BE READY WITH YOUR WALLET if you get bent in UK waters because, the way some divers carry on, it can't be long before the cost of recompression will be charged for in full. Entry to a hyperbaric chamber will be reserved for the wealthy, or well-insured, unless attitudes change.
     If this sounds far-fetched, watch an injured skier try to get medical help in France. He or she will be told to get insurance, and woe betide those who ignore the warnings or can't produce a credit card when something snaps.
     Also in the mountains, the debate continues about who should pick up the tab when UK rescue teams turn out. Compulsory insurance before climbing in the Cairngorms? I hope not.
     And so to diving. I had hoped to grow old and bald without witnessing decompression illness. This hope evaporated on a trip to Scapa Flow this summer when I found myself at the Orkney hyperbaric unit, where my buddy spent almost five hours in the pot.
     Knowing what to look out for is of little comfort when the signs and symptoms are developing in front of your eyes - skin rashes, itching and pains in big bone joints. One minute we're cheering the contestants in the Stromness doughnut-scoffing contest, the next we're peering at each other through a tiny chamber port.
     The speed and efficiency of doctors and chamber-operators made a lasting impression. But what sticks in my memory are these medics' low expectations of those they are trying to help.
     My buddy gratefully accepted the recompression treatment offered. Later, a doctor tentatively broached the subject of future diving. A lay-off was suggested until a cardiologist had been consulted, and in any case for 28 days.
     As all deco stops had been made, plus safety stops, an underlying medical condition was suspected.
     We both thought this sound advice, and were also happy to heed cautions about driving to altitude in the Scottish Highlands.
     But our reactions, by all accounts, mean we're a couple of complete weirdos.
     The script in these situations normally follows a rather different plot: a diver receives treatment, argues the toss, gets a bit shirty, and jumps back in the water after a row with the boat skipper.
     I wouldn't have believed this had I not witnessed something of the sort with another diver and his buddies.
     We followed this diver into the local clinic by a few minutes. He had missed decompression stops but was not happy at the prospect of a precautionary two hours in recompression.
     When my buddy arrived and it was suggested that he would have to share the chamber - and longer treatment - imagine his dismay at the inconvenience. Unbelievably, we're told, he inquired about in-water recompression!
     He got off with a couple of hours on oxygen and some advice - relayed from the hyperbaric team at Aberdeen - not to dive again for 72 hours. But hey, what do the diving gurus at Aberdeen know?
     Obviously not much, as the reaction of our ÒnormalÓ diver was to kick against such caution. Normal in this context means standing within arm's length of an operating recompression chamber, and asking the controller for his thoughts on the ÒAberdeen 72 hoursÓ advice.
     Do you expect me to contradict my colleagues? the chamber operator asked him. Perish the thought. But what did he think, and could he download the diver's computer to help assess when he might dive again? I must apologise if I stepped in and didn't let the chamber operator get a word in edgeways. I pointed out that if Aberdeen said 72 hours, it probably meant it!
     Next I suckered the diver into agreeing that he was only diving for fun, and said I would add another 24 hours to the Aberdeen advice, to be on the safe side.
     It was not what they had come to hear, so they pondered when the lay-off should count from - the start or end of the dive?
     By now I had lost the power of speech.
     I am still reluctant to believe the numerous medics and dive professionals who told us that a prudent, cautious approach from divers receiving treatment was the exception, not the rule. But I have to believe my own eyes and ears.
     We don't know whether a cardiologist will be able to explain my buddy's DCI hit, but although her consultation is some way off she won't dive in the meantime.
     What we do know is that a single "table 6" treatment in the pot, which resolved all her signs and symptoms, cost an estimated £9000. This costly emergency was self-inflicted during a leisure pursuit. Some would argue that the National Health Service should not have to foot the bill. I don't agree, but I can understand where such arguments are coming from.
     My fear is that we are heading for little choice in the matter. Unless we pull together to change the sort of attitudes and ignorance I witnessed, patience with divers in distress will run out, and we will all be obliged to cover the cost should things go wrong.