My encounter with this guy almost ended badly. I was snorkelling around a rocky reef off Kata Noi beach, on the Andaman Sea coast of Phuket yesterday. Specifically I was trying to photograph fish swimming and feeding in the breaking waves. This is a little tricky in that one needs to get close enough to get decent images in water full of bubbles and suspended bits of detritus, without actually ending up on the rocks themselves. My technique was to float as close as possible, then duck-dive down and grab on to a suitable bit of rock to stabilise and secure myself as the waves swept passed me (note: this was shallow, algae covered rock, not coral). The rocks in the shallows were large and smooth, so finding a handhold was not always easy. On this occasion, as I dived down, I noticed a small rounded protuberance on the flat rock below me. Not a great handhold but it would probably give me just enough purchase. As I reach out, a fraction of a second before my fingers closed around it, the ‘protuberance’ swam off down the slope. I knew immediately what it was, and realised how lucky I had just been. Though not at all aggressive, scorpionfish are among the most venomous species in the ocean. A series of sharp spines occur within their dorsal fin. These normally lie flat along their backs, but when the fish is alarmed they become erect. The spines have grooves along them that connect to venom glands. When the spines puncture the skin of an unlucky swimmer or diver this causes the sheath protecting the spines to tear, allowing venom is pumped into the tissue. When staid scientific papers describe the first symptoms as excruciating pain then you know it’s gonna hurt. Many years before I had the unfortunate experience of stepping, bare-footed, on a stonefish while I was erecting a tide gauge in shallow water (stonefish are related to scorpionfish but with a generally more potent venom). The pain I experienced over the subsequent six hours is something I never want to repeat. The initial effects (apart from pain) are usually pronounced edema as the toxins cause a major inflammatory response. More severe problems can include heart arrythmia, tissue necrosis and lung damage. The toxins are extremely complex and we are still only just starting to the underlying mechanisms.

Fortunately I avoided all this and was able to watch as the scorpionfish swam down into deeper watch. Once it had settled I dived down to get some photographs. Scorpionfish are not at all aggressive, and generally rely on their impressive camouflage to protect them. So if you approach slowly and carefully one can get quite close without disturbing them. Several scorpionfish species occur in the Andaman Sea, and identifying to species level live individuals is extremely difficult as often relies on small physical differences that are almost impossible to spot underwater. So this guy will remain Scoraenodes sp.

Fine Art Landscape and Wildlife Prints

If you enjoyed this story why not check out my other blogs. I write about travel, the environment, marine biology, diving and wildlife. You may also want to check out my photographic prints. These can be viewed on my main site www.colinmunrophotography.com and include landscapes from around the World, people of the World, marine life and other wildlife. The prints are only available through my website, each one individual processed and made to order. This includes fine art giclee prints, limited edition prints and canvas wraps. I use only the best, carefully selected print houses employing the finest papers and printing processes to ensure image fidelity and longevity.

I’ve recounted this story to friends a few times over the years, so I thought I’d get around to writing it up. This is from way back in 1982, pre-dating my time as a photographer by many years, and before I trained as marine biologist. I was 25 years old at the time, and had just quit my job as a salvage diver in Mombasa. I had a small amount of money saved, and a couple of months before I was due to start university in Newcastle, England, so I packed a tent and sleeping bag into my rucksack and set off to explore a little of Northern Kenya. From Mombasa I hitched to Nairobi, some 300 miles northwest. I found a cheap hotel for a couple of nights and pondered my next move. I had initially been keen to visit Meru Reserve, as I knew of its long association with Joy and George Adamson; indeed, that was where both Elsa, the lioness of Born Free, was buried and the ashes of Joy Adamson scattered. However, at that time Meru was plagued by gangs of poachers and there had been a spate of attacks on tourists by armed groups; AK47s being all too common amongst poachers and Shifta (a term used interchangeably for both bandits and Somali resistance fighters) due to decades of conflict between Kenyan Government forces and ethnic Somalis in the Northern Frontier District, as it was known. George Adamson himself would be shot dead by such a group some seven years later. I considered trying to get to Kora, where I knew George worked the Tony Fitzjohn at that time, but Kora was not open to the general public and without one’s own transport there was no easy way to get there. Simply walking in was not an option. After some deliberation I decided to head further north to Samburu National Park. Samburu was mostly semi-arid and within it was found animals I had never seen before, in particular Grevy’s zebra and gerenuk, the strange long-necked gazelle. My plans were quite hazy, but I hoped I could get transport close enough to walk in, then hitch a ride around inside the reserve on one of the tourist vehicles. I headed to Machakos Bus Station in central Nairobi, where buses heading to all parts of the country could be found. Machakos Bus Station, at that time, was a cauldron of mayhem. Large numbers of buses parked chaotically, surrounded by shouting, jostling crowds, street vendors, ticket touts, con artists and pickpockets. Impossible amounts of luggage were hurled on to bus roofs, whilst people boarded. Carrying my rucksack in front to me so I could keep the side pockets in view as I squeezed through the crowd, I eventually found my bus, purchased my ticket and boarded. I was off to Isiolo, some 9 hours’ bus ride to the north, and the end of the line for buses.

Isiolo, back then, had something of a frontier town feel about it. One wide, dirt road of ran through it. Originating in Nairobi, it ran all the way to Moyale on the Ethiopian border. Archers Post, a Samburu village, lay 22 miles further on up the road. From there I reckoned I could walk the 14 miles to the game lodge and tent campsite. However, getting to Archers Post was not simply a question of jumping on a bus or hitching a ride. North of Isiolo, up to the Ethiopian border, was considered bandit country. A combination of drought, food insecurity, overspill from conflicts in Ethiopia and Somalia, simmering bitterness from the Shifta Wars a decade earlier, centuries old tribal conflicts and cattle rustling, coupled with the easy availability of guns, made for a dangerous mix. Consequently, no buses operated north of Isiolo, the only scheduled transport was truck convoys with military escorts. These passed through early morning every three or four days, so my only option was to wait. My hotel room was hot and airless; a concrete cube with a small window looking out onto the main street and a broken down bed I inspected carefully for unwelcome invertebrate cohabitants. Out back there was a small courtyard where beer was served until the small hours. There wasn’t a great deal to do in Isiolo. I wandered the main street, peering in shops full of dusty tins with faded labels. Fresh fruit or vegetables seemed a rarity. I washed down bread and margarine, or chapatis and boiled eggs, with black Nescafe coffee. I watched local girls of school age passing carrying sacks of charcoal on their heads. Unlike near the coast I had not seen any significant charcoal burning fires when travelling to Isiolo, and trees were stunted and sparse, so God knows how far an area had to be scavenged to collect the wood to fill these sacks.  Charcoal was the main fuel for cooking, and selling charcoal often the last resort of the destitute.  That it is damaging to the environment is a poor argument to someone for whom it is the only way to ward off starvation.

I was befriended by a young local man who offered to show me around, telling me there was a camel market happening in town.  I was keen to see the market but wary of being scammed or suddenly hit for a large ‘guides fee’, my experiences of such approaches in Nairobi and Mombasa having made me cautious and cynical.   The camel market, down a few alleyways which opened up to some large pens, was the first time I had ever seen camels close up, so definitely worth it.  My cynicism proved completely unfounded, my guide refusing all payment afterwards, leaving me feeling quite ashamed.  The young man (who’s name I confess I have forgotten) was a local teacher who simply wanted to be helpful whilst have an opportunity to practice his English. Mzungus (white people) were not common in Isiolo then (I seemed to be the only one around at that time) and so he approached me.

The convoy arrived before dawn, which meant being packed and waiting on the street outside my hotel around 5.30am.  The convoy, around ten heavily laden Mitsubishi-Fuso trucks, rolled up just before 6am, grinding to a halt in the middle of the road.  I picked up my rucksack and joined the dozen or so others hoping grab a lift.  In the darkness we shouted up to those already on top, and they shouted down to us.  I took off my rucksack and held it high; hands reaching down to grab it.  I then climbed up onto the roof of the cab, and from there onto the back of the truck, joining the eight or nine fellow travellers already up there.  The main cargo, whatever it was, lay under a steel frame supported tarpaulin that projected some five to six feet above the height of the cab; the tarp secured by ropes.  On top of this various items, my rucksack, the belongings of my fellow travellers plus a spare wheel, were held rather precariously either squeezed under the securing ropes or tied on to them with whatever bits or rope or cord was available.  Directly behind the cab, about four foot above it, was a small platform, no more than three foot wide. This was where we travellers all sat.  I squeezed in beside my new companions, sitting with my knees drawn up under my chin. With one hand I found a bit of rope to hang on to.  The soldiers escorting us finished stretching their legs and climbed back into their trucks. As the dawn broke the engines roared into life, gears crashed and our convoy headed north.

The road north of Isiolo was simply hard packed dirt surrounded by a sea of sand and rocks.  Up on top we swayed from side to side like sailors in rigging, at times I was prevented from falling more by the pressure of bodies either side of me than by my grip on the rope. Drifting sand would partially obscure the road at times. At one point our driver lost concentration and we veered off the road, lurching violently as he tried to avoid rocks, trees and termite hills.  There were points at which both wheels on the right hand side went airborne, and I was convinced the truck was about to end up on its side. After about 80 metres of rodeo ride we regained the relative security of the road.  The road stretched arrow straight in front of us, with Ololokwe mountain dominating the horizon, rising out of the surrounding flatlands. Either side stretched sand with occasional acacias. Nothing moved except the occasional camel herd. Very quickly my position became pretty uncomfortable. There was only one other place to sit. Directly in front was a metal crate, bolted to the front of the trailer headboard directly above the cab.  This contained a few plastic bags and 5 gallon drums of oil, all loosely tied together.  Sitting alone on top of these was a young lad, maybe 13 or 14 years old.  The crate rattled like hell, and there was no side protection to prevent you falling, but at least there was room to move.  I inched my way forward to join him.  Mohammed, his name I learned, was shy and quiet.  Questions were answered with one word replies.  He was travelling alone, and did not seem entirely sure where he was going.  I hoped there would be someone meeting him.  We arrived at Archers Post in under an hour.  This was one street of wooden buildings with corrugated iron roofs. There was also a sign pointing the way to Samburu lodge. I untied my rucksack, climbed down and waived to my goodbye to my temporary companions.  Shouldering the pack I set off.

The road to Samburu Lodge was pretty clear.  A few huts lined the road on the outskirts of Archers Post, and as I passed one or two Samburu women or children would watch with mild curiosity.  Some would call out or respond to greetings ‘hello’ or ‘jambo’ or sometimes ‘kejua’.  I paid a few shillings to take a photograph of one girl carry a young child, who was dressed in particularly fine looking traditional costume.

As I trudged on the huts petered out, and soon I was alone. The sun climbed higher and the air shimmered in the heat.  The only sound was my boots scuffing though the dirt.  My pack felt like it had doubled in weight. After maybe a couple of hours I heard a vehicle in the distance. I turned to see a Land Rover heading towards me, a trail of dust billowing like smoke behind it. It was my lucky day!  As it drew level it slowed and skidded to a halt.  The driver wore a priest’s dog collar and cassock; the passengers were four or five nuns. The driver leaned across the passenger seat to talk to me.  In my head I thought If he’s going to ask where I’m headed that’s pretty damn obvious. But no, instead, in a strong Italian accent he half shouted “You cannot walk here. There are lions. It is dangerous!’  With that unhelpful warning he rammed the Land Rover into gear and left me standing dumbfound in a cloud of dust.  I stared at the back of the slowly disappearing Land Rover, and the nuns in the back returned my gaze expressionlessly.  It took me a minute to fully comprehend what had just happened. A priest had just stopped to warn me that I was in danger by walking, and then had just driven away leaving me to walk.  Was he expecting me to call a taxi? I wasn’t particularly concerned about lions (maybe youthful bravado) but I was very hot and tired and had a long way still to walk.  The Catholic Church had established missions throughout Northern Kenya. Archers Post Catholic Mission had had been established in the early 1960s by Italian Consolata Fathers, and continued to be run by Consolata priests and Franciscan nuns.  Strong evangelists, they built schools, medical centres and installed water pumps …and of course they brought Catholicism to the pastoralists and nomads, Samburu, Turkana and Gabra, partially displacing there traditional religions. 

I trudged on and, fortuitously, was not eaten by lions. I was however, very hot, tired and dehydrated when I finally reached Samburu Lodge late afternoon. I walked past the lodge to the small clearing designated as a camping site and pitched my tent.  After a quick wash and drinking a lot of water I cooked some food, crawled on top of my sleeping bag and fell fast asleep.

The following morning I awoke around dawn, gritty eyed and parched.  The heat of the sun very quickly makes lying inside a small tent intolerable. The campsite had maybe seven or eight tents in it. Needless to say my little A frame tent was much smaller than anything else there.  People were up and about, finishing breakfast and packing gear away into campervans.  As I walked to the toilet block I passed an American girl carrying a loaf of bread towards her van.  I saw a large shape barrelling towards her on the periphery of my vision.  I turned in time to hear a loud shriek.  A big male olive baboon ripped the loaf out of her grasp as he rushed past.  The girl was shocked, but unhurt.  That should have been a pretty clear warning to me; I wasn’t paying attention.   I knew I needed to try and find some transport around the park fairly soon, but walking past the lodge the previous day I had spotted a swimming pool.  I had time for one quick, 30 second dip first, I told myself.  Grabbing a towel and shorts I walked around to the pool, changed, had a quick shower and dived into gloriously cool water. One lap became two, two laps became three, three became four.  Finally I forced myself out of the pool and as I did so the smell of fresh, real coffee hit me.  It was being served right at the pools edge.  After existing on tinned Nescafe powder for days my willpower weakened.  Almost an hour later I returned to the campsite.  The other tents were gone, as were all the minibuses and campervans.  Of course! Everyone headed off early morning for the best sightings of game.  I looked around  – where was my tent? Just then a baboon ran past me waving a kikoi like a flag.  One of my kikois.  The contents of my tent were strewn over half the campsite and around twenty baboons were running around the campsite, greatly excited, some carrying trophies from their pillaging.  Anger rose in me and I picked a handful of small stones and started hurling them at the baboons, walking towards them shouting expletives.  The baboons appeared remarkably good at knowing exactly how far I could throw a stone with any accuracy, and from just outside that radius they glared back, forming a rough semi-circle around me.  At that point I started to calm down. I realised there was no-one else around and that getting into a confrontation with a large group of baboons armed only with a handful of pebbles and a coarse vocabulary was probably not a smart move.  Keeping a watchful eye on the baboons I walked back to where my tent had been pitched. The tent itself was flattened. A long gash in the cotton material had exposed everything inside.  My ex-army down sleeping bag had also been ripped open. Feathers lay everywhere. The little food I had: a small loaf of sliced bread, margarine and some cheese, had been devoured.  Even the carton of tea bags. Almost every individual teabag had been ripped open, spilling tea leaves around the tent to mingle with the feather down.  My passport, that I had carefully hidden inside my sleeping bag, lay exposed on the top of the sleeping bag. I picked it up.  Clearly some baboon had decided it was probably some exotic fruit I had brought. The blue outer cover had been picked away at and peeled back in numerous strips, exposing the card beneath, and the edges chewed.  The front cover appeared as it had several passes through a farm threshing machine. Incredibly, all the inside pages remained intact.   My tent had a gash along the side around three feet across. My sleeping also had one large hole through which down feathers were spilling.  Clearly I couldn’t camp with a tent and sleeping bag in this condition, apart from the fact I no longer had any food.  I packed my belongings back in to my rucksack and walked back to the lodge.  I needed to get back to Isiolo, but I couldn’t simply walk back to Archers Post then wait for a truck, that could be days.  Fortunately I found someone in the lodge who was driving to Isiolo that afternoon, who kindly offered me a lift.

By the time I was dropped off in Isiolo I was in a despondent mood. I checked in at my old hotel, to find that my previous room was not available. I was offered what looked like a small prison cell bordering the courtyard at the back. Still feeling fairly dispirited after my plans had gone so spectacularly wrong, I decided I was going to go back to Nairobi. From there I would rethink my plans about where to head. 

Nowadays Isiolo has a impressively titled ‘International Airport’, with a brand new terminal building and tarmac runway. At the time of writing it doesn’t tend to get much international traffic. In fact no scheduled commercial flights arrive there. Costing a reputed three billion Kenyan shillings, it has, so far, turned out to be one of the many grand, but ill-conceived, projects that Africa so often falls prey to. Nothing like this existed back in 1982. There was, however, a small airfield a little under a kilometre from where I was staying, and I’d heard that a few times a week flights left from there to Nairobi, early in the morning.  The flights were supposedly carrying miraa to Nairobi from farms nearby.  Miraa, known in other parts of East Africa as khat or qat is a stimulant widely consumed throughout Kenya, Ethiopia and Somalia.  The shoots or leaves are chewed, producing a feeling of mild euphoria, increased alertness and suppressing appetite.  Matatu and truck drivers, often working crazy long hours, can frequently be seen with a bundle of shoots or leaves, chewing continuously.  The problem for both the consumer and the supplier is that the psychoactive effect of the plant fades rapidly once it is harvested, so it needs to be delivered to market fast.  Pickup trucks could often be seen driving at breakneck speeds loaded with large bundles of leaves and stems, wrapped in banana leaves, as they head to Nairobi or other population centres.  Whilst banned in the USA, UK and much of the West, miraa is legally grown and consumed by millions throughout East Africa. That being said the organisations that control its supply are often described as ‘mafia-like cartels’. Now the idea of turning up and hitching a lift on an airplane may seem rather bizarre in the highly regulated, bureaucratic world we live in today, but back then, in parts of Africa, it was not that uncommon.   So I took a walk to the airfield just before sunset.  There was the plane, a small, single-engined Cessna 172 or similar, parked on the runway, with a couple of crew nearby.  Yes, this plane was leaving at 6am tomorrow morning. A lift? Why not?  Just be here 20 minutes beforehand.  Elated at my good fortune I walked back to the hotel.  I searched out the night duty manager and told him I needed an early morning call at 5am sharp.  I stressed this was very important. ‘No problem’ I was informed with a big smile. I then retired to my airless, gloomy room, dug a needle and bobbin of cotton thread out of a rucksack pocket, and began the chore of repairing my tent and sleeping bag.  Around 9pm the task was completed and I settled down for an early night.  There were a few tables and chairs in the small courtyard outside my room, and some locals (I assume) were having a beer or three. As the evening progressed, and more beer was consumed, more people turned up and the revelry became louder, and louder.  At some time after midnight the large wooden gates of the courtyard were opened, and a Land Rover drove in, occupying about 50% of the total courtyard area.  The Land Rover arrived, lights blazing, with more beer and a ‘boombox’ cassette tape player blasting out benga and Afro-Cuban rumba tunes over the clatter of the vehicle’s engine.  The party hit overdrive. I eventually drifted off to sleep around 3am, with the music still playing, albeit at a lower volume. 

I awoke with a start.  Switching my torch on I glanced at my watch. Five forty am. Shit! I leaped out of bed, dressed in under a minute, grabbed my rucksack and headed out through the courtyard, passing the now silent Land Rover and tables strewn with empty beer bottles.  As the approaching dawn began to lighten the sky in the East I alternately ran and marched towards the airfield.  As I got closer I could clearly here the sound of an engine warming up.  I ran as fast as I could with a pack across uneven ground.  Around 300 metres from the airfield then engine tone changed and increased in intensity.  I watched in the semi-darkness as the plane sped across the runway, lifted off, and turned south towards Nairobi.  I trudged slowly back to my hotel, tired and angry.  Once back I dropped my pack in my room and went straight to the duty manager’s office.  Hammering loudly on the door I demanded to know what had happened to my early morning call.  No response came from behind the locked door, just an almost imperceptible giggle.  I considered the futility and ridiculousness of my rage and returned to my room to sleep. After a couple of hours rest I woke feeling a bit better about the World.  So, I had lost a day repairing my tent and sleeping bag, and lost a bit of food.  It wasn’t catastrophic.  Heading back to Nairobi was perhaps an overreaction, especially now it would involve a long bus ride.  At the same time walking back into Samburu didn’t fill me with enthusiasm.  Maybe there were other alternatives.

Fine Art Landscape and Wildlife Prints

If you enjoyed this story why not check out my other blogs. I write about travel, the environment, marine biology, diving and wildlife. You may also want to check out my photographic prints. These can be viewed on my main site www.colinmunrophotography.com and include landscapes from around the World, people of the World, marine life and other wildlife. The prints are only available through my website, each one individual processed and made to order. This includes fine art giclee prints, limited edition prints and canvas wraps. I use only the best, carefully selected print houses employing the finest papers and printing processes to ensure image fidelity and longevity.

In these times of volunteer projects to conserve reefs around the World, the boundaries between ‘professional’ and recreational divers has become somewhat blurred. The use of tools underwater, be it Broco cutting gear, bolt guns or high pressure water lances, is one measure of being a ‘proper’ diver rather than a ‘Scuby-doo’, at least on a psychological level.  Maybe for this reason, as much as any other, the use of underwater tools was a fundamental part of my army diver training many decades ago.  At first both tools and tasks were kept very simple lest we do too much damage, either to ourselves or to the lump of metal or concrete we were tasked to modify. As virtually all of our diving was conducted in zero visibility, the risk – of either unintended amputation of body parts or trashing some vital structural component – was not inconsiderable.  My first encounter with underwater tools is a good example of this.  It happened right at the very beginning of my diving career; following my application to train as a Royal Engineers Diver. I was required to undergo several days ‘aptitude test’ to assess whether I was suitable material to join this elite group, before the army wasted significant amounts of money on training me.  This took place in Kiel, North Germany, along the Baltic coast.  In January.  In summer the Baltic coast is beautiful, in the depths of winter, not so much. In Glaswegian parlance, the phrase ‘Jeez it’s Baltic oot there’, can be taken as a warning to put on your warmest coat before venturing outside.

After a 300 kilometre drive huddled in the open back of a Land Rover, we arrived at the British Army diving facility in Kiel, shook the ice off our uniforms and headed to the warmth of the barracks. The following morning, we were introduced to our diving equipment.

The diving suits we were given were (for the non-divers reading this) of the type known as drysuits. Unlike wetsuits these have enclosed boots and tight seals at the wrist and neck to (in theory) exclude water.  Under these we wore old fashioned woollen vest and long johns, and what was essentially a thin corduroy onesie.  Combined, they had thermal insulating properties of a wet tea towel.  The drysuits themselves were rather different to modern diving dry suits, where one enters through a zip across the shoulders or diagonal length of the body.  With these there was no zip, and one entered through the neck of the suit.  The process resembled birth in reverse, and was something of an art, requiring an assistant, dexterity, brute strength and – above all – timing! Once inside, a thick aluminium collar was placed inside the neck of the suit (so resting painfully on your collar bones) and a latex neck seal placed on top.  This join was then sealed by a brass ring firmly clamping all three together: there was now no unaided escape.  The diving suits were made by Avon Rubber Company, from the same material as car tyre inner tubes.  Presumably as a joke they termed them ‘dry suits’ for in reality they had more holes than Emmentaler cheese and leaked like sieves, as we were about to find out.  Thus, attired, we plodded on down to the wooden, snow-covered jetty, pushing a small cart containing our lead weight-belts, diving cylinders, full-face diving regulator and lead diving boots.  At the end of the jetty a jolly corporal, wearing what looked to me like an extremely warm fur lined parka, instructed me on how to put the equipment on.  Once lead boots, weight belt, twin diving cylinders and ancillary equipment were on I warmed up considerably; largely because the equipment weighted around 60 kilos, and I was expending a not-insignificant amount of energy on simply remaining upright. My mask was then firmly clamped on to my face, the ‘spider’ of rubber retaining straps pulled tight to ensure no leaks, and my air turned on.  My first underwater tools were then ceremoniously presented to me.  They consisted of a large lump hammer and a cold chisel. My allotted task was to cut through the links of some old mooring chain I would find at the bottom of the metal ladder that descended from the jetty to the murky water below.  Through the slowly fogging mask I looked at the thin layer of ice covering the sea below the jetty and began to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. To make the task a little more interesting, the clear Perspex of my full-face mask was completely taped over with black insulating tape, rendering me completely encased and in total darkness. I was then guided across the snow covered jetty to the edge of the metal ladder at the end of the wooden jetty, and I proceeded – gingerly – to climb down the slippery metal rungs to the freezing water below.  As I descended beneath the surface I felt the chill of icy water slowly trickling into the suit, down my chest and back.  In a few minutes I had reached the soft mud seabed and by feel located the length of chain. Each link was about eight inches long, composed of metal about two inches thick. By touch I tried to determine which end of the chisel was which.  One end felt marginally less blunt than the other, so I placed it carefully against the metal of the nearest link and I proceeded to pound the other end with all my might for the next twenty-five minutes or so.  Occasionally I would stop for a few seconds to catch my breath and to check with my fingers how deep a gouge I had dug into the link.  This was always bitterly disappointing as the chisel – virtually flat at either end – was making not the slightest dent in the chain.  After about twenty-five minutes I felt a sharp tug on my lifeline. I responded and was signalled to ascend.  No chain was damaged during this exercise, but that was not the point.  The point was firstly to check that I would not suffer a panic attack in the zero visibility of the blacked out mask, and possibly more importantly I was dumb enough to undertake completely pointless, physically exhausting tasks when told to, and to continue until told to stop.  The latter at least, I passed with flying colours.

Fast forward several months and I was at Marchwood Diver Training Centre, near Southampton, England. My diver training had begun in earnest. Although the totally pointless, physically exhausting tasks continued unabated (in fact they increased in severity and duration) I was finally introduced to ‘proper’ power tools.  These included pneumatic rock drills.  These are essentially the same ‘road-breaker’s’ one sees workmen using to break up the tarmac at roadworks. Powered off a trailer low pressure generator, they are connected to the generator by long, thick rubber hoses.  In order to give us something solid to work on, a large concrete block had been lowered onto the black primordial ooze that constitutes the seabed at Marchwood Docks. This was a cube, each side a little over a metre long, resembling a giant sugar cube sitting on the mud. Or at least I imagined it as such, for once again, the visibility underwater was non-existent; you could literally press the luminous face of your watch against your mask and still see nothing.  Divers were deployed on this task in pairs. Connected to the surface by individual rope lifelines, each diver descended on opposite sides of the cube, following the hose of the rock drill that had been lowered to the seabed close to the cube. Now operating a pneumatic road breaker drill underwater is not an easy task.  For one thing, the pressure differential between the compressed air (powering the drill) and the surrounding water lessens as one descends.  This made the drills temperamental underwater. They tended to stop frequently; the drill bit then had to be banged hard against the side of the concrete cube to restart it.  Once started the heavy drill had to be supported and pressed hard against the vertical side of the cube, all the time pulses of compressed air expelled from the drill were hammering your head and shoulders. This meant adopting semi-crouching position, cradling the drill and leaning forward pushing as hard as possible.  Again lead boots were worn, otherwise the diver would simply be ‘blown away’ by the air pressure from the drill.  Now the obvious, much easier way to conduct this operation was to climb on top of the cube and operate the drill downwards, in a similar fashion to navvies at work on roads.  But that was a risky manoeuvre.  To climb up required putting your hands on top of the cube and heaving until you could slide your belly and then one knee on to the upper surface.  The problem was, you could hear the thunderous hammering of your fellow diver’s drill very near you, and you assumed he was working away on the opposite side of the cube. But there was also the possibility that he had had reached exactly the same conclusion as you, and was already standing on top of the cube, drilling downwards.   In the total darkness, the possibility of having a rock drill remove all your fingers, or modify the shape of your cranium, was very real and singularly unappealing. An alternative strategy was called for.  We developed what I like to think of as the ‘ten pin bowling strategy’.  Picking up my drill and cradling it in my arms, I would step backwards, counting my steps. One, two, three, four … at ten steps I would halt. Breathing deeply, I would relax, then summoning all my energy, start to run.  I say run, this was underwater, in lead boots, through soft mud, carrying a heavy drill, in pitch darkness, so it probably more resembled waddling through treacle. Six, seven, eight, nine… and then leap!  If you timed it right your leading boot would land atop the concrete cube. In one mighty bound you were there.  Secure on the desired location where your task became much easier.  And if that spot was already occupied?  This is where the ten pin analogy applies, for if your compatriot was already occupying that space you would smack into him without warning in the darkness, like an invisible bowling ball, sending him crashing to the mud below.  And this became our routine.  Ten or fifteen minutes of bone jarring drilling, then suddenly an apparent sledge hammer from nowhere would send you flying of the top of the block and leave you face down in the mud below, where you either accepted your demotion and worked the vertical face, or gathered your wits and breath, and plotted revenge. 

Whether our instructors were aware this was happening I really don’t know.  If they had I doubt they would have cared that much.  The point of most of the training was not to refine your technique with the equipment at hand, nor to reshape our concrete or steel media for any particular purpose.  The function of almost all tasks was to learn rudimentary skills and endurance, to work with, but compete against your fellow trainees … and still more endurance.  So viewed from that perspective, our creative adaptation fitted perfectly. Our instructors would probably have approved.

As it transpired, many years passed before I used pneumatic rock drills in earnest underwater. I had long since left the army and was now a working marine biologist. The drills has shrunk in size somewhat , but the task remained as energy-demanding and strength sapping as ever, though I assumed at the time, with rather more purpose to it. We were creating a series of underwater monitoring stations following a major oil spill. We were creating a series of underwater monitoring stations following a major oil spill. The plan was to record every year, monitoring changes in seabed communities over the years. So if any furture spill occurred the impacts could be differentiated from natural change. Alas, as is often the way of these things, after a pretty massive effort creating a series of such stations throughout the length of Milford Haven, the funding for subsequent monitoring never materialised, so maybe to no more purpose after all.