| Should shore-divers be more considerate towards their marshals, and show their appreciation? Lewis Graham recently spent three months in the Philippines with Coral Cay Conservation and felt that this band of martyrs deserved better treatment |
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Shore marshals seem to be chosen from the walking wounded. They might have a sinus problem, or a volcano-like infection where a knife-strap rubbed a mosquito bite, or a horrendous gash on their shin resulting from too many beers on the night when the generator failed.
The thought of shore-marshalling from the palm-fringed beach of a tropical isle might sound attractive, but these people desperately want to be diving, yet have to settle for watching others do it.
They also suffer numerous indignities. Some divers seem intent on dashing past the shore marshal with the sole purpose of denying him information.
But the comedians are the worst. Dive plans are described as "deep for ages". Rarely do pressure gauges read 200 bar, but 198.5 bar, or 2800psi. The snorkeller will proudly announce, "Zero bar". His astute buddy declares: "One bar".
Today's diving begins. A buddy pair tell the marshal they plan to do a "jolly", not a survey dive. They walk several hundred metres down the beach before entering the water, and fin towards Manta Rock, where the currents are strong.
Four survey teams arrive and fin to various sections of the house reef. The serious-minded marshal gives each of the five SMBs a number and plots its progress on the map he has drawn on his slate.
SMB1 is fast disappearing towards Manta Rock. It will always be isolated, but will he be able to distinguish between the other four? They are all identical, apart from SMB3, which has no flag. No team has chosen the only sausage-shaped buoy, which would have stood out.
SMB1 is now hard to see and the breeze is in the wrong direction for the marshal to hear a shout. Does not the Good Shepherd leave the flock to find the one that is lost?
He legs it down the beach, just in time to hear the cry "divers down" from the direction of Manta Rock. He raises his slate in acknowledgment and writes down the descent time and latest acceptable time for surfacing. He then hurries back up the beach, mentally picturing exasperated divers complaining about a marshal who is too far away to do his job properly. Out of breath, overheated in the sun, he is just in time to acknowledge SMB2.
Eventually the remaining teams are down. He heaves a sigh of relief.
As the teams search for the starting points for their surveys, the marshal observes an amazing spectacle: SMB2 crosses the path of SMB3 while SMB4 moves past SMB5. SMB2 moves seawards while SMB4 retreats a little. The shifting positions on his map give the impression of a lobsters' quadrille being danced.
The marshal thinks he has managed to keep track of each team and is reassured to find that his supposed SMB3 is indeed the one with no flag. Then he notices that SMB2 also has no flag. Has it been lost, or deliberately removed to confound him?
Two teams separate off and head along the reef, in the other direction from SMB1.
Our hero had been looking forward to sitting on the comfy seat in the shade of the foliage at the beach edge, but there is nowhere he can position it and clearly see all the SMBs. So he spends his time walking up and down the beach from one extreme position to the other. The sun rises higher; his water is nearly gone.
The buddy pair at Manta Rock should surface first. They're a minute overdue.
His heart rate quickens. He squints one final time towards the SMB before putting his emergency plan into operation.
He thinks he can see the two divers and raises his slate to signal, but he has not heard the call "divers up". He records a total time of 42 minutes and sprints back up the beach to attend to the four survey teams. He is beginning to understand that he is not paranoid. Everybody really is plotting against him.
The buddy pair at Manta Rock had deliberately surfaced in front of the rock so that their dark suits could not be seen. The call "divers up" had been made in a deliberately low voice that could not be heard against the strengthening wind.
Last week Simon and Vijay had been swept out to sea by currents near Manta Rock and the rescue boat had needed to be called - obviously this had been pre-planned to give the shore marshal grief.
Amazingly, he is just in time to see the survey teams surface within minutes of one another. They fin ashore and crowd around him, shouting out bottom times and maximum depths and residual pressures as he frantically attempts to record it all on his slate.
They are invading his personal space. They drip water on him. One even drips fluid from his runny nose on him.
That night he awakens from an uneasy slumber. It's far too hot to sleep properly. Had it all been a fitful dream?
Then he remembers the nice young man who had slapped him on the back, thanked him for looking after the divers and said he would be buying him a beer that night.
It must have been a dream, because that never happens to a shore marshal in real life.
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