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All freshwater divers know that rats' urine can be dangerous, giving rise to Weill's Disease, which is fortunately mostly confined to those unpopular diving sites called sewers.
But I have, finally, heard of some other dangerous by-products of water rats.
I say "finally", because one of my lesser Welsh Leaks has only just told me of the disgraceful goings-on at Monmouth Rowing Club during the dragon-boat race on the River Usk.
The local BSAC was involved in the organisation and was amazed when the safety boat found the unmistakable bubbles of a diver right in the middle of a heat of the race, and soon could see that there was a diver drifting down river, alone and without an SMB.
The race was stopped. It was then discovered that the drifting diver was the last of seven who had already run undetected under the racing dragons, fortunately without being hit.
When these water rats were asked for an explanation, they replied with a torrent of abuse based around the statement that they would dive where they something-well liked.
The local BSAC divers have asked me to help find out who these water rats were. My lesser Welsh Leak has tried to redeem himself and will be passing on his finding shortly.
To avoid Beachcomber having to name names, I would suggest that the Chief Rat sends me seven crisp cracklies from the not-so-magnificent seven, which I shall pass on to the local cancer hospice on behalf of which the dragon race was run. Only this belated donation will prevent publication of the names of all concerned.
Just when Beachcomber thought all was sweetness and light in the diving world, plop comes an e-mail which gives the heave-ho to many thoughts of next month's peace and goodwill.
Just when we all thought you couldn't tell the Bs from the Ps, the concord in the diving world seems to have gone a bit pear-shaped. A prominent P seem to have broken the truce and the big Bs will no doubt soon be demanding the admission of weapons' inspectors into Scotland.
In this tense situation the Ps are, of course, the Padis and the Bs the Beesacs. The e-mail (only slightly altered to protect the innocent) comes from a diver who describes himself as "a very active PADI assistant instructor, who dives every weekend in Scotland and anticipated some fantastic scenic diving when I booked a liveaboard trip round the Outer Hebrides". He was to dive with a group he had never met.
What a shock he got when a "group of experienced BSAC instructors and First Class divers" arrived to join the boat. They brought with them, says the PADI instructor, "lumphammers, crowbars, saws and lobster hooks, and over the week decimated the local wrecks, ruining the viz and bringing up any old rusty scrap...
"My suggestions of some scenic dives were met with scorn, and comments such as "what's the point in looking at bloody fish?'
"One diver even resurrected the habit of stabbing flatfish... The antics of this south coast club left me wondering why they bother diving and what habits they pass on to their students."
That's fighting talk, and there is no doubt that the Beesacs concerned will be scudding off a red-hot reply to these accusations.
In the interests of fair play, it should be noted that the PADI partisan does add that "the dives were great and the skipper excellent".
In the meantime before total club war breaks out, Beachcomber has asked his Leaks on both sides of the Border for the facts. All may not be exactly as it seems...
No further entries for the Guinness Book of Records for the largest catch by podger-wielding divers have passed the imposing portals of Eaton Towers and been carried by hand up the rickety staircase to Beachcomber's candle-lit attic.
I am not surprised by this dearth; last month's tale of a 32kg pierced turbot, so big that there was no room in the inflatable for any divers once it was installed aboard, would seem unbeatable.
Surprise expressed by other divers about the turbot was not so much about the size of the fish, as the fact that the catch was made by two veteran lady divers. I have, of course, like the gallant gentleman I am, refused to reveal their ages.
I can, however, give you a clue to their identity Ð one is a fading blonde, the other a greying brunette, both addicted to those "because I'm worth it" hair colourings, both born within easy spraying distance of North-west industry's cooling towers. I say no more.
However, I can tell you more about the derivation of the name "podger", which was given by divers to this neat little handspear.
Scaffolders claimed it first as the name of their basic tool. But now Mark, a keen reader of this column and a Merchant Navy second engineer, no less, has sent me a fine drawing of how podgers are used (on land, that is).
He also tells me that although his ship still carries podgers on board for pipe-flange aligning, the scaffolders "nicked the name" from the more elevated steel erectors who work much higher up on such mighty structures as pylons.
Beachcomber fears that he has stumbled into one of those classic job-demarcation disputes of Old Labour days: scaffolders v steel erectors. Who has the most right to handle the podger?
All divers know that clubs grow in number by the natural process of partition. Branches break up and a group of its members go off to found a diving club of their own. Though often a matter of some acrimony at the time, in the end it usually works out well.
But I am hearing a sad tale of one such split that seems to have gone badly awry. At a dry meeting concerning the division of the original club's assets, it was apparently agreed by all that the Resussie Annie, overhead projector and that sort of thing would be given to local schools.
The club's funds, after paying off any outstanding bills, would be donated in their entirety to the RNLI.
That vital meeting took place last year, but my local Leak tells me that the RNLI has since received nothing. Can this really have happened? Beachcomber just can't believe that any divers would behave like this, split or no split.
Tell me it isn't true...
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