Some dives start off so promisingly, and then,out of nowhere, up looms our old acquaintance the Incident Pit. Fenella Jackson will never forget one of those dives, or the lessons learnt
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The cutting edge, the sting in the tail
I STUMBLE DOWN THE CLIFF OF LUNDY ISLAND, set in the Bristol Channel. I disturb the awakening birds, their gleeful songs lifting my pace. Today, we are going to dive the Robert.
The weather is perfect, but the tides are fierce, and we can dive on the ebb only for a short period. There is a mad scurry as we gather our equipment, and we clamber onto the boat in anticipation of the dive ahead.
The Robert was a small container ship, which sank off the east coast of Lundy in 1975. She lies in approximately 25m.
I am kitted up and await my buddy. Together we plan our dive, and carry out safety checks before we roll backwards off the boat into the balmy waters. The shotline is sitting on the hull of the Robert.
At the line, we exchange signals and are ready to go. We squeeze the remnants of air from our jackets, and slip beneath the waves, feeling the chill on our brows. The current is strong. This will be a demanding dive.
Our feet on the hull of the Robert, assured that we are both happy, we head away from the shotline. The visibility is poor, so a great deal of caution is necessary today. Within seconds, I see a disaster unfolding.
My buddy is a strapping, fit, muscular man, in contrast to my diminutive frame. He is scrambling ahead of me. I am experiencing monumental difficulty fighting the current, and he is becoming a mere shadow in my torch beam.
I see tattered rope hanging from the structures of the wreck, but am powerless against the force of the current, which is now feeling like the spin-cycle of a washing machine. Finally, in horror, I see him momentarily stop, and then he is thrashing and kicking in distress.
The silt fills the water, and my buddy has vanished.
I inch my way towards him, but am acutely aware that he must still be in torment, as the visibility is worsening.
At last I see him, his hands ripping at his neck. I let him know that I am there, but he is too anguished to reason.
Where are all the other divers? Is there anybody here?
I have to wait. Slowly he calms down, and I can see the extent of the crisis. A rope is tangled around his neck, his eyes are bulging like oranges, and he is very frightened.
I learn later that he had finned beneath a rope that had become tangled around his pillar valve. He had tried in vain to unravel it himself, turning a circle and thus becoming noosed.
My hands are juddering; I can hear my own heart beat, pounding like an orchestra, and I struggle for breath. We have enough air to come out of this, if only I can keep him calm.
I tug at my knife, and reach for the rope to cut my buddy free. Disaster. My knife is blunt. I feel tears of despondency drip into my mask. I cannot believe that I have not checked my equipment thoroughly.I have used my knife many times, but only to cut fishing line.
Suddenly I see my buddy's knife. I launch myself at it, trying to avoid his thrashing fins, concerned that he will kick my mask or, worse, dislodge my air supply. His knife in hand, I take the end of the rope, and it glides through like butter.
My buddy is free, but suffering the effects of severe shock and exhaustion. I apply a little air to his BC, hold him tightly, and begin a slow ascent to the surface, where much-welcomed assistance will be on hand.
I am staring into the face of my weakened buddy and watching my depth gauge, because to suffer the bends or a perforated lung from an uncontrolled ascent now would be catastrophic.
Suddenly I feel a searing burn whip across my lips and forehead, which punches more air from my fatigued lungs. I look around, and see a jellyfish tangled in a rope above, and some of the delicate long tendrils swaying gracefully in the current. They have wrapped themselves around my demand valve, and are continuing to emit their ferocious stings.
Only 10m to the surface - I tell myself that the ordeal is nearly over: "Hang on in there!"
At last the visibility intensifies. I can sense the sunrays above, and I hear the rumble of the boat nearby.
I hold my buddy with one arm, and raise my other arm to break the surface. Then, whoosh, our heads are above sea level. It's a joyous moment.
I frantically wave the emergency signal to the boat, and it is beside us in seconds. People are clasping us tightly and whispering words of reassurance. My buddy and I are plucked safely on board.
I stutter my way through the events of the dive, and my buddy is recovering, but I am having difficulty breathing, and my lips are swollen, resembling two rows of fat strawberries.
I am in trouble. I am experiencing an anaphylactic reaction to jellyfish stings.
I am the luckiest diver in the world, as we have a doctor on board who is carrying the life-saving injections I require to help me breathe again.
A huge lesson was learnt that fateful day, of the importance of checking every aspect of your diving equipment, and of the usefulness of buddy lines. Also the fact that a blunt knife can kill.
Five days later, we return to the Robert, and my buddy brings the near-fatal rope to the surface as a trophy. Later he gave it to me in the form of a plaque, with a brass plate inscribed: "Fenella. The (almost) unstung heroine of the Robert."
I bought a new knife prior to that dive. Thankfully, I didn't need to use it. The dive was perfect!
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