Category: Sport

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No, Scuba, no! (the finale)

(A wander over to the first part of this soggy tale  is probably a good idea, if you haven’t already been there).

By the time I’d flipper-flopped my way out of the pool, strapped on a weight belt and completed one more backwards-walk into the water, the group had become accustomed to sitting on the bottom. Hubby and I sank down beside them. An odd experience in itself, to be honest. Kneeling on the bottom of a pool beside complete strangers. My mouthpiece jammed securely between my teeth, every breath a loud, rasping sound in my ears.

I tried to orientate myself by focusing on the instructor, whose face was largely covered by her mask. She began making hand signs, pointing first to her mask then to each of us in turn. Suddenly, and to my horror, she lifted it slightly, allowing water to flood in! Given my lifelong fear of water covering my face (even in the shower) I could feel my heartbeat take on a rapid drum beat. As we watched, her mask slowly emptied out again. I then realised she wanted us to follow suit.

Holy crap. How, what… panic raced through me as I watched the guy beside me take a stab at it. Seemed to work for him. Jesus H, I was next! My hands shaking with fear I took in a huge gulp of air and gingerly lifted the edge of my mask a fraction, praying for magical deliverance. Instantly a rush of cold water raced in, blinding my eyes. All rational thought vanished. It felt like I was drowning. I kicked for the surface and wrenched off my mask, treading water furiously.

A minute later she was there beside me, irritation lacing her features. “You are supposed to breathe out through your nose” she barked, “then the air will be pushed back out”. I couldn’t speak. “Come back down, we’ll try again” she urged. Back down I went.

Two minutes later I was again pushing for the surface, and this time the tears came as soon as I tried to speak. “I can’t do it!” I squealed, “I can’t do it!”.

“I think you need extra time with Hans” she sighed, gesturing for a young, blonde, very tall Adonis-like instructor to join us in the water. Relief flooded through me but he wasted no time, “Come, we go stand there” he said, his lithe, tanned body cutting powerfully through the water.

Stand? yeah right. By the time I reached him I was way out of my depth and had to tread water to stay afloat. For the next ten minutes we practised the art of filling my mask and emptying it while my legs cycled frantically underwater. Before long we’d both had enough.

“I’ve had enough” I gurgled up at him, “I want to get out”.

“Ok” said Hans, “why don’t you snorkel back to the shallow end and take a rest?”

Ah, snorkelling… I can do that I thought, popping in my mouthpiece before (tiredly) flopping onto my back! Needless to say with my first breath I slurped in a huge mouthful of water, and began to choke. Hans watched me from afar as I flailed around, spluttering… his face a study in curiosity.

By the time I’d splashed my way to the shallow end and lay gasping on the tiles it was clear to all that scuba diving was not going to be ‘my thing’. Time I stopped trying to be a mermaid and went back to what suited me best – a sport-free life!

scuba diver at poolside
Clearly, scuba diving was never, ever going to be ‘my thing’!
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Scuba, anyone??

Ok, so we’ve already established that basically, I am rubbish at sports. Always was, no doubt always will be. My sad little attempt to master the art of horse-riding many moons ago left no illusions on that score.

But despite the humiliation of that hapless endeavour, I still wasn’t quite ready to give up and just a few months later had persuaded my partner-in-crime (a.k.a. long-suffering-hubby) to join me on one more ‘fun’ sporting adventure. Scuba diving. In the city of Amsterdam.

I know, I know, perhaps a tad unrealistic given my lifelong fear of water smothering my face – but somehow, it seemed vaguely achievable. For a while.

So where to get lessons… well in those days (we’re talking 20 years ago!) it was a case of browsing telephone books and ‘asking around’. No internet, no Google! Someone, somewhere recommended a ‘PADI’ diving course to me. It sounded good. Professional. Manageable. We hopped along to an introduction day, and by the time the woman-in-charge had assured me I could always buddy-up with hubby and would be allowed to go-slow in the early weeks, we’d signed on the dotted line for their 12-week course.

Five weeks later, we headed off to the first session: theory. By now my Dutch was reasonable if not fluent, so I struggled a bit but left feeling quietly confident, this time I would not be bested! Lesson two however, the start of the ‘practicals’ was a different kettle of fish. Entirely.

In the bright lights of the swimming pool’s changing room, I glanced around at the other women, noting the athleticism of their bodies. Hmm. Slightly intimidating. Skinny (then), with muscles that knew best how to drag me out of bed and into a car, I slithered into my bikini with no small amount of trepidation.

Reminding myself that I could start slowly, I headed towards the pool, my newly purchased goggles hanging around my neck, my flippers clutched in a nervous fist, my oxygen tank strapped to my back. The whole group was waiting for me in the water, standing in a circle. No one spoke. I sat down heavily on the edge of a small wall, and tried to put on my flippers.

For some reason, the damn things refused to fit onto my feet. Shoving my toes in got me nowhere and after five failed attempts I was in danger of becoming upended from the tank on my back and my feet seemed to be doubling in size even as I watched them. I heard a shout, ‘wet your flipper, then your foot slides in!’. The group was becoming impatient. Two minutes later I was all flippered up, feeling more frog-like than any woman ever should but – hey – I was on my feet! My rubber feet. God they were huge! how the hell was I to walk into the pool??!

With all eyes on me, I took a step forwards. The flipper swayed, I wobbled precariously, took a step backwards. Fervently wished for the tiled floor to swallow me whole, then tried again. No dice. Suddenly, hubby was beside me, ‘it’s ok, just turn around and walk backwards’ he whispered. Minutes later we were in the water. Glares of irritation floated my way, I ignored them and focused on the instructor,

“we’re all going to float to the bottom now” she said, expertly popping in her mouthpiece and vanishing into the water in one smooth action. The rest followed suit. I popped in my mouthpiece but when I tried to sink to the bottom of the pool, discovered that I couldn’t. My legs kept rising to the surface and my flippers looked like shark fins, floating wildly above the waves.

Hubby was struggling equally. We thrashed around for a full minute, legs going in all directions, and I could feel the giggles rising as a realisation of what we must look like to the waiting would-be divers down below, hit me.

Suddenly, the instructor resurfaced, her eyes flashing furiously, “what’s wrong now?” she gurgled, “did you two not put on your weight belts?”. Damn, no we hadn’t. I caught his eye, and laughter burst forth. It was more than she could take, “I hope you’re going to work very hard here” she barked, making me laugh all the more, “this is a serious sport!”.

Oh Gawd. Now I knew I was in trouble!

Scuba diving lessons
My flippers were floating above the water like shark fins
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Walking is good too…

I’ve had many unforgettable moments or minor dramas in my life. Usually they make me laugh, cry or see life differently for a while. This was one of those.

Hubby and I were relaxing into week one of this year’s jaunt around Europe in the trusty camper van. With plenty of laughs, wine, good meals munched lazily in the fresh, open air and carefree indulgence doing… as little as possible!

We’d driven through Germany and were now parked before a beautiful lake in Switzerland. The sun was blazing in the sky and the air was still. With mountains on every side – that looked as if they’d been vacuum-cleaned – all we needed was the purple Milka chocolate cow, neck bell a-dangling to complete the picture.

We decided to go for a short cycle. A courageous move on my part, given the knee problems I’ve had all year. But hey, we were on our ‘hols’ and what could go wrong I reasoned.

With hubby leading the way, I slowly and steadily puffed my way up the hill, towards the road. It was a tad steeper than I’d imagined, and the higher I got, the slower I went. By the time I’d almost reached the top I was practically at a standstill, sweat was dripping down my back and the front wheel was wobbling in every direction. “Focus woman, focus” I told myself, “you’re almost there”. I could already see the main road, just one last effort and I’d have made it…

Suddenly I heard a shout from up ahead, “stop! There’s a car coming!”. I panicked. Unable to put my ‘good leg’ down at that exact second, I lost control and crashed to the ground, the bike straddled across me, my legs askew to minimise the fall.

“Shit!” I shrieked, top of my voice, “Shit!! Shit!!”.

“Are you alright?” yelled himself from across the road.

“No, I’m bloody not alright” I hollered back, “I can’t get the bike off me!”

Bent forward, my legs clamped in and my eyes glued to the ground, I suddenly realised a pair of sandaled feet had come to a stop beside me. The ankles were bare, and as I lifted my head I saw to my astonishment that a gown-clad, Tibetan monk was standing right beside me. He reached down and began pulling at the bicycle, trying to lift it off. Terrified that his skinny arms would snap in two, or that he’d mangle my already-aching knee in the process, I gestured wildly for hubby to come help, my eyes berating him for the huge grin on his face.

Three minutes later I was free again. We all shook hands, it seemed a good thing to do. Recovering my equilibrium I talked, quietly, calmly with this gentle man. He advised me to let go of my cycling efforts, saying, “I was watching you go slower and slower, (ouch!) walking is good too“. Told me he’d lived and worked in Asia for 30 years, but was now home to recover. I asked from what. He gestured to his face, “cancer”. I asked if he was getting treatment. “Not the usual kind” was his reply. He’d returned to spend time with his sister.

It was an unusual meeting. Later that evening I held my head in my hands (while my husband laughed out loud) to think, with no small amount of embarrassment, that I’d yelled ‘shit’ in front of a Tibetan monk. In the Swiss mountains. And not just once.

Swiss mountains biker
“Shit!” I shrieked, “shit! shit!”
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Miss Olympics I am not!

The thing is... I’ve always been totally rubbish at anything even vaguely “sporty”. The simplest things my pals in primary school could do (skipping rope/running/jumping) were challenges I tried – and failed – to master. Annual sport events were a tragedy, with last place in the egg-and-spoon race the best I could offer, and even then minus the damn egg. Oh the will was there, certainly – but the legs just refused to pay attention and sluggishly did their own thing.

My sister was equally blessed, although I do recall her winning a sprint once – only problem was she’d started too soon so it didn’t count. She also failed to notice that she was the only one charging down the grass towards the ribbon. Which made it just a little sad, so my mother and I cheered ourselves hoarse when she triumphantly passed the finish line. Because that’s what you do for your loved ones.

By the time I’d passed the big old age of 27, I realised I needed to master something – anything – sporty. Just to show ‘the world’ that I was more than a shopaholic in high heels and could achieve perfect balance in something other than holding up a bar. Which led to many discussions with hubby-to-be. Because not only was I ready to launch myself into some new, physically challenging caper, I wanted him to do it with me. (I’d read somewhere it was good for couples to do things like that). Problem was, we couldn’t agree on what the something would be.

Weeks it took to make a decision, with neither of us liking any of the standard activities like tennis/squash etc. Eventually we settled on horse riding. I liked the sound of it. I even quite liked horses (in films anyway). I also liked the mental image of me galloping over the hills on a beautiful horse, my hair tossed by the wind… He was already very good at it, so I figured I could lean on him for manly support, and sob into his shoulder if it came to it. A win-win, you might say.

We chose a riding school that had a special program for beginners. This reassured me. Beginners wouldn’t have to ‘ride’ the damn horse, at least not for weeks – right? Wrong. Our first lesson consisted out of a grooming session (which I spent tentatively fingering the pretty horse’s shiny locks from as far back as I could, the brush I’d been given hanging loosely in my other hand) followed by a half hour in the indoor ring.

All very well except no one had let the horse in on the secret. Chomping quietly in his stall, he happily ignored my whispered efforts to guide him forwards, swishing his head at me every so often to remind me he was boss. After ten minutes hubby came to get him. The trainer looked at me witheringly, “you’re supposed to walk the horse yourself!” she barked. I smiled at her to show my good will, my stomach twitching with fear. It didn’t seem to help.

By the time I’d hoiked myself into the saddle, my new boots gleaming in the lights, the ground looked terrifyingly far away. Mustering all my courage I soldiered on, after all, this stuff was good for couples – right??! Minutes later, my bottom aching from repeated, off-beat collisions with the saddle as I tried (and failed) to do a proper ‘trot’, a horrid buzzing had begun in my left ear. I’d had enough. “I want to get off!!” I screeched, “No! You must try harder” the trainer yelled back.

“I have a fly in my ear!!” I shouted, as the horse began to dance in circles, my left leg now dangling loose from the stirrup, “let me off!!”.

“No!” she again yelled back (the biddy).

Glancing up into the observation room as we thundered by, I spotted my sister-in-law howling with laughter. An accomplished horsewoman herself, I guess it had been quite some time since she’d seen anyone cavort around the ring that way. We’ve laughed about it many times since. Later that evening my hero held his head in his hands, trying to figure out how a simple riding lesson had gone quite so amok. It wouldn’t surprise him now though, he’s too used to my ways.

But I guess ‘they’ were right after all – it did us some good anyway, ‘cos we can still giggle about it now.

I do still have the boots and yes, they’re still shiny.

Egg and spoon race
The best I could offer was last in the egg-and-spoon race, and then minus the egg!