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SET TO DIVE - BUT WHAT TO WEAR?
DCS: IT'S BECOMING AN EPIDEMIC. The number of divers suffering from it seems to have increased dramatically. I am disappointed to hear that the BSAC hasn't set up a Working Party to investigate yet, because the situation is getting out of hand.
I was at Wraysbury reservoir the other night, and every trainee diver being put through his or her paces seemed to be suffering from DCS. Symptoms included scratching and pulling at legs; some had stooping shoulders, and more severe cases exhibited an inability to walk properly.
I blame it on those rented semi-dry suits. It was Droopy Crotch Syndrome city out there - saggy neoprene as far as the eye could see.
Suits were either so tight that the crotch couldn't be hauled up high enough, or so loose that gravity took over. Either way, they seemed to be designed for something resembling a human, but with far shorter legs. Forget children, orang-utans are clearly the new target market in diving.
If you think you can escape the scourge of DCS by renting a membrane drysuit, you'll be disappointed. The standard size comes with a size 10 boot and 4ft legs. Cecilia, one of my club divers, is only 5ft 2in, and the crotch flapped around her ankles. She has petite size 3 feet, so it was actually more comfortable to insert her into one of the legs and bungee the other to her cylinder for use as a spare BC.
DCS doesn't affect only trainee divers. Pay a visit to Stoney Cove, and you'll find instructors sporting prehistoric Northern Diver drysuits so baggy you could easily mistake them for the rear end of a rhino.
Undersuits can also lead you into a style disaster. If you change into your Weezle or Snugpak and everybody on the boat breaks into a chorus of You Can't Touch This, you're definitely suffering from DCS.
Unfortunately, you're 10 years too late for that chance to star as an extra in an MC Hammer video.
As someone so concerned with diving appearances, I have to own up to my own episode of DCS (Dozy Cow Syndrome). I arrived in Weymouth late on a Friday evening, and discovered that I had a twinset, rebreather, several stage bottles, a selection of hoods, more torches than the cast of Starlight Express but not a stitch of clothing, save what I was wearing. I had left my Dolce & Gabbana suitcase in Islington.
Trauma. Disbelief. The colour drained from my face and my dive buddies rushed to break out the oxygen as the horrible realisation dawned - no clean knickers, no undersuit to wear beneath my drysuit.
I was dressed in a full-length Lycra skirt, and knew I wouldn't be able to get a drysuit on over that. In any case, taking it off would be a challenge, as I had no knickers to wear!
Now, Weymouth is a lovely town, don't get me wrong. But if you have ever tried hunting down a collection of Calvin Klein Women's Athletic underwear at 10pm, you will understand my problem. The whole town is suffering from DCS (Designer Clothing Shortage).
Dive buddies are so useful, but one thing they don't warn you about in the training manual is having your personal belongings raided by the dipstick who forgot to bring her suitcase. They took it surprisingly well, though the discovery of a brand new pair of 15 denier American Tan tights in Bob's bag did cause a fair amount of lively discussion.
So that'll be me, dressed like a refugee from an Oxfam jumble sale in a borrowed rugby shirt and secondhand M& S Y-fronts.
Naturally, I was hoping to keep the whole wardrobe disaster situation hush-hush, but you know what gossips divers can be.
I arrived home to find that the kind people at PADI had exacted revenge for my piss-taking in the last issue by awarding me a DCS card - Dressing Crossover Specialty!
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