The Tale of Foxy Roxy and the King of Gloom. Book the Fourth.

The next day I decided to have a day off, so camp out, under a parasol, alternatively staring out to sea and reading. The breeze is constant off the water, next time I catch sight of myself in the mirror I note that my hair has a volume and a backsweep of heroic proportions, I look like Martin Sheen after a nasty surprise.

Later in the day I decide to go for a snorkel, I pick up the camera, anoint myself with suntan lotion and roll into the sea. I snorkel out to the reef, and, after an interesting time in the surge, exit over the edge and start snapping like a madman. After nine shots, strange things happen with the camera, I come back to shore and look through the viewfinder, the water on the inside bodes ill. I retreat under the bedclothes and open the back, the film is wet - "Bollocks!". I consign the film to the bin and put the camera in the sun to dry.

A new guest has arrived today - Ralph, he is off with Roxy for the next few days taking photos, this is how he makes a living poor soul, warm water diving with a camera, sounds awful, you can visit his websites here (check out "latest"). When he returns I collar him with my damp camera, he suggests Said may have the appropriate jewellers' screwdrivers. Said does, takes the camera to pieces, air blasts it, desalts the electrics, and miraculously gets it to fire - what a star.

In the evening I eat in town, and return to drink the recently departed Joey and Nick's last beer, which they have kindly left for me, I decide to wait for a shooting star, and park myself on one of the loungers. Three satellites come past and the moon rises drowning out a lot of stars, I decide that three satellites may equal one shooting star. Then, an evanescent streak as a piece of dust donates its atoms to the Earth, I feel a pang of joy, tempered with the fact that this is also, inevitably, our fate.

Morning comes, and I discover that I'm deaf in my right ear. As Roxy applies drops I apply courage,

"Umm, Roxy, I, umm, do you think you might umm, like to have, um, dinner with me before I go?"

"That would be very nice, you're very kind."

"Well it's hardly expensive." Damn! Damn! Damn!

"I'll choose somewhere 'young.'"

Damn, damn, damn.

So there I was, committed to an evening of several hundred people chattering to Roxy while I ate dinner.

I decided to have another day of doing nothing, and then decided to start my novel:

"The Regent's Canal winds through North London like a ribbon of pustular snot streaming from the nose of a cold-ridden child....."

or

"Tom Landrover, flicked his tail, stretched his back, brushed down his whiskers, and, staring at the rainclouds gathering, decided it was a good day to go to the barn and torment some mice."

or

"I ran my hand down Roxy's naked flank, watching the skin dance and shiver as my touch excited her, she rolled onto her back, her green eyes steeped in lust, guiding my hand, she arched her ba...."

Hang on! Now I was completely deaf, apart from a mosquito whine of tinnitus, plus it hurt. I decided to go to the Doctor. Said and I head off in a taxi to the recompression chamber and surgery. The Doctor is a quiet man, who after a brief interview produces some sort of jeweller's/torturer's tool and picks (as in axe) at the tamponade that used to be my earwax and, that since I have repeatedly exposed it to depth, has become a sort of crown cork. This hurts like merry hell but on the third mining trip into the fudge sundae, there is a pop, and sound rushes in. I leave with the advice that I should soften the remaining wax with olive oil three times a day, so it is that I go to town able to dress salad with a mere tilt of the head.

In town, in the evening, a local lands a 2m plus shark, there is a mixed reaction, the locals, who after all have been fishing here for quite some time, are ecstatic, some of the visiting diving sorority are in tears.

The next day I am deaf again, I suspect the trauma from the Doctor's gouging, even so we all head off for the Full Moon, with our driver Sallah taking a route known only to him. This was doing Ralph's back no good at all, as he seemed to have done something to it the previous day. Even so he seemed impervious to my sympathetic explanations of how bad mine was, and that if he thought he had a bad back he should try the 17 kilos of lead I was now burdened with.

My first dive of the day is Moray Gardens left, a trawl through a set of pinnacles with the big Giant Clams. On the way I litter pick, accidentally exchanging two kilo's of lead for some trash, consequently my safety stop consists of me finning to the bottom with Said holding me down.

Over lunch - a "Tunisian Salad" - couscous with tomato, Said straps another kilo of weight to the bottom of my tank to "hold it down". Hoorah a new record at 18 kilos! The first dive of the afternoon is in Three Pools, there are three pools, as we exit from one a fish attacks Said who has invaded his territory, nipping at the wrist of his wetsuit, Said 1M 75, fish 8cm! I manage to spot a Shrimp and Goby combo, these are described in the book as commensals though symbiotes may be nearer the mark, this particular combo is a Graceful Goby and Red-Spotted Goby Shrimp by the time I have signalled to Said, the Shrimp has gone to hide, so there I am being excited by a fish, while diving, whoop-de-doo! As we slump on the bottom for our safety stop, a snakefish comes to hunt. I return to shore with my full 18 kilos, having been unable to shed any surplus due to Said's careful monitoring.

After a tea break, dive three (Moray Garden Right), Ralph had pointed out a pinnacle on the way out which he said was "stuffed", it was. We also saw a couple of Trevally (a relatively large predator) patrolling the shoals.

Got back to base and met two more guests, Del and Chris. Del a recently qualified lawyer from Pembrokeshire and husband (?) Chris from Australia (Norfolk Island, about halfway between Oz and New Zealand, so not really Australia at all). Del was due to do a course with the other instructor Ollie, and Chris, after an assessment dive, was due out with Said and myself. They looked about 12. I ate and went to bed early.

The next day - more diving. Today I waited for Chris's assessment, having exhausted the possibilities of the Lighthouse (they, of course, saw a Napoleon Wrasse, which can grow up to two metres in length, described by Said as "enormous", though I had come to learn that Said saw a lot of "enormous" things. I did wonder whether he'd realised that things look bigger underwater, though I was still revelling in the purchase of my prescription mask, where they don't). Then we went on to Canyon to do the Coral Garden, which was very pretty with the biggest clams yet seen ("Enormous" Said) and a lot of clownfish. At one point I was minding my own business when I felt something at my throat, after waving my hand about I was confronted by two Cleaner Wrasse who looked distinctly reproachful. When I told the boys about this at lunch, Said said this was not uncommon and asked if I hadn't seen his signal. This turned out to be rubbing one index finger up the side of the other. Yes I had seen the signal and was pretty sure that in other cultures it meant something distinctly different to "Look there's a Cleaner Wrasse!" so rather than enquire too far, had ignored it. My mind now at rest, I put my body into a similar state of repose.

After lunch we move on to the Blue Hole and the Bells (I was going to put a link in here but most of the links appear to be dedicated to the showing of bodies of people who have died in the Blue Hole, if you're interested you can Google "Blue Hole Dahab") The Blue Hole is just that, a hole, it is used by extensively by freedivers, and also by idiots who think they can push the limits, there is an exit at about sixty metres, which proves too tempting for many people. Their memorial plaques appear on the walls of the amphitheatre surrounding the hole, here's one, "To James. Who didn't let fear diminish his dream." - Twat.

We walk (with my extra 18 kilo's I waddle) to the entrance to the Bells, this is a rift that descends, that's exactly what it does, it just descends until you exit on a cliff that does exactly that as well- descend. It is called the Bells, as you bang your cylinder on the side walls as you go down. I manage, to Said's relief, not to drop anything into the void, and we emerge from the crack at ten metres and then contour round the cliff. Under an overhang Chris points out a large Octopus, the drop-off itself is covered with fish, millions of fish, it becomes clear that as Des Res's go, the piscine equivalent of Hampstead/Seattle is a drop-off. On the edge of visibility the bigger predators patrol.

A Cornet Fish falls in love with Said , lurking behind him and occasionally swimming between his regulator hose and his head, apparently they're renowned for using divers as cover when hunting, though Chris and I were convinced it was love. Just as we turn to enter the hole, Said points, Chris follows his pointing finger and contemplates, just in case, I grab Chris's arm, point wildly and yell, "Turtle". The "Enormous" Turtle looks at us with faint disdain, surfaces for a breath and then slides gently off into the coral. We fin over into the Blue Hole. In the centre of the Hole you can see - blue, nothing below, nothing to the sides, but blue, at ten metres the surface is still visible but not for much longer, this is why people die, with narcosis they swim off the wrong way, never to return. Said floats perfectly still at ten metres, and starts to move up out of my field of vision, I put air in the jacket and monitor my depth gauge, Said goes higher, the needle on the depth gauge goes higher, I inflate, and inflate, Said comes back into my field of vision and then passes, I deflate and sink past him again. This carries on until we reach the other side for our safety stop, where we sit surrounded by bottle tops. At one point I am startled by a school of small fish that suddenly make a ceiling above me, and then just a quickly disappear, however, Chris is terrified by the end of his weight belt appearing by his chin with the sole intent of drinking his life blood.

We return, Roxy, preoccupied with having to see the "Management", blows out dinner but promises breakfast. So my non-romantic client/teacher tete-a-tete has been turned into a power-management experience. To console myself, I stump off to Friends for Kofta and a Shisha, dowsing every cat in sight mercilessly, and return to the Furry Cup for a bottle of Stella (an Egyptian as opposed to Belgian beer). At 11.00, the universe turns a switch, the sea-breeze drops and dies, A few seconds later a hot wind comes roaring out of the desert behind me, snapping the flags out straight, rather like having an energy efficient dragon creep up behind you.

My last day and the paying of the bill, as a lot of you know, parting with money, for me, is a painful experience. I stayed with Dive Urge who I felt were keener to get my money out of me than the restaurant touts down the strip. my food bill was remarkably round, and the transfer from the airport was £25 each way, when I query that it might be an idea to tell people this, the Manager consults her computer and informs me that it is in the first e-mail I received, seeing as I have no computer to prove this, and that I am too weak to say, "Show me!" I let this pass. ("No it wasn't Lindsay, by the way!").

At breakfast Roxy helps me with my pancake before going off with Ralph. I head into town with Ollie and Del and have a final snorkel, where I am rewarded by two Scribbled Razor Fish, about 70 cm and shifting between dark blue and silver.

I return and drowze, before distributing tips and the contents of my wash bag, as I put the last of my Egyptian Pounds in the tip box I am presented with a request for my lunch money, "About £10." Actually about £6.20 mate. So it is slightly disgruntled that I leave my Life-Partner-To-Be (I just have to talk her round) to drive through the desert in the gathering dusk, before arriving at Gatwick in the small hours. I get to bed at four, today is Open Day, I will be in at 11.00 to talk to schoolchildren and their parents, I will only hear the ones on my left.

The Tale of Foxy Roxy and the King of Gloom. Book the Third

Another day, another diving course.

After my fruit pancakes, I had the briefing for the "Deep Dive". Being moderately nervous, in fact I'd woken in the middle of the night umm- vocalising, I was being stalked by girl-guides in a London Underground tunnel, (don't ask me , it was a dream), I put this down to the heat, .... where was I? Being moderately nervous I asked Roxy to go through the signals again. She shows me "up", "down", "something is wrong", "No not those, there was another one I didn't recognise." We stare at each other for a couple of minutes and finally decide that it may have been a "safety swim" (a cromlech - see top - with a wiggling tail).

As this is my official "Deep Dive" I have to do a number of tests designed to show the effects of narcosis. I have previously completed a quiz (17 seconds) which I have to redo at depth. Question One throws me, while sitting in the hotel, "What is the Capital of Slovakia?" We eventually come to a mutual decision that "Bratislava" will do as an answer. Then into the jeep and off to the Canyon (lengthy video on YouTube here ).

The Canyon is a rift in the reef, there are several wide chambers and some narrow squeezes (to be avoided). To get there you have to exit over the reef from a pool, at low and high water, or wind, this can involve current. We exit as a group comes in, they totally fail to spot the Octopus that is sitting on a pinnacle just at the exit, we (Roxy) however do spot it. and watch it blanch and prickle. Then we move off, down to the top of the drop off before turning left and meandering up to the rift.

At the Canyon we adopt the pose and skydive to the bottom, my suit compresses (finally) and the air becomes considerably thicker, as though it has been mixed with a small amount of honey. The first task is to compare depth gauges, we do; Roxy:- 33.3 metres, Nick:- 2 metres. Ho Hum. I do the quiz, some naughty person has changed the sums (17 seconds). Then I have to turn my back while Roxy changes something, which I then have to spot. I turn and turn back, a few seconds later I realise that instead of having the regulator shoved in her gob, she's got her snorkel. At this point narcosis must have set in as I fail to fail to spot it for the next five minutes and instead, point it out straight away, next time the mask is on upside down. We ascend through a column of Sweepers/Glassfish who occupy the inside of the shaft, waiting for the onset of evening when they will leave, I wonder whether they will all leave the same entrance, like bats.

We return and spend our surface interval in the cafe, drinking tea and chatting, I sit in the sun wearing my sarong, shirt, hat, with my arms covered in a towel. As we prepare to move on I go to the toilet, when I return the cafe owner is deep in conversation with Roxy. Apparently he has a brother in Cairo who needs a wife, with Roxy, everyone has a brother in Cairo who needs a wife, even I have a brother in Cairo who needs a wife. there is, of course, the question of field-testing for the biCwnaw.

We move on to Rick's Reef (Yes Roxy I know but if people want to look it up, oh all right!) AKA Roxy's Reef and drift slowly back passing large nurseries and huge clouds of Anthias (more fish pics here ). Behind there are shoals of Sergeant Majors, possibly sniping. By now I have favourite fish : The Humbug Dascylus which has just black and white stripes but the blackest black and the whitest white, the Whitespotted Puffer, who, safe in the knowledge of his toxic skin, lies moribund with large dark-rimmed eyes, it reminds me of a recently told-off Basset puppy. We arrive back at the Canyon pool and head for shore, and from thence back home. I have asked for a guesstimate, it arrives and upon opening I adopt the expression of the Whitespotted Puffer.

Still, life goes on and I have to pick my other adventure dives, because I have failed to realise that the paper has two sides I suggest a DPV - a Diver Propulsion Vehicle. Roxy thinks this would be a good idea and assents to my choice with typical South African reticence, "Fuck Yea! We hev got to do thet Mun!" or accent to that effect. I stroll of to see Lindsay, "Hi I'm thinking of doing the DPV are you going to get me one?"

"What's this then Boys and Toys?"

"No, the DPV is an essential diver tool, it allows the diver to explore a larger area, it allows the diver to get to places without using precious air and in the case of tandem use, confers these advantages on both divers."

".... You'll have to rent your own."

"Oh - ok."

In the evening I pluck up courage and head out into the town where I end up, after a chat with Mohammed, who's very excited because his wife is coming from Faversham in September, and who's now a good boy because he's married, look, and wearing his ring. At this point a couple of willowy half-clads come past and look at the menu,
"Russian?" I venture, making a guess on the flesh to cloth ratio.
"No. Hungarian. Very easy."

I order the Bedouin lamb, which turns out to be a stew. The meal turns into the usual marathon, with free soup, some dips, and, finally, the ubiquitous watermelon. It also involves every cat in Dahab coming to check out my meal and lounging Bast-like on my sofa. To celebrate my courage in going out by myself I indulge in a shisha, while watching the moon rise over Saudi. At this point one of the waiters arrives with a bottle of water,
"Ah well, when in Rome." I twist the top off and drink, it is tap - desalinated. confused and with a constricted throat, I wash my hands with it - nonchalantly. When I return, Joey takes great delight in telling me that I have drunk the "cat gun" which has a hole in the top for shooting the cats. there is much hilarity all round, well, nearly all round.

We chat about diving and Joey's time with Unilever (we manage to come up with Fred Trussel in common, for you Unileverites), then she tells me about the survey she did on Diego Garcia with one Professor Jacqui McGlade - my flatmate in 1976. We also talk about the trials and tribulations of running a Ski Chalet in France, to be frank I can't detect that many.

The next day Roxy and I bum about while Said tours all over town and manages to come up with one DPV, we decide to "share", and head off back to Lighthouse as we reckon the pose factor will be better there, plus there may be a chance of getting it back if we drop it. My instructor takes the DPV in and gives it some extensive testing, I float and watch, after a few minutes I decide that it could do with a bit more thrux and a lot of poke, then I focus on the DPV. Eventually I'm allowed to have a go, though I can detect the pout even around the regulator. It's quite cumbersome and sinks when it stops but it's good, slow fun, though nifty on the turns. We ride tandem for a bit and a Lionfish comes out of his oildrum and cruises towards the overly large, overly noisy, invader of his territory, we turn to chug away, prepared to drop the DPV and swim should it charge, it'll be faster!

After a lounge about, we move on to The Islands, probably my favourite dive area of the holiday, a reef just off the shore and therefore with different species. This section of reef has been split by an earthquake a few years ago so that it's interesting to see the different patterns of regrowth; some 2mm some 10cm. There is also a Barracuda nursery in one of the pools. This was where I did my compulsory navigation section, difficult stuff like trying to swim a ten metre square, to make matters fair, I, of course, shut my eyes during the legs of the swim so that I couldn't correct by line of sight. No really, I did. Then I was taken off for a jaunt, where , much to my chagrin, I failed to pass under an arch without clouting it, see it still niggles. Though I did find my way back to the start when requested, even throwing in a false dogleg to make my instructor think she'd beaten me. However modesty forbids me to go on about it. I was told I was the only person ever to do it though, no I was, I can't believe she says it to everyone, surely not.

Back to base to prepare for the night dive, this involves going to the toilet several times and then putting on the wetsuit. As I don my supersize shorty and longjohns, Roxy appears in her newly repaired seal suit, she looks svelte and smooth, like a ..., like a seal...with knockers. I stare ruefully at my centimetre of clunky rubber, any stirrings I might have felt being suppressed by 1. the constrictive clothing and 2. the constriction in my circulation, as the dread hour approaches. With the cheesy grin favoured by the true dominatrix, Roxy announces that it is time. Said eager to avoid carrying my gear, appeals to my vanity and offers to carry my gear. So it is that I waddle down to the launch pad and am then dragged ignominiously across the reef to the prosaically-named "Trench", I fin generously to assist, rather sacrificing the role of "client" I thought.

We drop into a strange, bleary world; the reef has been washed of colour, the day community of fish has dwindled, approaching a table of acropora you become aware that it has fish threaded through its horns, threaded so that nothing appears outside the coral to be nibbled. For me, everything appears out of focus but my breathing rate slows, my buoyancy miraculously comes together, and we float in the night, surrounded by a nimbus of diffuse light, itself pierced by the focused rays of the torches. the sand slope away beneath us and disappears into the dark. you can imagine a long, slow fall down this slope away from the light, through and into the bottomless dark - so I don't. Instead I concentrate on the Featherstars, all seeking high points and waving their arms to catch anything floating on the breeze, we pass a Basket-Star who has an edge on the Feathers by sheer size, its arms span at least 70cm, as the wash from our fins catches it, it collapses back in on itself, to nothing. Other highlights include a pair of large Sea Slugs cruising the sand, a Spiny Lobster whose eyes glow red in the torchlight, sparky phosphorescence when I hide the torch, a cone shell (a Marlin Spike ), some shrimps and getting back alive without being eaten by Goblins.

I fin back over the reef and plod wearily back up the road, Said having cheerfully employed his reverse psychology again, sort out the gear - and there we are - done. Now all I have to do is fill in the next five days, I resolve to be brave.

The Tale of Foxy Roxy and the King of Gloom. Book the Second

Tuesday and an 8.00 am start (some holiday), Bakar had got up early to do my pancakes. I boxed my gear as I'd been taught, and was immediately told by one of the other guests, The Expert that I'd done it all wrong. So, wary of his tattoos, I redid it his way. Roxy arrived, glanced at the box and told me I'd done it all wrong. So, wary of the patooties, I undid it, and then redid it the way I'd done it.

We bounce South along the coast past the Hilton, The Swiss Inn and the Meridian, all of which inspire a lack of confidence in the continued existence of the well being of the reef, to arrive at the Full Moon Cafe and mock Bedouin encampment - with toilets - one of which seemed permanently occupied (I found out later that this was the "European-style" one).

A BRIEF SCATOLOGICAL DIVERSION - this is after all, one of MY blogs, readers of a nervous disposition should look away now : In Egypt, as with all Muslim countries toilet behaviour does not include toilet paper. Instead one washes the anal region with a handy spray (or hosepipe), being, of course, careful to use the left hand (which shouldn't be used for anything else). This is a very refreshing and very hygienic way to post-cathartic cleanliness. However, after 10 days of this, one discovers that the hairs on one's bottom, normally kept short by toilet paper, have now grown to a length, whereby the reuse of toilet paper causes plucking, and thereby intense pain.

Ok I've finished.

We dive (with an extra 2kg in my pocket, which falls out at some point) and rattle through some tests before pootling. On the way back we watch another group enter the water there are four and one instructor, one of the group, a girl, is having some sort of trouble, the instructor rattles of a set of hand signals that appear to indicate castigation, I have no idea what he was on about and I'm an informed observer. Roxy followed my gaze and then added to my lexicon of sign with one that I can't find in the manual. In order to liven things up I did my Controlled Emergency Swimming Ascent: adopt a Superman pose and scream your way to the surface like a cheap but satisfying firework (Ladies - any interest?). This is described in the manual as making an "Aaah" sound.

For our surface interval we drink Bedouin tea (a mixture of black tea and sage leaves), and talk about work (mine) and chests and bums (hers).

As Roxy's patooties approach normal temperature (easily spotted by a trained observer such as myself), and we think about the next dive, Nadia, the daughter of Mein Hostess arrives,
"Can we borrow your regulator, there's a little something wrong with mine we'll be very quick."
At this point I must have lost my presence of mind for, after more reassurance of a speedy return, I assented. After a fruitless wait we drove to Umm-Sid with the damaged regulator.

The pressure gauge was, "blowing a bit", this meant that if you put your finger over the drainhole, the rubber cover would try and blow itself off, I was dubious and said so.

"That's all right," says Roxy magnanimously, yet at the same time condescendingly, "if you run out you can share mine." I still can't understand how someone with such an obviously large vital capacity can use so little air.

In the water it becomes evident that the pressure gauge leak is a mere blip on the equipment failure horizon, in fact the regulator does not appear to be connected to its hose at all. The driver goes off to get a new set, I snorkel, Roxy points her chest South for a bit of pre-dive nipple thermo-therapy.

Eventually the water closes over our heads and we head off spotting the fan corals and eels that this dive is known for, we also spot something else: As I round a bend Roxy rattles at me (I had by now discovered what that sound was, I knew it sounded metallic but put it down to something natural, like a Parrot Fish - with dentures) there, nestled in the coral is a 50cm rock wearing a very glum face, it is definitely a Stonefish, a big one. Roxy is very excited and swears, sadly I can't persuade her to poke it and so determine the species - you look at the pattern on the pectoral fins, just before your vision shuts down.

More tea, and lunch. Then off to Golden Blocks to drift to Moray Gardens, as we drift we find an Octopus, for me, a big one. they have a peculiar psychology Octopuses, for example our Octopus, "Oh bugger, think I've been spotted, I'll slip out the back way. Oh bugger, another one. Ok I'll disguise myself as weed. Not working, look I'll get on top of this rock and disappear. Well it's obviously not going to work if you're watching, so, look away now, and now back. See, I've gone!" We left it disguised as a rock - with eyes and a siphon.

"We saw an Octopus, quite a big one."

"The one we saw had two inch diameter suckers." counters the "Expert" who I suspect thinks he has a ten inch penis.

In the evening we return and I do my Open Water Exam, at one point I must have got flustered or lost interest as I only got 98%, though to be fair I was losing a bit of sleep over the non-decompression tables. Two dives I could manage, three would throw me a bit. Roxy threw in a bit of expert tutelage, "Buy yourself a dive computer."

The outshot was that I passed and moved on to Advanced the next day