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THE AGE OF THE PLANE
LOUISE TREWAVAS
IT IS COMFORTING TO BELIEVE that we have a measure of control over our diving destinies, but there are forces in this world more powerful than ourselves. Easyjet and Ryan Air, to name but two.
The cost of a flight to a diver-friendly Mediterranean destination is now less than the entry fee to Stoney Cove. The check-in queue is shorter than the one for the lower car park, and the flight has landed in less time than it takes to get through the M4/M5 traffic jam at Bristol.
So this year it's off to sunny Spain with the latest crop of trainee divers. It was a choice between diving off the club RIB at Littlehampton, with maybe 2m of silty viz, and water at 9¡; or a long weekend in the Costa Blanca for the same price. It took them, oh, all of 30 seconds to decide.
Is it self-loathing or simple commonsense that drives us Brits to dive abroad? Rab Ronaldson is standing in the sunlight at the entrance to his Javea-based dive centre in a pair of shorts. A red-haired Scotsman with a tan is always a slightly un-nerving sight, but he looks relaxed.
The last time I saw him was in National Diving Officer role at a ScotSAC meeting, and it was so cold in the building that I was forced to keep my coat on during all the presentations, including my own. As I'm a southerner (and a total girly) the audience expected no less.
Here at Amigos del Mar, we are definitely among friends - and maybe that's another factor in the British diving dilemma. Would I have had the confidence to bring my trainees to an unknown Spanish dive centre?
Here, I know that the only barrier to understanding is deciphering Rab's accent. The biggest safety issue we'll face on the boat is sunburn.
So many Brits have moved to this part of Spain in search of sunshine and a better life that you could be forgiven for forgetting where you are.
The Humpty Dumpty newsagent displays copies of the Sun and sits next to the English Bakery, which sells British-style processed bread and bland homemade shortcake.
The pubs show English football matches and sell Tetleys beer and Walkers crisps. There's even an Indian restaurant within crawling distance. Oh yes, the very finest that British culture can offer is here.
Spain has passion, stunning architecture, rich history, fabulous wines. But it had never experienced the delights of Marmite until we arrived! Many Brits here speak barely two words of Spanish: San and Miguel.
The dive boat is a merry mix of expat Brits and German tourists, but everybody shakes their head in disbelief as I pull out my drysuit. Yes, I'm a southerner and a total girly - OK!
The conditions here may be kind, but the trainees are beginning to appreciate that buoyancy control is a universal requirement when diving. At least here they're looking for octopuses among the rocks, rather than hunting in darkness for their buddy.
I may feel guilty about shunning UK waters, but I know Littlehampton in April is only likely to convince the trainees that UK diving is cold and horrible. Making them suffer and endure in order to "toughen them up" may be a British tradition, but times have changed.
Our expectations and choices have changed. British diving either embraces the change and brings divers home or we are destined to dwindle to a perverse, minority, hardcore.
But perhaps sticking to what we know best and ignoring reality is just how some of us like it. After all, there are people sitting in a "British" pub in Benidorm, pretending they're in Blackpool. It may be delusional, but it feels comforting.
Perhaps I'm destined to become everything that I despise, but at least I can recognise that learning to dive is still a challenge, whether you're in Portland or Puerta del Carmen.
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