It was time for some summer reading, and the response to the latest Diver Short Story Competition was once again big enough to leave our judges red-eyed and reeling. There are some frighteningly fertile imaginations at work out there...

THE BRIEF: to write a 400-word diving story, fact or fiction, based on one of five themes we provided to help you concentrate your ideas. By far your favourite theme was Nightmare, followed in descending order by Under Instruction, A Thing of Beauty, The Supernatural and lastly (because you're obviously not keen to share your guilty secrets), Shamed.
     The fact that Nightmare loomed so large underlined our long-held belief that divers are as fascinated by what can go wrong in our sport as with the wonders of the underwater world. It's human nature, and the darker side of diving (plus a lot of humour) was also evident in many stories in other categories. But it makes perfect sense: it's our constant awareness of potential dangers that keeps us safe under water.
     Having said that, as it happens not a single Nightmare entry ended up among our winners. It was difficult whittling hundreds of entries down to a mere 10, but don't be too disappointed if yours wasn't one of the stories selected. Because we received so many interesting accounts, we will almost certainly try to use some in future issues. Perhaps another Nightmares feature is on the cards?
     You were looking for a place in the pages of Diver, not to mention a cool £2350-worth of Mares dive-gear prizes from Blandford Sub-Aqua. We were looking for story content, writing style, a good structure and an entertaining approach. So see what you make of these 10 winning entries...

BYCATCH, by Andrew Faulkner
A Thing of Beauty/Fiction
To the scientists, he was a thing of beauty.
     His journey had been a long and painful odyssey of countless operations and examinations but now he stood on the threshold of human evolution. He wasn't in this to advance scientific knowledge, he wanted fame and to be the first human truly to travel in inner space.
     As he slid beneath the surface, sunlight and shadows glistened and played over his coils and tubes. Sunshine and seafoam sparkled on his enmeshed body, turning him golden...
     ...Years, decades later and thousands of metres deeper, the dark was absolute. But thanks to the radiance of his organic infra-red emitters and his grafted faceted lenses, his view wasn't a surreal distortion of the seascape here at the furthest depths of the Marianas trench.
     At pressures unimaginable, he flowed through the water using the cilia covering his body, micro-filaments wafting him effortlessly along. His bio-engineered gills filtered the surrounding water for the nutrients and gases his living cells still demanded.
     Warmed by a molecule-thin energy web across the surface of his brain, and with his few remaining essential organs replaced with titanium and polymer surrogates, the problems of pressure and temperature disappeared.
     Guided by the Earth's magnetic fluxes (and an unerring sense that he never could fully explain to the progenitors of his technological rebirth) he neared journey's end - the first human (?) to traverse the bed of the Pacific Ocean.
     Tracking him from above by the faint pulse of his in-built micro-fusion generators, the scientists keenly awaited his arrival. Started all those years ago, they avidly awaited vistas and sounds of an underwater existence unknown to man, faithfully recorded on nanobots with a digital clarity.
     The Guam fisherman never knew what he had caught in his trawl nets. Dumped on the deck amid the usual catch of squid, fish and crustaceans, it squealed and writhed. The mollusc- and algae-encrusted abomination coiled and threshed on the teak boards, slowly suffocating until the captain's fishing gaff slammed into its chest.
     With an almighty shove, the captain sent the corpse overboard. Muttering "Madre d'Dios" and crossing himself repeatedly, he set course for home, vowing never again to set sail.
     Behind him, a cloud of red spread slowly outward from a ripple of bubbles, as the world's first Bio-Naut slowly sank from sight.
     Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.

RELIEF, by Stuart Gow
A Thing of Beauty/Fact
Imagine, if you will, a small bulldog, covered in moss and lichen, with a row of poisonous spines along its back, and eyes made out of old CDs. Then flatten it between two bricks. Now imagine divers paying more than £2000 to travel halfway around the world to see it.
     This thing of beauty is called a leaf scorpionfish, and is found in many places in the South Pacific. It is about 4 inches long and sits on coral rubble pretending very hard to be a leaf.
     The joy for divers is that if a leaf gets up and swims away, it really blows its cover, so the fishes will sit calmly swaying in the current, emitting "leaf" vibrations, while an entire school of would-be photo pros flash away right in their faces.
     They are patient beasts. They are regularly seen on Indo-Pacific reefs, but require a trained, divemasterly eye to find.
     We had had the advantage of such an eye, and my buddy and I were examining a green and yellow pair that resembled nothing so much as two dowager duchesses discovered furtively watching Reality TV. They positively radiated injured dignity, but weren't about to move and make things worse.
     Conscious of their rarity, we were being all very serious and impressed, and treating them with great reverence. However, one of them looked really strange. Instead of being leaf-like and flattened, it had a distinct bulge in the abdomen.
     I pointed it out to my buddy and made a "maybe pregnant?" mime (use your imagination). We peered. Then another thought occurred to me and I mimed: "Maybe just eaten?"
     It was one of those David Attenborough-style moments of discovery. We might have been on the verge of a major discovery in the field of scorpionfish reproduction.
     At this point the fish, which had been regarding us solemnly, slowly and deliberately rotated itself, turned tail on us - and shat right in our faces.
     We both totally lost it, giggling and howling so that, although our masks were filling up with water, we couldn't clear them for laughter, falling down the wall as we lost all buoyancy control.
     I am preparing the paper on the relief of icthyological constipation as we speak, and searching for the appropriate journal to publish it.

NORMAN, by P Graham
Shamed/Fiction
Norman thought about his situation. However hard he tried, he could not free himself. He knew his air would last quite a while at this depth, so there was no need to panic yet.
     On completing his open-water course two weeks ago, the dive store had secured a bundle of cash as he bought the best of everything. His mother had questioned his sanity for being so extravagant. He should have gained more experience before committing himself, but he would not be told.
     He argued that, at 36, he knew what he wanted. He made good money down the sewers, and what else did he have to spend it on?
     His father commented that it certainly wasn't wasted on friends, girls or his own flat, but Norman didn't rise to that. Anyway, he liked living at home, and as for friends, he had dozens!
     The course had been great and he'd made several new friends. On one occasion he had suggested forming a buddy-sharing group but the others weren't keen. Strange how they always seemed to be just finishing a conversation, or how some of the group were always just leaving when he got there.
     Since the course, he had telephoned several of the others and told them at length about his new gear. He had tried to arrange a little dive outing to christen it all but it seemed everyone already had plans.
     One of the guys had suggested that he didn't need all his own gear yet, especially the triple-tank set-up he kept on about. Norman was beginning to agree.
     He gave a little wriggle but remained fixed. After all those lectures about the buddy system, perhaps testing his equipment alone fell short of a good idea.
     He looked down at his elaborate dive computer. Time was moving on and his air would soon become an issue. Unfortunately, he could not move enough to switch to his reserve.
     His parents would be home shortly but, sadly, neither of them would know were he was. It would soon be time to panic!
     Suddenly, his head and shoulders rushed upwards. The force almost dislodged his regulator.
     "What the bloody hell are you doing, you silly sod?" shouted his father.
     Norman, sitting there in all his gear, looked embarrassed. "I was just trying out my new equipment and the tanks got wedged against the sides of the bath!" he said.

BREAKFAST, by James Hall
Shamed/Fact
Shortly after we touched down at Fort Lauderdale I was at the dive shop, booking a two-day trip. Early next day, I was raring to go.
     Through what seemed an incredible stroke of fortune, I was paired with Emma (oh, yes!), who had attracted much attention from the moment she stepped aboard.
     She told me she had only recently taken up the sport and had little experience. Neither had I, but she didn't need to know that.
     I instantly became something of a diving veteran.
     Unfortunately, halfway out, I began to suffer from seasickness. Emma was bombarding me with questions and I made a brave attempt to style it out, but knew I was in trouble.
     Risking the loss of Emma's attention, I made sure I was the first one kitted out at the site, hoping to quell my motion-sickness in the cool water. I had hoped Emma would be ready, too, but she was chatting to some other divers.
     I had to make a run for it. I pulled my fins on and waddled towards the stern, where the captain was checking off buddy pairs. In my haste, I managed to tramp on his foot. He instinctively pushed me away, and off I went into the deep blue.
     Without an inflated BC, and no reg in my mouth, I was in a bit of trouble. I managed to sort myself out, and resurfaced to signal "OK". One look at the skipper's face told me I'd get a bollocking on my return.
     While I bobbed up and down, Emma strolled to the platform, donned her fins and executed a perfect giant stride into the water. Wow, did I feel like an amateur!
     We descended to 10m. I was relieved to be in the still water but the damage had been done. Emma turned to give me the "OK" sign, and I discharged the entire contents of my stomach through my reg.
     Emma was clearly not impressed. To make matters worse, a glass-bottomed tourist boat had pulled up above us. The occupants had witnessed everything.
     A few moments later, I realised why they refused to move on and give me my dignity.
     My breakfast had become an irresistible attraction for what seemed to be every fish in the Florida Keys!
     Of course, when we surfaced Emma related the story to the entire crew, topping off a thoroughly embarrassing morning for me.

SEA LEGS, by Rose-Ann Manning
Under Instruction/Fact
I tackled diving when I was nervous nineteen. The dive centre owners, Barry and Celia, were friendly, efficient and ran a well-equipped, well-priced diveshop. I was impressed. I was relieved. I was obviously in good hands. The course progressed.
     On Friday evening, I settled down to relax before the Big Day. My first sea dives were to take place the following morning on Aliwal Shoal, in South Africa. I rather unwisely watched a bloodthirsty movie about a giant squid eating boats and fishermen.
     Morning dawned. Arriving at the beach, I learned that Barry would be taking our group for our dives. I was fine with that. I'd seen his certificates. Not only was he as highly qualified as a person can be in the recreational realm, but he was also a technical instructor, a gas-blender and heaps of other impressive things.
     Time came to don wetsuits. I had hitherto seen Barry only in long trousers - imagine my consternation when I saw that he had not one, but two wooden legs! How was he going to climb into the boat, never mind swim? I had morbid flashbacks of the evil squid. Only incredible self-control allowed me to proceed.
     During the 7 kilometre boat-ride through rough seas, a worse thought occurred. How had Barry lost those legs?
     When the time came, I threw myself off the boat with true abandon, the sort that kamikaze pilots display.
     As we knelt on the sand to perform skills, I glanced (foolish! foolish!) beneath a nearby overhang. Fourteen pairs of eyes glared and 14 rows of teeth grinned at me. I was kneeling only 5 short metres away from seven ragged-tooth sharks.
     I took hold of Barry's hand. I relaxed. I remembered all those certificates. Phew!
     Then I remembered his legs, or lack of them. I just knew they must have been eaten by a shark, or seven. No wonder he wore long trousers at the dive centre!
     I questioned Barry later about his legs. "Train accident, when I was 15," he casually replied. It dawned on me that all those qualifications, all those certificates, had come after his accident.
     Having two artificial legs hadn't hampered Barry at all. He is one of the most highly qualified people I know, successful, has a beautiful wife, his own business, a great pair of legs and a great sense of humour too! He's one hell of a walking advertisement.

SPEECHLESS, by G Mathieson
Under Instruction/Fact
There are many reasons to dive, ask any diver. Some will wax lyrical about the virtues of sinking beneath the waves. Ask me and I will tell you that it is the only sport during which my wife Alayne is silent, or at least, almost silent.
     Anywhere else, skiing, mountaineering even, clinging to a rock face, she always has something to say.
     Communication while diving was a problem she hadn't even considered when first starting her instruction years ago. Following me into the underwater world for the first time, she was blissfully unaware of the fact that she was effectively gagged.
     We were in the Red Sea and the view from where we hung suspended in warm water stunned her into silence for... well, at least five minutes. Then we reached the bottom and the vast colourful cabaret of life began to focus into a myriad of fascinating critters, and I could see the urge to speak overwhelm her. Like an excited child in a toyshop she swam backwards and forwards, periodically appearing in my field of view, gesticulating wildly in a vain attempt to describe something she had seen.
     I quickly learnt that looking justifiably confused caused an even more extravagant outburst but smiling and nodding with interest satisfied her and she would disappear off again. Her instructor, however, responded to her violent waving and flic-flacs with concern until confirming that all was OK.
     Towards the end of the dive, a shoal of barracuda swam across our path in a dramatic flash of silver. Sure enough, Alayne appeared in front of my mask and I prepared myself for another show.
     She pointed at the disappearing barracuda and appeared to start to spell using her hands: "T", one hand across the top of the other; "U", heels of her hands together, palms and fingers curved into the two sides of the letter.
     "What?" I was about to ask but she had disappeared mid-mime, being dragged towards the boat by her instructor. I dutifully followed and surfaced in time to hear her ask what she had done wrong.
     "Nothing," her instructor said. "You were saying you were low on air and asking to go back to the boat."
     "No, I wasn't," she wailed. "I was spelling 'TUNA'." Clearly further instruction was needed, not least in the art of staying QUIET.

SALEM CURSE, by Martin Read
The Supernatural/Fact
We were booked on a two-week liveaboard, going to the southern Red Sea. On arrival, we found out that one of the sites we would be diving was a new wreck called the Salem Express.
     None of us had heard of this wreck before, so I made a few enquiries.
     A local friend of mine, an Egyptian, explained that a couple of years before, hundreds of people had died on the wreck. The locals weren't happy about tourists diving it. "Every time they dive it, something bad happens," he warned.
     I cast his curse aside, just as Howard Carter had done 100 years before at the Tomb of Tutankhamun. The following is an account of what happened:
     I dived the Salem Express with my Nik 5 and my model. I was there hoping to get a front-cover shot for a diving magazine. Within 15 minutes the camera had jammed and, despite all our efforts, we never managed to fix it.
     A few days later, while snorkelling, my weightbelt fell off in 10m of water. While finning down to get it, I found it hard to equalise, but with the belt being so close I was sure I could reach it. Boom! I blew my eardrum out.
     Being off the coast of Sudan, which had recently suffered an Ebola epidemic, I had no intention of going to the local hospital to get it examined.
     A few days after this, in the middle of the night, we heard a loud thud and the boat tipped over at a 45¡ angle. The drunken ex-convict of an Egyptian captain had been trying to navigate a reef at night. We were now shipwrecked.
     About 18 hours later I swam across to a passing boat, dodging a bull shark that was taking an interest in me, to radio for the navy. They came and the captain was arrested. We spent the rest of the holiday in a hotel, thinking the worst had happened.
     How wrong we were. The hotel manager said: "Come to my funky, groovy disco!" What an offer!
     We arrived to find that it was an Egyptian disco. Men only. We were the only westerners there. On entering, we were greeted by the sight of 50 men in full Arab dress dancing in sync to Whigfield's Saturday Night.
     I've got over the physical scars of that holiday, but the mental ones still haunt me.

GOOD BUDDY BREATHING, by David McRonald
Under Instruction/Fact
Having been a diving instructor for a good many years, I thought I had experienced all the antics trainee divers get up to during their training. I hadn't counted on Kiwi, a long-distance lorry driver who called everyone "Good Buddy".
     At the next pool session his good buddy was Paul, a professional person. Both were about to learn the skill of buddy breathing.
     During the briefing, Kiwi admitted to slight nervousness about not having his mouthpiece where it should be, namely, in his mouth rather than Paul's. "Don't worry," I said in my reassuring instructor voice, "we practise in shallow water before going deeper."
     Confidence grew as they repeated the skill until they were ready to go into "the Abyss" as Kiwi called it; I call it 2 metres. Paul gave the out-of-air signal and they started their alternate breathing, diving-manual perfect.
     Then Kiwi began to keep his mouthpiece in for longer than Paul thought he should, so Paul reminded Kiwi that he too needed to breathe, by giving the mouthpiece a sharp tug.
     That's when it happened. Not only did the mouthpiece come out of Kiwi's mouth, but so did his false teeth. Suspended in midwater for a second, they then slowly fanned downwards like a queenie scallop.
     As soon as Kiwi saw what had happened, he caught the top and bottom set with one swoop. Then, realising he had let go of his mouthpiece, he stuffed his teeth down the front of his trunks and continued as if nothing had happened.
     Paul, concentrating on his breathing pattern, was oblivious to the dilemma, so I signalled them to go back to shallow water. We surfaced.
     I was about to give Kiwi a ticking-off for ignoring my safety lecture about not having anything loose in your mouth while diving, but he beat me to it.
     With a toothless grin, he said: "Wow, Dave, you must be a good instructor! Did you notice, I didn't panic at any time?"
     What could I say? Then, feeling down the front of his trunks, he fished out his teeth, held them up and said to Paul: "Hey, Good Buddy, what's the best glue to keep these fixed in my mouth?"
     Yes, you've guessed it. Paul was a dentist!

DON'T PANIC, by Tony Walsh
A Thing of Beauty/Fiction
I had no reg in my mouth. My eyes were open but it was dark - and warm? Where was up? Where was down?
     I rolled sideways, dropped my arm and tried to sweep up my reg - nothing. I put my hand over my shoulder to locate the tank and hose - no tank. Christ! Panic flooded through me as I realised that my life was within minutes of ending.
     It had been a beautiful day. The sky was blue, the sea calm and silky as I slid in from the jetty on a shallow solo dive.
     Every stone on the seabed was imbued with colour, mystery hid behind every waving frond of seaweed. It was the best dive ever.
     It seemed natural to follow the rock outcrop on which the jetty was built and which dazzled with the reflection of the sun off the white coral that encased it. Small anemones jutting in patches made startlingly bright outbursts of colour.
     Languidly I swam off, hovering a few feet above the bottom, doing lazy barrel rolls as the sun shone through the blue water from high above.
     Suddenly, as I turned to complete a roll, I was snagged and jerked to a halt. I blundered around to see what had happened. It was a net. I had no knife!
     The BC and tank came off smoothly but I remained wrapped in net. I still breathed deeply and evenly from the reg. I looked for a solution but found none. I kept calm and prayed to God. As my air dropped, I decided that my only option was an emergency ascent. I hoped I would break free from the net or even drag it up with me. I was desperate.
     A last few deep breaths, a powerful kick and I was off. I surged powerfully upwards - and stuck.
     The light still looked down on me, tantalisingly close. Then it grew dark. Where was I? What happened?
     Then I saw the light. I swam towards it, got stuck again but kicked powerfully and surged out into the brightness. I felt giddy, couldn't breathe.
     Suddenly I felt myself flying through the air, until I hung suspended upside-down, like a fish just landed.
     I felt a sharp slap, and the last thing I remember is a voice saying:
     "There you are, Mrs. Walsh, you have a beautiful baby boy."

And the winner is:

The final Round, by Martin Wilkinson
The Supernatural/Fiction
"It's obvious that shipwrecks often result in death. It seems death occasionally results in ghosts. Ghosts and wrecks go together. Cheers! Good health!"
     I glanced across the pub at the speaker, who was quaffing a large rum handed to him by one of the group lounging at the bar. I recognised them as old-school wreckies, responsible for despoiling many a wreck around our coast.
     The speaker, a white-haired old man, dressed in an old-fashioned and extremely wet pea-jacket and faded britches, looked eccentric even for this quaint village. Despite the fug of the bar, I could smell a strong whiff of the sea.
     The listeners seemed not to notice, hanging on the old man's every word.
     "Not everyone believes in ghosts," he continued quietly, "but they are among us. Sometimes, we can see them - poor tormented souls with unfinished business on Earth."
     He seemed to catch my eye, and slammed his glass down on the bar, causing the bystanders to jump.
     The old man then disappeared from my sight as he bent to rummage in a small bag on the floor. He reappeared with an old leather wallet.
     The old man reached into the wallet and pulled out a wad of dripping bank notes. He turned to the wreckies: "What are you lads drinking?" They all put in their orders and he paid the barman, who picked up the soggy cash dubiously and made some quip about money-laundering.
     The old man strolled over and placed a pint on my table. The bar had become deathly quiet. I became aware that everyone was looking towards me.
     "They finally found your body today, Davie," he said to me, indicating the wreckies, "on the Hispania. Your wallet was in that leaky old suit of yours, so I've got that round of drinks you'd always promised us.
     "If you hadn't been so tight, maybe you'd have looked after your kit better and could still enjoy a jar with us."
     The crowd raised their glasses: "Cheers, Davie, Good Health!" I raised my hand in the OK signal, smiled and let myself slip away into eternal seas.
     The old man, wiping away a tear, finished his drink. "All the best, son," he whispered, and turned away. "Right," he said, "I'd better get back to entertaining the tourists. I wish the bloody rain would stop."

PRIZE-WINNERS
Prizes worth £2350 go to the winners of the Diver Short Story Competition, sponsored by Blandford Sub-Aqua.
     Martin Wilkinson wins the first prize of a £725 Mares HUB, the integrated diving system which consists of a double-wing BC; regulator with front-mounted hose; and octopus, console and oral inflator each housed in its own compartment.
     Andrew Faulkner, Stuart Gow, P Graham, Rose-Ann Manning, G Mathieson and Tony Walsh will each be able to monitor their future dives using compact Mares Surveyor dive computers, worth £225 each.
     James Hall, David McRonald and Martin Read can strut their stuff in Mares Plana Avanti Quattro fins, which retail at £86.50.
     And 12-year-old Andrew Bullock gets a Special Commendation for a well-written account of his first dive, and a prize will be on its way to him, too.