Scuba Chicken by Alison Day 2014
Scuba Diving on
Crete was a hit with my son both last year and this. Each time he had a great
time and impressed his instructors with his natural ability for the sport. Now,
he wants to train for his Padi. If he does, there is the option to do the final
qualifying tests abroad—so Greece could be on the cards next summer too!
We were picked up in
the cool early morning air from our hotel and driven down to Plakias on the
south coast of Crete. We were with six others in the minivan and were driven by
Costos—aquiline nose, curly haired Adonis, from Thessaloniki and one of the diving instructors. Along the
journey, we skirted round and through Tuscan red and peach coloured, rugged
hills, dotted with dark green vegetation. Through small villages with
flourishing pink bougainvillea and past Kafeneons filled with old Greek men,
staring and drinking coffee.
Our destination, the
Calypso Diving Centre was based in a cove next to a resort called Kalypso
Cretan Village. The diving instructors came from all over the globe and were
led by a very fit lady—Bear. Classes were
in languages of what the majority understood— in this case English and German.
The enthusiasm at the diving centre was infectious and the 'how to' was clearly
explained. Photos were shown of the kind of marine life we could expect to see,
as well as those to keep away from. For a fee, photos could be taken during
your dive and copied onto a CD for posterity.
Last year I was one
of the first time scuba divers too, thinking because I loved snorkelling I
would like this too—I didn’t. This year, I was contented to watch my son's
enjoyment and go for a swim in the amusingly—impossible to sink in—salt water
pool of the resort.
I had to laugh at
the wetsuit fittings of that day's scuba pupils, remembering my own—where the
suits are tried on for size—dry. A nigh on impossible nail breaker, where
everyone dances the fandango, as they wrestle into the suits. Later, you are
introduced to the far easier option of a huge, wooden slatted tub, filled with
water. Then the wetsuit slides on— in dance moves more akin to an expressive tango.
I can honestly say I
only enjoyed the scuba process up until we had to get into the sea. Although
the gear is lighter in water, I hated being trussed up and carrying the
equivalent of concrete shoes around my middle. From my sealed in state, I felt
as though I was viewing the world from inside my own private goldfish bowl.
Then there was walking backwards into the sea because of the flippers— an
awkward experience and why—ducks don't?
As I swam part way
along the cove, with my instructor towards the open sea, I tried to distract
myself from the inevitable open water dive by admiring pretty fish and avoiding
the stinging tentacles of translucent, shocking pink jellyfish. It was then I
decided that this experience wasn't for me. Fear and claustrophobia took over
and I flatly refused to continue. My instructor sympathetically tried to
appease my fears, but once my mind is made up . . .
Not to waste the
diving experience completely, I floundered around the cove in a half
dive-snorkel mode and followed shoals of fish.
Next year—in my wetsuit—I will be snorkelling!
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