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BACK IN THE USSR
LOUISE TREWAVAS
"UKRAINE?!" I can tell from my work colleagues' reaction that my answer to their question about where I'm going on holiday is not what they were expecting. "You're not Ukrainian, are you?" asks somebody guiltily, as if offering an excuse for my offbeat behaviour.
"No, I'm going to dive there."
"Ah." And they nod. The reference to diving appears to excuse all manner of strangeness. I might have got away with it, until a dissenting voice pipes up: "What's wrong with the Maldives?"
Where we choose to dive is inextricably linked to why we dive: a question of such profound gravity that I barely know where to begin. So I'll start at Kiev airport.
Alexi is waiting once we clear customs. A British-based Ukrainian, a professor of maths and a technical diver, I met him in Dahab. His tales of a perfectly preserved sailing ship at 85m in the Black Sea have lured us here. Alongside him is the man with a van who will make our diving adventure possible: the legendary Sergei.
Sergei is a man who can stack a mountain of gear and several people into a small space with military precision. His hair is bristle, his temper is short, and he uses his ample stomach as a shoving aid.
He possesses many skills required for Ukrainian driving- throwing the van into sharp bends without so much as a gear change or a touch on the brakes, unflinchingly fitting three vehicles across two lanes of traffic when overtaking, and unshakably believing that he is always in the right.
You won't find many of Sergei to the pound in the Maldives. Frankly, you won't find many of Sergei to the pound, full stop. Not when his standard breakfast consists of scrambled egg and thick slices of cured lard- a Ukrainian delicacy.
Sergei's job is to take us and our gear from Kiev to Crimea- the Blackpool of Eastern Europe. Here, it's beach culture and catwalk rolled into one. The Ukraine girls really knock me out, parading in bikinis and designer sunglasses with legs and tans to die for.
Most people associate the word Balaclava with the preferred headgear of armed robbers. It's actually an ex-Russian nuclear submarine base in south-west Crimea, and centre of my diving world for the next few days.
Diving in the Black Sea is like diving a trifle: there are distinct layers. The top 15m are a cozy, scuzzy, 24°C. Between 15 and 35m you hit the jellyfish layer- a sharp temperature drop and a flurry of white, non-stinging jellyfish resembling acres of pulsating confetti.
Beneath the jellies, it is a freezing 8° but crystal clear. Where else in the world would you find such intriguing conditions? In the heat of the sunny summer's day, we look absurd climbing into thick undersuits and drysuits.
At the bottom, I need no torch. The wreck is 150 years old, upright, intact and fairy-tale perfect. Wow! To me, it is more amazing than any amount of coral and cute fish.
Deco here is heaven, ascending from the cold into bath-like warmth, feeling my fingers come back to life. When I surface, the skipper is waiting on deck. As broad as he is tall, his shirtless torso is a deep, shiny brown.
As I start up the ladder, he seizes me by the harness and lifts me, fully-kitted, out of the water and onto the bench. Gosh. Before I can spit out my mouthpiece, his head disappears between my thighs. And we haven't even been introduced...
With care and skill, he removes my fins, looks up at me with startling blue eyes and winks. You don't get service quite like that in the Maldives.
So yes, I could have chosen to dive in exotic, warmwater destinations that would impress my workmates. But where's the fun? Where's the challenge? Where's the adventure in that?
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