Ceci n'est pas moi sous l'eau

Ignore the pretentious reference in the title of this post if you like but it's still sort of meta that I had to take pictures of the prints we got back from our dive camera with my digital one to put them up here for you, whoever you are, current reader.

Anyway here it is, as if proof were needed, that at some point in the world at some point in time, 18m below the surface I was breathing and looking, I think you'll agree, damn sexy.

The buddy check must be performed before every dive, a practice during which one checks ones buddy's regulator (the thing what you breathe through), one's buddy's secondary regulator (the thing what one's buddy (oneself in this example) breathes through if one's buddy's air stops the intermittent pilgrimage to one's buddy's lungs - this is the bright yellow one; easily identified, hopefully in a hard real time panic), one's buddys BCD (Buoyancy Control Device - an inflatable and deflatable lifejacket essentially), one's buddy's weight belt (used to achieve neutral buoyancy underwater; directly proptionate to one's weight; crippling reality is hit home during the procurement of which since Adam only needed five and Beth - our wonderful instructor - suggested I try six!), one's buddy's straps and finally (now that I've well and truly flogged this now fossilised horse) one's buddy's AIR.

The above is an example of my performing a buddy check on Adam who, as is clear from the above, made a mockery of the whole affair pulling that Blue Steel shit.

This is us not underwater, dressed like assholes.

Having dived three times, it was suggested to us by our instructor, the previously mentioned Beth (an excellent instructor, evidenced by the fact that I was surprised when she told me she was 25 years old, much to her disgust, but which in reality is a compliment and reaffirmation of her authority and eloquence as a diving instructor), that we try going in differently. A James Bond entry is an attempted somersault where the goal is to land on one's back, one's tank, as one hits the water. It's incredibly difficult wearing dive gear, an outfit that is to graceful attire as falling bricks are to weightlessness. I performed it wonderfully. There was applause, and I think I saw a tear.

This picure is a poor excuse for the amazing feeling of swimming freely through clouds of wild (if that's an appropriate term of placid little fishy's just chillin' near a rock - and it isn't) fish. The fact that water in large quantites is blue means that the photo's have undergone something of a blueshift and photoshop and the time required to use it to correct this is a lot to ask, too much in fact, of me, Thailand and me in Thailand.

Beth, more comfortable underwater, of course, than me, blowing bubbles with great fluency, which is in stark contrast to the top photo here, of me doing, or at least attempting same, like a large fitting ladies blouse. Fun Fact: I drank a lung full of water attempting that, and didn't let it show: Gang star!