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.
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.
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
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