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WHY DO THEY
ALL SAY I'M
PARANOID?
THE ENGINES ARE SCREAMING AS THE PLANE ACCELERATES FOR TAKE-OFF. I grip my magazine for dear life. As we begin to climb into the clouds, I relax back into my seat. And that's when I feel it - a stabbing pain in my left temple. The higher we climb, the worse it gets. Help, I'm bending!
I fling off my seatbelt and leap into the aisle to scream for oxygen. But hang on - the pain has magically disappeared. I reach for my temple and realise that my sunglasses are perched on my head. As I had leaned back, they had been digging into me.
I sit back down faster than you could say Soppy Tart, and pretend to be searching for a blanket.
For those of a melodramatic disposition, diving provides a fabulous smorgasbord of things to be paranoid about. I feel sorry for people who have to make do with bog-standard anxieties such as: Did I leave the oven on? or Why do I always pick the slowest queue at the supermarket?
Once you become a diver, you can obsess about far more exotic matters: Is that purple mass a plastic bag or a lion's mane jellyfish? Where did they put the wreck? Should that regulator really be pissing out air? Why is my buddy turning a funny blue colour and climbing an imaginary underwater ladder?
Quite apart from the possibility of bending yourself stupid on a dive, there are endless opportunities to be hideously seasick, knacker your eardrums or bugger your back. The post-dive scenario on some UK dive boats resembles the aftermath of a battle: the deck strewn with bodies, a few hunched figures sharing a soggy roll-up.
Fortunately, the British skipper has devised a foolproof technique to identify the genuine casualties: if you fail to sit up and respond to the offer of tea, the choppers will be on their way faster than you can say Cerebral Arterial Gas Embolism.
Speaking of rescues, I suspect the real reason everyone's banging on about solo diving is Buddy Paranoia. After all, there's enough to worry about on a dive without adding responsibility for another human being into the equation. It's hard to understand the bizarre and unpredictable things people do on land, let alone under water.
Is your buddy doing a washing-machine impersonation on the surface? He's keen to get back on the boat and will happily use your head as a ladder should you go near him.
Is your buddy coming at you doing a Tarzan-style underwater crawl? Don't expect an "out of air" signal; jam a demand valve into his mouth quick or he'll rip out your reg and knock your mask off into the bargain.
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean your buddy isn't out to get you. My most common paranoia is that my arse has expanded. It happens every time I squeeze into my close-fitting drysuit. I insisted that O'Three create a nipped-in waist on my suit, forgetting that I need to pull the waist over my (somewhat wider) hips.
My exertions entertain everyone else on the boat, especially when the suit gets wedged at the top of my thighs and I'm forced to toddle around like a demented munchkin. Damocles himself could not have invented a more suitable punishment for vanity.
If you feel self-conscious about the size of your arse, my best advice is never to dive with a person holding a video camera. The first shot will be of your behind as you leap off the boat. There will follow footage of your backside disappearing off down the shotline, swiftly followed by a lingering glance at your rear end gliding off across the wreck.
Should they ever issue an underwater Equity card, my arse will qualify. My face, sadly, hasn't achieved enough hours for consideration.
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