Day 3 - Sharm El-Sheikh
There are only 3 reasons to come to Sharm El-Sheikh
As the boat pulled out of the harbour the sandstone cliffs reflected off the scattered aquamarine waters like a Monet-Hockney collaboration that never could have happened. The dive briefing droned on into its 20th minute and, while all 20 minutes briefings are dull ones delivered entirely in Russian are especially dull. But it didn't matter because the apre-excitement of diving again was kicking in. Enough years pass between my dives for me to worry each time that I've forgotten all the essentials of not drowning. The worry is internal mind you as each time the dive leader must be convinced that diving is to me as riding a bike and I don't need the refresher course. And, for the most part, it is. I squeeze the suddenly-remembered pain from my ears as I descend, my breathing slows down from its gasping pace and I start to see...I start again to be. Ahmed, the dive leader, made us carry out a few basic exercises but this done was contented with our skill levels. Well mine anyway, he was a bit attentive to my buddy. It at least gave me some freedom to explore my limits 16,17 now 18 metres (my certified maximum depth). But, I wondered...19, 20, 21 metres my dive watch says. How low can I go? 22, 23...I won't implode I think. 24 metres and I get the wave, Ahmed says 'Up!'. He seems relaxed about our official limitations though as he leads us through a small cave (another no-no) and I begin to like him immensely. He coaxes a tiny, translucent shrimp into his hand for a little dance, points tirelessly at fish I cannot see and brings me face to face to a fish the size of a mini (old style). Clown fish and morays, giant napoleon and spotted rays. Lovely to behold. As tiny orange fish surround me in their hundreds by a rocky pillar it is like a waking dream. To be able to fly or to breath underwater? This is both. A timeless moment. Trumpet fish, barracuda, a big black grouper. I enjoy logging it all afterwards- water temperature, depth, time at the bottom. But it is a pedantic recording of life's experiences that detaches them from actual meaning in a vain attempt to exert control. I wish i could say that I am trying to bottle lightning but I am not sure that's true. Even the words to describe the experience get ordered in my head in a form in which they can be recorded. Am I in the moment when I'm in the moment? Too rarely I think. Fleetingly perhaps at 24 metres. Maybe there are too few dangers in my life, too few edges. My diligence in sanding them down in the name of middle-aged propriety has numbed the experience of existence and the ability to feel. I shall have to find out what is below 24 metres, what is beneath this.
There are only 3 reasons to come to Sharm El-Sheikh
- A love of beach resorts
- A love of internatyional climate change conferences
- A love of diving
4. It was the cheapest place to fly into and there is a ferry that quickly transports you to the interesting part of Egypt
I'd based reason 4 on the fact that Sharm had a ferry port, Hurgada (on the 'mainland') had a ferry port and on Google Maps there was a dotted line in between. Stupid boy. The reason that there are 3 reasons is that the ferry stopped operating 10 years back. So, moving upi the list we decided we'd better do some diving to justify our coming here.As the boat pulled out of the harbour the sandstone cliffs reflected off the scattered aquamarine waters like a Monet-Hockney collaboration that never could have happened. The dive briefing droned on into its 20th minute and, while all 20 minutes briefings are dull ones delivered entirely in Russian are especially dull. But it didn't matter because the apre-excitement of diving again was kicking in. Enough years pass between my dives for me to worry each time that I've forgotten all the essentials of not drowning. The worry is internal mind you as each time the dive leader must be convinced that diving is to me as riding a bike and I don't need the refresher course. And, for the most part, it is. I squeeze the suddenly-remembered pain from my ears as I descend, my breathing slows down from its gasping pace and I start to see...I start again to be. Ahmed, the dive leader, made us carry out a few basic exercises but this done was contented with our skill levels. Well mine anyway, he was a bit attentive to my buddy. It at least gave me some freedom to explore my limits 16,17 now 18 metres (my certified maximum depth). But, I wondered...19, 20, 21 metres my dive watch says. How low can I go? 22, 23...I won't implode I think. 24 metres and I get the wave, Ahmed says 'Up!'. He seems relaxed about our official limitations though as he leads us through a small cave (another no-no) and I begin to like him immensely. He coaxes a tiny, translucent shrimp into his hand for a little dance, points tirelessly at fish I cannot see and brings me face to face to a fish the size of a mini (old style). Clown fish and morays, giant napoleon and spotted rays. Lovely to behold. As tiny orange fish surround me in their hundreds by a rocky pillar it is like a waking dream. To be able to fly or to breath underwater? This is both. A timeless moment. Trumpet fish, barracuda, a big black grouper. I enjoy logging it all afterwards- water temperature, depth, time at the bottom. But it is a pedantic recording of life's experiences that detaches them from actual meaning in a vain attempt to exert control. I wish i could say that I am trying to bottle lightning but I am not sure that's true. Even the words to describe the experience get ordered in my head in a form in which they can be recorded. Am I in the moment when I'm in the moment? Too rarely I think. Fleetingly perhaps at 24 metres. Maybe there are too few dangers in my life, too few edges. My diligence in sanding them down in the name of middle-aged propriety has numbed the experience of existence and the ability to feel. I shall have to find out what is below 24 metres, what is beneath this.
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