| Discretion is the better part of valour, until over-keen divers get a sniff of salt air. Brian Rees laments the loss of common sense when the pressure's on to take the plunge |
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On my first trip to the Far East, I recall being overwhelmed by the shame of my host when he was unable to deliver a promised excursion.
In the scheme of a hectic schedule it was no big deal, no more than a minor disappointment to me, at most. But my oriental friend was truly inconsolable.
Frankly, I found his profuse apologies and repeated bowing a bit embarrassing.
Then it was explained to me that he felt he had broken faith, shown disrespect, discredited his company, and dishonoured his family name.
In short, by failing to fulfill a promise to take his guest to a famous downtown karaoke bar, he had suffered the ultimate indignity: loss of face. You might laugh, but it was no laughing matter to him.
I've never been back to Japan, but several times a year around the UK, on a slipway, a harbour wall or the deck of a violently pitching boat, I'm reminded of that worried, self-conscious feeling that says: "I'm sorry, I've let you down."
It arises when I'm the first to break rank and suggest that a dive should be abandoned. I feel the loss of face as surely as my sorry Japanese business associate.
At best, it's met by a few understanding words of support, but at other times the reaction is stony silence and all too often outright ridicule.
Trying to work out why this should be, just reflect on the stakes for a moment as I prepare for my first outing of the season:
I've forked out more than £300 to service and repair two sets of gear, plus another £100 to overhaul the drysuit.
After much haggling with my office colleagues, I've managed to get a weekend off, and so has the wife.
I've spent a whole afternoon re-configuring my kit, then parading around the back garden in it, much to the amusement of the neighbour's kids, who are making quips about the depth of the birdbath. After heaving the whole lot into the back of the car and putting the batteries for our new lamps on charge, we're ready for an early start in the morning.
Neap tides, not a breath of wind all week, a few new toys to play with, so we're itching to get at it, as is everybody else, of course.
When we arrive and see the state of the sea in the early morning light, it isn't exactly what we had hoped for.
We know in our hearts that about the only thing that will be going down this morning is a big breakfast in the cafe with the local fishermen.
But amazingly, down at the slipway, people are piling up gear in readiness for enough water to bring the boat alongside. A chat to a Caribbean-qualified novice reveals that he is apprehensive about his imminent introduction to English Channel visibility, but he appears oblivious to the white horses outside the harbour.
Is anybody anxious about the conditions? If they are, they're not eager to speak of it, and when I pipe up I suddenly feel as if I have some terrible disease. After all, the skipper is happy to go out if we are, and although there's a brisk westerly blowing, the forecast says there isn't a breath of wind.
The evidence to even the most myopic pair of eyes, and the din of halyards slapping against masts, is being ignored.
Peer pressure is being applied to encourage and cajole some of those who are now wavering to stick with it. Throw-away comments are made about the trials and tribulations some of the more far-flung brethren have endured just to get here, as if that has anything to do with it.
We're living life at a million miles per hour, we want it all, and we want it now, as anyone who does a stint on a club compressor knows only too well when trying to satisfy a crowd impatient to get their tanks filled and get away.
So making allowances for Mother Nature's occasional reluctance to comply with the long-range forecast doesn't always come easily.
One person's "marginal" is of course another's "moderate", or even "marvellous". You can't build valuable experience by opting for perfect conditions every time, and less- experienced divers rely on their more practised counterparts to bring them on in conditions they might not be used to.
But the eagerness to avoid being seen to back off when it comes to the fundamental decision about whether or not to dive never ceases to amaze me. It's almost a relief when conditions are really rotten because then it's easy Ð the decision is taken for you.
When it's marginal, however, when people have gathered from far and wide, the boat is booked and the gear is on the quayside, who wants to be the first one to cast a cloud over it all?
In a sport in which a conservative computer is still considered by many to be a nuisance rather than an extra safety margin, I suppose it's hardly surprising that so many divers are reluctant to lose face, even if the potential losses are far more serious.
I'm thankful that a good thick skin is included in my list of basic diving equipment.
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