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FAMILIES AND HOW TO SURVIVE THEM
PEOPLE GET STUCK.IT'S AN EASY THING TO DO. At this time of year, I take my dive kit and escape to somewhere warm for the Xmas break. Years ago, you could get good deals at Xmas because no one wanted to be away, but these days the reverse is true. Airline and hotel prices double because, basically, we're all trying to escape the sheer torture of a compulsory family Xmas.
Parents: we love them, but we can't live with them. They always have that knack of transforming you from a calm, responsible adult to an incoherent wreck in under 30 seconds with a single choice phrase. To them, you will always be a child, whether you're 15 or 55. It's no good trying to apply logic; they have the power to mess up your head.
Going diving over Xmas won't free you from this power, but it will save your sanity. And you can start January with a great tan.
But if diving is salvation, it can also set a few traps. I learned to dive in a club, in the days when trainees were called novices and instructors were royalty. To me, the woman who took me on my first open-water dive will always be a dive goddess. She has since married, had kids and does a lot less diving, but Mary Kirk is still my hero.
But even when I became an instructor myself, some of the people who taught me to dive would always, subtly, regard me as a novice. Which was irritating, but in fact I had it easy.
Many people in the club were openly regarded as no-hopers and eternal novices - usually men named Kevin or Keith, invariably working in IT. Bizarrely, these people seemed to relish their role as club numpty, and provided great entertainment on dive trips.
"OK then," snarled the Diving Officer, casting a stern eye around the RIB full of kitted-up divers, "I expect you all to use your delayed SMBs. Does everyone have one?" Pregnant pause as everyone looked at Keith.
"Keith, do you have an SMB?"
"Yes," replied Keith, clutching a rolled-up orange blob. He waits until the moment that we're being dropped on the shot to break the news that he doesn't have a reel.
Just as teenagers torture their parents with nose-piercings and rap music, so the underdogs of club diving can wreak a form of revenge by causing the DO's head to explode with outrage.
I never understood why the Keiths and Kevins of this world put up with being branded - often quite randomly - as dive twits by their pseudo mums and dads. Perhaps we fall easily into these roles because, however painful and destructive, they feel familiar. People get stuck.
You can't chose your family, but these days you have a great choice of who you dive with. Have the confidence to fly the nest and dive beyond the club - even if you go only as far as the comfort of another club.
So if you're feeling stuck, skip the usual New Year's resolutions to lose weight, get fitter and stop shagging the wrong people. Get out and train with other diving agencies to open your mind to different approaches. Dive with people who don't know you and make no assumptions about whether you're brilliant or bumbling. It'll be liberating and revealing.
Just like revisiting your parents after you've left home, the powers-that-be in your dive club may not appreciate you for stepping outside their authority.
Well, it's a time of year for nostalgia. I remember, all those years ago, how they laughed when I turned up with my tekkie long hose and harness. And how quickly they banned rebreathers when I turned up with one of those. Hmmm, I wonder what those same people are likely to have on their Xmas wish-list this year?
Ho, ho, ho! You can't beat the last laugh.
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