SCUBA Bloke : Like fath
Nick Lyon gets a special extended column this month , as he tells the story of going diving with his son , Angus , for the first time . Photography by Kirstie Harris
A LIFETIME AGO , I DID SOMETHING very special . I pulled on a snazzy red wetsuit , hung a thing like an inflatable toilet seat [ that would be an adjustable buoyancy life-jacket – historical ed ] around my neck , and waded into the sea . I inhaled nervously through the primitive Snark regulator as I sank to my knees , and the clear water of Plymouth Sound closed over me for the first time . It was the culmination of years of dreaming . I had become a diver .
It was the televised adventures of one J . Cousteau that had planted the seed in me , but it was only after I became a father that I wondered whether the desire to explore beneath the waves would become a family trait . The strange thing is that I really hoped it wouldn ’ t .
I expect that the majority of us have witnessed the sorry spectacle of the reluctant loved one . A partner , spouse or
child who learns to dive because their partner , spouse or parent does . And they really aren ’ t too keen . Personally , I reckon that not wanting to be underwater is an excellent reason for not being there , in fact it adds an unwelcome risk element to the experience . And even if both parties are keen , the shared experience of exploring the deep can cause friction .
I used to dive with a married couple who seemed perfectly happy on the boat , even going so far as to give each other a little kiss before submerging . But as soon as they hit the surface , regulators were not so much spat out , as blasted out by a high volume torrent of abuse . Nobody knew what had happened down there to cause such consternation , but the problem resolved itself anyway when the wife ran off with their regular skipper . Despite all of this , it was no surprise when my son Angus started to drop some rather broad hints about joining me beneath the waves . Perhaps I was lulled into a false sense of security , because I had already taught my wife to dive and , against all the odds , we are still happily married . I did my best to casually introduce some of the horrors of diving into my conversations with Angus , but he fended them off with terrifying logic that all fourteen year olds possess , by pointing out that nothing had put me off diving for the last 30 years . Damn .
Then fate intervened . His school was offering diving courses as part of its enrichment week . In a fiendish bit of manoeuvring , he casually announced that he had qualified as an open water diver . This was doubly devious because he knew that I would be unable to resist converting him to a BSAC qualification . So I braced myself for the emotional rollercoaster that lay ahead . The first potential issue that I had to deal with was fear .
When she was seven , Angus ’ older ( and wiser ) sister , Heather , was very keen to experience a balloon flight , so I treated her to one , especially as I wanted to try it too ! She loved the flight , and I should have , but I didn ’ t . I spent the entire time battling with a totally irrational fear that my precious first born was going to fall out of the balloon , even though she could barely see over the edge of the basket . This exaggerated protective urge would be no good underwater and I would have to fend it off at all costs .
Now it was time to put a dive plan together . It would be fair to say that I threw myself at this task with a bit more enthusiasm than I normally would for a 7m shore dive . In fact I have planned deep wreck dives 30 miles offshore with less precision than this . It wasn ’ t simply that I wanted the dive to go safely ; I wanted everything to be exactly right , because this experience was so important for both of us . I had chosen Porthkerris Beach on the Lizard Peninsula as the site , due to its profusion of life and excellent facilities , but Angus was adamant that his first ‘ proper ’ dive should be at the same location that I had mine ; Fort Bovisand near Plymouth .
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