a packaging manufacturer printing out hundreds of thousands of cardboard trays with the phrase, "Yes, There Really Is A Mr Yoshida!" printed on the side. I had moved on.

This is why the return of Mr Yoshida into my life was so shocking. I had convinced myself that the whole thing had been some sort of weird delusion, and yet there it was, right in front of me.

"Yes, There Really Is A Mr Yoshida!"

Finally these words made sense.

I still don't know what those plastic bottles contain. I think it might be some sort of condiment or marinade or something. I really don't care. I definitely won't ever buy the stuff. I will, however, always remember an advertising slogan so powerful that it caused me not only to question my place in the universe, but also to doubt my own sanity.