Shit 'appens!

Just about every one of us have had the pleasure of diving probably the most dived wreck in the UK - the James Eagan Layne. Most of us are also aware, that it offers a good, controlled environment for recreational divers improving their personal skills, and also a regularly used site for the Fort Bovisand shuttle operating throughout the main season. It is a wreck dive offering it's own unique brand of entertainment, and sometimes that entertainment manifests itself in the most unlikely ways.

This tale begins with an unhurried, and quite normal departure from Bovisand harbour in our club 'squidgy', laden with experienced divers, and copious amounts of dive gear. The weather was fine, dry and sunny, and all aboard were chatty about the usual dive patter. As we made our way along the well used route we were all winding down after the week's work. Memories of offices, and factories fading into someone else's lives. The South Eastern coastline of Cornwall displayed itself proudly in the sunshine, light waves gently lapping at craggy rocks. The ruins at Penlee passed by giving way to the quicker waters of Rame head, and then into the open calm expanse of Whitsand bay.

We arrived on the site to come alongside Deepwater (Fort Bovisand shuttle boat), which was temporarily moored by the stern to the wreck's marker buoy. Deepwater is a converted tug, displacing some 54 tons, and is kitted out for commercial diving operations, including the use of surface supplied apparatus. It represents a spacious diving platform, although on occasion it rolls with an action not dissimilar to that of the pendulum of a Grandfather clock. This of course allows most of us to achieve a new understanding of our digestive systems.

Having now used the very best wreck location method available (ie. waiting for somebody else to find it, and using their shotline) we politely asked for, and were granted permission to tie up alongside the chaps.

We then went through the time honoured ritual of preparing to dive. It was during this 'treasured experience', that while we 'huffed and puffed', tugging relentlessly at unforgiving fin straps, replacing '0' rings and weights that defied location on belts, we were treated to the sight of a shuttle diver making a stride entry. Nothing special about that I hear you say, well - not yet. First we need to appreciate that a considerable spring tide was at play, creating a nice local current of some speed. Then we take a look at our shuttle diver, the epitome of experience, all clad in membrane dry-suit, full kit, demand valve firmly wedged into mouth, and fins tucked securely under one arm!

The following splash was succeeded with antics occurring with such rapidity, that our poor human brains perceived everything as if in slow motion. First to come were the frothy mutterings more concerned with drawing too much attention to his predicament, and the bemused realisations of current. Then in ascending volume, quantities of the only four letter word most of us are reluctant to say - -- - HELP!

We of course observed these proceedings with true 'Blighty' reservedness, firstly in front of our boat, then amidships, and then behind. At some point a line was thrown, and the animated diver was hauled back to our boat. Afterwards it was revealed that the diver preferred to dive in this manner as he found it difficult to put his fins on whilst aboard a moving boat, wearing full kit. I hope he doesn't take up parachuting and try to don his harness outside the aircraft.

With this, and the other pre-dive activities over, it remained only for my wife and I, to gather our chins off the floor, flop over the side of the inflatable, and haul ourselves to the marker buoy with the use of a line. Since I am 6 3" tall, and built with an affinity to volume, I took the lead position, and pulled hand- over-hand on the line taking us to the marker buoy. My wife, grasping me by the cylinder, with fins cavitating behind her 5 2" frame, pushed from behind, or so she says anyway.

I can recall arriving at the stern of Deepwater, looking appreciatively at the stationary propeller, and feeling grateful that her engine was turned off. I turned around, as you would expect, to check my buddy before descent. My wife had indeed arrived, and had secured a left handed grip on the edge of Deepwater's rudder. As I rotated my body, now relaxed against the current, I succeeded in sandwiching my 12 litre steel cylinder against her fingers and the rudder, effecting a very neat fracture of one finger. Totally oblivious, I then checked the marker buoy for other divers, turning around once again to repeat the exercise, and break another finger.

The best place, of course, when diving in a current is not to hang around too long on the shot line, but to descend to the sea bed where life is usually a little more comfortable. With this in mind, I gave and received a down signal, and we both descended to the bows of the James Egan Layne. It was only here, that I noticed an unusual look in my wife's eyes, but I was still blissfully unaware of the reason. I gave her my best questioning look in my own eyes, accompanied by the obligatory O.K. signal. I was rewarded with not an O.K. signal, but a rather pathetically held left hand, carefully singled out by a rigid right index finger. "What's this" I thought, "I don't know this signal". Being of a generally helpful nature, and with great concern for my wife's wellbeing, I did the honourable thing, and treated her hand for cramp.

It was at this point that underwater communications moved, for me, into a new level of understanding. Somewhere within the bubble screen that now separated us, I was aware of very high pitched shrill sounds, that rather slowly, painfully slowly, I equated phonetically with FOXTROT OSCAR! When the bubbles cleared, I noticed a hasty, bordering on the theatrical O.K. signal, so I signalled for us to carry on with the dive.

We moved off with me still unaware of my wife's condition. It was only afterwards that it became clear that my loving wife had received quite enough of my help, and that she felt that she would be in less danger tackling a twenty odd metre wreck dive, in the English Channel, with whatever nature could throw at her, than have any more of my first aid.

We continued the dive, enjoying the Layne's protected interior, it seems that even though myself, friends and colleagues dive her again and again, she is still a relaxed pleasure, and if your eyes are open, there are always new things to see. It would appear though, that with the storms of each year, this reasonably intact, erect wreck, is slowly losing the battle against the sea, and it will not be too long before diving inside the Layne will be just a memory.

On the subject of memories, this dive was trundling along quite well, and we were about a third of the way through our proposed dive-time, when I felt an eerie coldness. I have felt this sensation before, a number of times, both on land and at sea, but never under water. Invisible hands assailed my abdomen, massaging me, coaxing my body into an involuntary action - my finning became sporadic, a token gesture, fin blades merely present at the ends of my feet. The cold increased, provoking a full body tremble, and then relief, instantaneous, glorious, gratifying relief - I had farted!

As I paused, pondering my situation, the laws of physics became a considered topic. Ambient pressure was roughly bar absolute, and my gaseous emission had to have exceeded that in order to come out. The thought dwindled into the back of my mind, along with echoes of phrases akin to 'circus act'. In my static pose, I am sure I assumed the smug countenance of a Cheshire cat, just out of reach of the tethered dog. My expression changed as the delightful sensation of creeping warmth I felt, turned into one of alarm, with the realisation that the emission was not gas, but semi-solidl

With a somewhat restrained finning action, my wife and I completed our dive, returning to the bow, and up the marker buoy to the surface, where we made contact with our squidgy.

I have no recollection of kit removal, in fact, I have no idea at all how my wife climbed back into the dive boat, I fear I was a little preoccupied. Our inflatable was tied alongside Deepwater quite close to the bow, allowing her own divers ease of entry into the water. Due to the height of her in this position, my climb of her overhanging gunnels in search of a sea toilet was slowed to a blur of desperation. Having gained the fore-deck I politely, if just a little animated since I was now experiencing that time honoured sensation again, requested the use of the khasi.

There are times in this life, when you really don't need, nor expect to hear, the words you simply don't want to hear - "No I don't have one". Those few words were about as welcome to me as a Great White or an S.M.B. So I begged the the use of a bucket & spade, anythingl, pride and self respect had neatly dived overboard. The skipper Alan Laine, (a relative to the wreck), continued with explanations of, "I've just been refurbishing it", and "I've only got blue industrial hand-towels". Decor, as you might imagine, was far from the top of my list of priorities, but the industrial hand-towels were a real blessing.

Somewhere between arriving on the foredeck, and being led down the vertical ladder to the hold in the bow, I managed to discard my semi-dry jacket (no pun intended). I was then treated to the briefest accompanied viewing I have ever encountered of a room space, ie the sea toilet. In hindsight, the experience was like being shown around an Ideal Home at breakneck speed, to the accompaniment of well practiced volley's of sales patter, absolutely none of which I remembered.

With the door still vibrating from closure, my concentration now turned to the dual role of rpping my long-john down past my knees, and aiming my lower torso at the loo. Somewhere on the way to the target my cargo departed from it's muscle straining confines, and arrived in the vicinity of the seat, in unison with my bum. Mildly concerned with my fate, and the variety of possibilities, I consoled myself with the realisation that more by luck than judgement, my aim had been good.

I succeeded in overcoming my immediate problem, now came the mopping-up process. facing me in very literal terms were my underpants, there they were, just below knee height, defiant, bold and loyal, but none-the-less victims of this covert action.

Pooh Bear preparing to make an entry.

With my trusty dive-knife I cut myself free, and then sat bemused as to what to do with them. So I juggled, blue towels in one hand, knickers in the other, and eventually made my bottom respectable, however even this didn't go without incident.

The first move was to direct the innocent blue towel into the appropriate area, alas, the welcomed toilet bowl, along with it's contents, now conspired to jostle for occupancy with my hand. The Oxford dictionary's definition of the word 'texture' seemed desperately inadequate.

I stood up, pulling my long-john into place, and made that typically human mistake of looking back, ---- it sneered at me! Remembering how to use this style of sea-toilet, I pulled out the tray, expecting the pile to drop away, it didn't, instead it just stood there, gloating.

I pondered," how the hell do I get rid of that"? The answer came from my trusty underpants, and I used them to good advantage to push the poo away. Not being quite as protective as a glove, my briefs gave way, allowing my fingers the experience normally reserved to toes when walking barefoot through mud.

Born from extremes of embarrassment, I went on to rid the bowl as best I could of any lasting evidence. My briefs were now so soiled, that instead of cleaning, they smeared. The result leaving the bowl as if it had been used as a wall of death by a team of Russian racing badgers.

By now, time had passed, and with deadlines to meet, the skipper became more and more anxious to leave the dive-site. Although it is, of course, possible that the aroma may well have reached the 'paying passengers', and a mutiny was afoot. Moving as quickly as I could, now being a little lighter, I climbed the ladder from the hold, still clutching my briefs. When I arrived on deck, I realised we were already moving, and the skipper was ordering me off the boat - I must have upset him! The first thing I did was to rid myself of my now destroyed underwear by depositing them into Whitsand bay. Thankfully, I remembered to check which way the wind was blowing first.

The quickest way off Deepwater, is of course to jump, and that's exactly what I did, but first I had to put my wet suit jacket on, otherwise I would get nice and cold, wouldn't I? My right hand, as you might imagine, had seen better times, so I quickly looked for something to wipe it on. I drew a blank on the fore deck (fancy drawing at a time like that!?), and time was running out, so I did the next best thing. With as much grace as I could muster, and with alternate strokes of backhand and forehand, I used the neoprene of my right thigh.

Amidst the bellows of "get the hell off my boat", I donned my jacket. My left hand wrestled itself into place, and my right hand slid in easily (suits you Sir!) and I zipped up rapidly by second nature, whilst taking position on the gunnels.

All those years of training (is this toilet training?) that have served me so well, once more came into play, as I made a classic highwater entry - stride straight out, looking fixedly forward, left hand across my tummy to retain my equipment, feet pointing straight down, and right hand firmly against both DV and mask. Trouble was, no mask and no DV, so I finished the day with more than just poo up me long-johns!

Terry D.