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.

Murdering Fish In The Comoros Islands.

I wrote the bulk of this during an inebriated 7 hour stopover in Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. If you've not been before, it's one of the worst places for any kind of layover, with little to do other than drink 4 Euro Tuskers and try and figure out which clock is telling the correct time. I only just found it the other day, so I thought I'd add some pictures and post the bloody thing.

The Comoros Islands are an archipelago of four volcanic islands (or three island, and Mayotte, it really depends on who you ask) that float in the north of the Mozambique Channel, roughly half way between Mozambique/Tanzania and Madagascar. The town of Chindini lies on the South East tip of Grande Comore, the largest of the Comorian Islands (also one of the world's largest active volcano), where it sticks out into the Indian Ocean and provides the closest point to the neighbouring island of Moheli.

Chindini itself is a windswept maze of concrete and basalt and looks much the same as every other town on Grande Comore, as if a volcano has rolled through a building site. Chindini is built on one of the few stretches of coast not made out of hard black volcanic rock, with the coastline breaking up enough to provide a small natural harbour and beach. As a result, the town is home to the largest fishing fleet in South East Grande Comore and the town's entire population consists almost entirely of fishermen and their families.

I was supposed to be in Chinidini for the whale season, which runs from late July until the end of October, but with the bulk of the Humpbacks apparently having gone south for the summer and a fortnight to kill before my flight back to the UK, I figured that we might as well run out the rest of the time pretending to be fishermen and see if I could make a few quid on the side by fishing it up Comorian style.

We'd roll out onto the beach around 6.00 AM, just as the sun was coming up and the local muezzins were trying to out-bellow each other across the bay. Then, we'd haul the boat down the beach and pile in before high tailing it out to sea, where we'd spend the next six hours hunting down and murdering fish. This mainly involved charging up and down Grand Comore's southern coast in our tiny plastic skiff, running lines out the side, tipped with grisly looking inch long hooks and hilarious plastic squid-like bait until something was stupid enough to fall for our trick and jump on the hook.

The boat itself was little more than a fibreglass hull, roughly patched with resin and paint, with a 25 HP Yamaha outboard (they have to be Yamaha) strapped to the back. Comfortable seating came in the form of a pair of wooden benches, also held in place by large volumes of resin and prone to snapping in rough weather, dumping anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting on them to the floor. A minor comfort was found by sitting on life jackets, rendering them completely worthless as buoyancy aides and also proving practically useless for cushioning blows to the arse in rough seas.

The boat captain and I had a pretty good system worked out for deciding where to go. First, we'd jet out of the harbour and smash through the walls of breakers until we hit the open ocean. If we made it through the waves without capsizing, I'd scan the sea trying to figure out which part looked calmest or most fish filled and yell some instructions in broken Franglais, "Allez a gauche!" or something similar, which Captain Privé would then laugh at and jam the outboard in the opposite direction to whatever I had instructed. Occasionally I'd try and outmanoeuvre him, giving the opposite directions to where I felt we should be going, but he'd always see through my ruse and take us straight into the huge rolling 10 metre nightmare waves. We were a good team. He was the captain, I was ballast to keep the boat from flipping over.

Our main targets were members of the Scrombridae family, including chunky 5 kilo tuna and smaller 2.5 kilo bonito, although occasionally we'd see other fishermen bringing in barracuda, espadon and even sharks. These fish all put up quite a bit of a fight, and whenever we were lucky enough to get a bite, the race was on to pull the 75 metre line in, hand over hand, before either the fish scarpered, the line snapped, or something bigger swallowed our prey. The last 5 metres or so of yanking would always prove the hardest, when the hooked fish would begin thrashing around and trying to swim away from the boat as if it's life depended on it.

Once landed, we'd take turns grabbing the unfortunate victim by the tail or gills and smashing it over the head with a big chunk of wood, until it stopped flapping around and died. This could take several whacks, and get extremely messy, as my blood splattered rash vest and board shorts can attest.

We were pretty lucky with the weather, but the locals would be going out every day, even with huge swells, white capped waves and howling winds. Fortunately, fatalities amongst the Chindini fishing community seem rare, although there were plenty of people ready to tell me stories of men lost at sea and boats capsizing, with night fishing proving the most hazardous of all. Our boat only rolled a couple of times but on both occasions we were able to bail her out and get the motor started again.

Occasionally the whales would pop back up to say hi.

Around midday, we'd head back in to Chindini and try and find a buyer for our catch. Whilst the men of the town are out catching the fish, the women act as brokers, selling off the returning cargo as it arrives back in port. Some of it stays in Chindini, but a lot of the catch is loaded into taxis and buses and shipped along the coast, some of the fish making it as far markets in Grande Comore's capital city Moroni.

So this was the routine as I played at being a fisherman and wrapped up my time in the Comoros. All too quickly I found myself flying back out over Kilimanjaro, heading for the UK and the inevitable drift back into old routines, along with that nagging doubt that any of it really happened.

Probably not.