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A HARD MAN
IS GOOD
TO FIND
I KNOW I AM IN TROUBLE AS I STEP ONTO THE DIVE BOAT and the skipper beckons me over. "I'd better warn you about Stuart," he says. "He's a bit... macho." I'm about to start giggling when he adds: "I've already warned him about you."
Oh dear, that's torn it. In my experience there's nothing to bring out the worst in a red-blooded male diver like being warned to be on best behaviour. Nothing, except maybe an alcohol ban.
At that moment the bloke in question appears on deck to check out whether I really do have horns and a tail. At least, I assume that's why he is staring at my arse.
Diving is such a magical sport, it makes friends of the most unlikely people. After Stuart has teased me about being a useless bimbo, and I've teased him about being from Carlisle, we chat about dive kit and everything is cool.
The skipper looks slightly disappointed, but perks up when I promise to wear my "Lesbian Bitch from Hell" T-shirt to the pub later.
We're on a wreck identification dive. My dive buddy is Bill Ruck; the kind of man the phrase "fit as a butcher's dog" was coined to describe. An ex-RAF navigator, he can probably strip down and reassemble an outboard motor in less time than it takes me to paint my toenails.
I'm bimbling along at 60m thinking: "Ooh, this wreck is a bit messed up," and trying to figure out which button to press on the camera. Meanwhile, Bill has found a steel porthole, figured out where the bow is, and measured the diameter of a gun. Stuart has located the remains of the bridge and identified the navigational equipment.
Diving with top blokes like these makes me suspect that I am, in comparison, a useless bimbo. I also suspect that while I was collecting an extended family of trolls with differently coloured fluorescent hair, these guys spent their early days making Airfix models of battleships.
In fact, until I took up diving you could write what I knew about ships on the back of Barbie's handbag.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't suggest that all girls are like me. Ellen MacArthur could probably find her way round a shipwreck blindfolded.
The key point is this: how would I ever get to admire the likes of Bill and Stuart unless I went diving? I'm never going to bump into them over a rocket salad in an Islington cafe.
That evening we're in Camps - Wick's finest karaoke bar. But before I can launch into my Gloria Gaynor number, a bloke from another dive boat insists that he must speak to me in the pub doorway.
He calls himself an "extreme" diver - which seems to mean that he does the same dive as we do, but requires his own personal support diver. Mr Extreme is on a moral crusade to protect war graves from, well, everyone. And for him I seem to be the primary spokesperson for evil, pillaging divers.
He proceeds to tell me all about it. I'm busily dodging the flecks of saliva when I notice movement in the bar. Stuart is being physically restrained. Bill comes out twice to "see if I'm OK".
As Mr Extreme wags his chubby finger in my face, he appears unaware that he is in imminent danger of being pulverised.
Back at the bar, the guys are eager to know how many of Mr Extreme's limbs I would like torn off. Just one day of diving together, and they're willing to commit GBH on my behalf. It's the first time I've ever felt flattered by the prospect of mindless violence.
Stuart puts his arm round me and tells me what a lucky woman I am tonight. Actually he's right. I'd realised it back on the dive boat: nothing beats a hard man in a tight spot.
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