|
Divers will get into all sorts of scrapes, says Jill Wright, but what will be the effect when their unsought guardian angels start leaping out from behind every rock? |
 |
WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO? Diving officers the length and breadth of the country are quaking in their neoprene boots, following the court ruling that people in positions of authority in amateur sports can be suedin injury claims.
As a diving officer, if I was stupid enough to send a trainee on a 50m solo dive in nil visibility to a wreck I knew to be festooned with monofilament, I would not even wait to be sued.
I would happily hand over my house, car, children and priceless collection of Rupert Bear annuals to his next of kin, long before his final, desperate air bubble came to the surface.
My worry is that the whole issue will degenerate into a flurry of spurious claims over every trivial incident. Look at California and live in fear.
After reading about this ruling, I decided that it would be an interesting exercise to make a note of all the injuries sustained on an average diving trip.
Our branch contains a fair number of clumsy oafs and we own a hard boat with plenty of deck space for stumbling about.
On the day in question, I was the first casualty, and the incident occurred before I had even set foot on board.
The owner of the boat next to ours lets his dog roam the pontoon and foul it at will. I skidded through a particularly malodorous pile of canine excrement and landed heavily on my knees.
The thought of suing the owner never entered my head, though I must confess that I derived a great deal of satisfaction from transferring the mess on my shoe to the handle on his wheelhouse door.
Once we were all on board, there were the usual number of bruised toes from people stowing their weightbelts and cylinders incautiously, but the first incident of note happened before we were out of the harbour.
The newest trainee was offered the choice of coiling a rope or putting the kettle on. He sulkily retired to the wheelhouse, only to emerge a minute later, minus all his previously profuse nasal hair and most of his eyebrows.
It appears that he had sniffed the hob to see if the gas was turned on while simultaneously holding a lighted match.
We reached the dive site without incident, every pair had a dive in turn and all divers were stung equally badly by jellyfish. Who needs to spend a fortune on collagen injections to achieve a "trout pout", when you can get it for free in the North Sea?
The newest trainee was delighted to spot an anglerfish, and quickly learned the harsh lesson that you should never put your fingers in the mouth of something with sharp teeth.
The second pair were finishing their dive when they forgot the golden rule of never surfacing under "Snakehips" Smith, because his weightbelt invariably slips off on ascent. They were lucky to escape with only mild concussion and bruising.
On the way back, several of our group received a variety of cuts, grazes and burns while tinkering with the temperamental engine, while one hapless youth received a nasty nip from a crab that he was surreptitiously trying to pilfer from his buddy's goody bag.
Had "claims farmers" been patrolling the pontoon with their clipboards on our return, they would have had a field day.
Perhaps they will all be queuing up to train as divers to catch us under water. Is there an underwater signal for: "Quick, sign here mate!"? Beware anyone wearing a T-shirt with slogans such as: "Where There's a Clam There's a Claim!" or "Claim Now if it was an Act of Cod!"
The most memorable fiasco I organised was a shore dive, at a location which could be reached only by descending a notoriously steep, winding cliff path.
I convinced everyone that there had to be a less rigorous, if slightly longer, approach to the beach through fields adjacent to the car park. Fortunately, there was no one about to witness the sight of six fully kitted divers slipping and sliding through the cowpats.
With hindsight, I am sure that the cows were only displaying natural curiosity as the whole herd came towards us, but when one of our more nervous members shouted "Stampede!", we all began running at a speed that would put Linford Christie to shame.
As one, we hurled ourselves over the hedge and landed en masse in the EC's secret stockpile of old barbed wire.
That outing cost me dearly in the pub after we had all been released from Accident and Emergency. We can all laugh about it now, and we do feel that having scars and patched drysuits gives us a certain amount of street cred. Honest.
On a serious note, that to me is the essence of diving. We all participate in a sport we love, and we learn to take the rough with the smooth.
We have mishaps, sure, but we should be able to laugh them off, and our friendships should remain strong. A bit like the smell of cow manure on diving equipment, really.
|
