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SUN, SEA & SCANDAL
LOUISE TREWAVAS
OH, TO BE IN ENGLAND... SUMMER DIVING IN THE UK IS HEAVEN! Diving abroad should really be reserved for those winter days when UK conditions become too stormy, too chilly and the allure of a cosy pub proves irresistible.
In the best of British traditions, I found myself in the seaside resort of Newquay. The clear Atlantic waters and stonking wreck sites were delightfully offset by super-friendly harbour seals and the highly entertaining night-life - at times it was difficult to differentiate between the two, with so much puppy fat on display.
Newquay has been branded Sin City by the papers, which naturally enhances its value as a diving destination. How better to round off a day's diving with a bunch of 30-something dive blokes than to goggle at the antics of assorted lardy teenagers on a drunken pulling spree?
Stand in one spot for long enough, and some bladdered girly in an ill-fitting crop top will stagger up and stick her tongue down your throat - man, woman, passing pensioner out for a chip supper - these kids don't discriminate. Most divers won't have seen this kind of mouth-to-mouth action since their last rescue course.
No wonder the teenage lads stand around in protective gangs. But most impressive is the organisational skill that goes into one of these evening rampages. The girls mark out their tribe by wearing identical outfits and accessories, such as angel wings or tiaras. The boys stick to custom-designed, pre-printed T-shirts to define their gang.
All of this requires considerable planning and preparation, suggesting that those continuous-assessment GCSE courses are proving their worth. These kids would be gold-dust in a dive club! Imagine the possibilities, if we could only prise those Red Bull and vodkas out of their sweaty paws and stuff them into some neoprene...
I'm sure talk of a "club scene" would attract them, and judging by their glazed expressions and faltering footwork, most already have experience of narcosis, making them excellent candidates for deep-air diving.
If diving is to be a truly popular sport, we need more sex and scandal. After all, look at football - there's buckets more interest in the off-pitch action than the actual matches. So in the interests of the sport, we should be making every effort to sex up UK scuba.
Always one to lead from the front in matters of principle, it should come as no surprise that I've been out there, doing my bit for British diving. Causing a stir is easy when people want to believe the worst.
Diving inevitably involves physical intimacy - offering to help somebody with their crotch strap or asking a bloke to plug a hose into the drysuit inflator on your chest is enough to start the gossip flowing. Though flirtatiously emptying half a pint of used saliva from my rebreather breathing loop over the nearest diver's foot may not have been quite such a seductive move.
In Newquay, tongues were wagging after I claimed to be "off to the Internet cafe" for several hours with a fellow-diver.
"You know me, I'm just gagging for email," I told the disbelieving group with a big wink. The next evening I pulled the same stunt with a completely different person, variety being the spice of life.
On my most recent liveaboard trip, I made a point of disappearing off into a cabin at 10pm for at least an hour with not one, but two men. Eyebrows were raised, rumours of a threesome circulated.
"Don't you think we should ask the others if they want to come and watch the latest Big Brother round-up on Steve's telly?" asked Marky Mark. I gave him one of my best "don't even go there" dark looks.
After all, I do have my reputation to consider.
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