SCUBA STORIES

Real life diving dramas

Scuba diving is a dangerous sport. Even with the best training and attention to detail things can still go wrong.

This book is a collection of real life stories from the ever popular ‘IT HAPPENED TO ME’ column in DIVE

magazine where divers, who have got themselves into perilous situations, describe how they reacted and what

actions they took to ensure they lived to tell the tale. Find out why it important to always carry a knife, why a

back-up delayed SMB is a good idea and even what to do if you are stuck in head first in a shopping trolley on

the sea bed. A fascinating read for divers of every level. .

Published by Syon Publishing Ltd. 1.17 Q West, Great West Road, Brentford, Middlesex TW8 0GP

www.syonpublishing.com E-Book ISBN: 978-0-957-1956-2-2 Copyright © 2012 by Syon Publishing Ltd All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic

form without permission.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This book is a collection of scuba diving experiences that readers and contributors of DIVE magazine have

submitted. They may not constitute official scuba diving training procedures and are published for entertainment

purposes only.

Cover illustration: Steve Jakeway.

CONTENTS

1. This is Not a Drill

2. Off in a Trolley

3. Surf's Up

4. Flowing Up

5. Fending For Yourself

6. Ice Cold in Arricafe

7. DCI Denial

8. Monty Halls' Great Escape

9. The Real Thing

10. Getting to Know You

11. Where's the Cavalry

12. Following the Leader

13. Getting it in the Neck

14. To the Rescue

15. Taking the Right Shot

16. A Shot in the Dark

17. Some Don't Like it Hot

18. Our Lives in Whose Hands

19. Step by Step

20. Buoys Will be Buoys

21. Hounded by Basking Sharks

22. Wellied Eel

23. Losing Weight

24. Road to Nowhere

25. Signing Off

26. Shallow Threat

27. Taut, Not Slack

28. It's a Heartache

29. Can You Feel the Force

30. Shot in the Heart

31. Ever Ready

32. The One That Got Away

33. Peril in Pulau Weh

34. Know Your Limits

35. Trust Your Instincts

THIS IS NOT A DRILL

A rescue drill with a trainee became a real-life emergency for advanced instructor Richard

Wordsworth.

THE diving season was well underway and, as diving officer of Blue Dolphins Sub Aqua

Club in Guernsey, I was pleased that the annual batch of ocean diver students was

progressing well.

My student that day was Maya. I had dived with her several times during her training and

knew her abilities well. She was a 50-year-old woman and a nervous student – she was not

very comfortable in the water and had decided to learn to dive to help conquer her fear of the

water. This was her third open-water dive and the main element of this lesson was the

alternative air ascent the student has to breathe from their buddy’s octopus and ascend from

6m in a controlled manner.

The dive site was Havelet Bay in Guernsey, a favourite for training as it is sheltered, has a

nice slipway for entry and exit and there is plenty of fish life to look at. The weather looked

good and the sea calm enough for the planned dive.

After the briefing and a dry run of the exercises, buddy checks were done and we were ready

to go. A giant stride off the slipway went well, so I signalled to Maya ‘okay’ and ‘descend’.

Knowing her nervous nature, I allowed her plenty of time to settle on the bottom, and was not

surprised that she took a minute or two to calm down.

The exercises were to be conducted at 6m so we swam away into deeper water. The first

exercise was mask clearing, and I duly demonstrated this. Maya had done this before in cold

water, so I was confident she could do it with little trouble, but she seemed hesitant and

unwilling to flood her mask. This seemed odd, but eventually she sorted herself out and

performed the drill well.

Next, it was the alternative air source ascent. She was to be the out-of-air diver and I was to

play the role of rescuer. The swapping of second stages went well, and after exchanging

‘okay’ and ‘ascend’ signals, we headed for the surface at a controlled rate.

Once there, I fully inflated my BC and motioned to Maya that I was going to inflate her BC

and that she was to continue to breathe from my octopus until she was fully buoyant. At this

point, she started coughing and I thought she might have breathed in a little water at some

point. To help her regain her composure, I raised her head well out of the water, but she was

coughing up blood and not responding to instructions!

Suddenly, it was no longer an exercise. The adrenaline and training kicked in. My first

thoughts were to get her as high out of the water as possible, so away went her weight belt.

Frantic waving to the shore cover got little response, after all, it was rescue training! Luckily

we were only 20m from the slipway, so I started towing with all my strength.

At this point, the shore cover realised there was something wrong, and when we got to

shallow water they were able to help me get Maya up the slip. I was by now exhausted, but

Maya was in good hands as the shore cover was Ian, our training officer and Claire, a theatre

nurse. All I could think was: What went wrong? Could she have held her breath on ascent and

damaged a lung? There was little chance of the bends from that depth. I was mystified and

concerned.

After a short while the ambulance arrived and took over. Maya was still coughing up pink

fluid, had gone a worrying grey colour and was still unable to speak. She was given oxygen

and taken to the hospital. We followed, anxious about her well-being. After a thorough

examination, the diving doctor diagnosed immersion pulmonary edema (IPE) a rare condition

in which the lungs spontaneously fill with fluid when the individual is immersed in cold

water.

It turned out that Maya had not declared a high blood pressure problem, and this is

considered to be an aggravating factor but would it have prevented her from diving? Probably

not. Apart from that, she had been in good health, didn’t smoke and only drank moderately.

After a couple of days in hospital, she was released and eventually made a full recovery. The

diving doctor said it was unlikely to happen again and that she could probably continue to

dive, preferably in warm water. I’d never heard of the condition before that day, and it’s not

mentioned in any instructor manual.

Even with the benefit of hindsight, I don’t think we would have done anything differently,

but what might have happened if we had been in a RIB, miles from shore, or if the dive had

been deeper? The outcome may have been fatal.

The lessons to be learned from this incident are that shore cover is important, even on

relatively easy dive sites, and the self-assessment questions need to be answered truthfully –

they are there for a reason.

OFF IN A TROLLEY

A low-visibility dive left Nick Lyon with an unusual escape scenario that doesn’t often crop

up in the training manuals

IT WAS a cold New Year’s Day, and I was preparing for the traditional dive in Torquay

Harbour, Devon. In order to entice us into the less than welcoming water, bottles containing

raffle tickets had been thrown into the harbour; each ticket represented a prize to be collected

in a nice warm pub after the dive. With visibility usually being a few centimetres, we tended

to enter the water in pairs, then separate and search the harbour bottom solo by touch.

We kitted up and jumped in. As usual, it wasn’t long before the visibility was wiped out. I

found myself groping my way across the silty sea bed at 3m, unable to see. I had managed to

locate a mooring chain and briefly bumped into my buddy before he disappeared in a cloud of

silt.

Then I experienced something strange it felt as though my fins were no longer pushing me

forward. I’d never experienced anything like it before. I kicked harder but nothing happened.

I just couldn’t understand it, so I thought I should let the silt settle to see what was going on.

As the murk gradually cleared, I began to make out what looked like a grid in front of me.

Looking up, to the left and right, it was all around me. What was it? Then it struck me. I had

inadvertently managed to swim straight into an inverted shopping trolley through the hinged

gate at the back.

I couldn’t remember anything in my training that covered this eventuality. I tried to backfin,

but I didn’t budge.

My trusty ABLJ was wedged behind the gate and I was stuck fast. Then something caught

my eye. The last 50 bar of my gauge was marked in orange and there was a black line across

it, I only had 30 bar left. The situation was serious.

I took stock of the situation. I couldn’t move, I was under the water and running out of air.

The panic started to rise in my chest. I wondered whether I should just take my regulator out

of my mouth, because I didn’t like the idea of my chest getting tighter and tighter. But then it

occurred to me that I didn’t want to die. I realised that I had to move.

I knew what I needed was buoyancy, so I tried to reach my weight belt to ditch it and give

myself some lift without using air, but I couldn’t get my hand to the buckle as my elbows

were jammed up against the sides of my metal prison. I could, however, reach my ABLJ’s

direct feed, so I squeezed the button hard, rapidly filling the ABLJ.

Miraculously, the trolley moved. But it was not far enough. I knew my air was now almost

gone and I had to work harder. I strained and squirmed and amazingly found myself kneeling

up on the harbour bottom. Still in the trolley, but in with a chance!

Without thinking too much about it, I scraped my fin straps down with the opposite foot,

kicked off my fins, staggered to my feet and without stopping to think too much about a plan,

started walking. But now I could move, where should I go?

I knew there were some steps by the harbour wall and I had to find them. I slowly plodded

forward, totally focused on staying upright. If I fell now, I doubted if I could get up again.

Then, bang! I walked straight into the harbour wall, but where were the steps? Left or right?

If I walked the wrong way, I could well have walked to my death. I turned left. I don’t know

why.

At this point, I had so little air left that the regulator started to tighten. Then the wall

disappeared. I had reached the steps cut into the wall! I strode onto the first step and a new

fear struck me. What if I fell backwards now? I was shaking with effort but knew I had to

keep going.

So up I went, emerging from the water with a shopping trolley wedged onto my upper body

and my friends not able to believe what they were seeing. Some laughed, some just stared

open-mouthed. I spat out my regulator and took the best gulp of air I had ever breathed.

After a considerable struggle, I was freed, and never was a post-dive pint more rapidly

swallowed.

SURF’S UP!

Following a decision to launch the club dive boat into heavy swell, sport diver Anne Shaw

regretted not speaking her mind.

WE had several days of excellent diving at Islay in the Southern Hebrides it’s so remote that

we were often the only boats at the dive sites. We had two inflatable boats that always went

out together, and we always tied our gear into the boat on the way to the dive site and back

again, although we had not experienced too many rough seas that week, there was always a

big swell and it would have been very easy for something to be washed overboard.

One day, the waves were huge, and several members of the group, myself included, didn’t

think it was safe to launch from our usual beach. We could have moved and launched from a

beach further down the coast that was more protected from the heavy swell, but the farmer

who owned it would want payment. The diving officer decided to save money, so we set out

from our usual site. Launching was easier than we feared, and I thought that it would perhaps

be okay after all.

Once at the dive site, the Otranto, we tied one boat up and left the other boat’s engine running

for safety cover. We were being thrown about in the swell, so all buddy pairs got in the water

as soon as possible, leaving a pair in each boat to help the divers back in after the dive.

Underwater, conditions were not much better. I was buddying my husband, and at the sea bed

at 20m, we were being tossed back and forth. We soon found a way to cope, by hanging on

when the water surged backwards and finning like mad when it surged forwards. It did make

us feel a bit seasick, and I was thinking that I’d be glad when we were back on dry land.

Upon surfacing, we realised we were the last buddy pair up and that the conditions on top had

got considerably worse. In order to make the pickup as quick as possible, we were pulled into

separate boats. My boat was driven by the diving officer, who, in his haste to get us back to

land, did not tie any of the gear in I was worried it might go over the side.

The journey back was bumpy but exhilarating. I was relieved when I saw we were nearing

our landing site, but as we got closer I realised that the surf was much worse than it had been

when we had left the beach earlier that day. It looked impossible to get back in. The boat my

husband was in held back just beyond the surf as the driver decided the best way to approach.

But the driver of our boat had already made his decision we were reversing back onto the

beach with the large waves coming at the bow. Once the decision was made, there was no

going back and we all hung on as the boat slowly made its way towards the surf. Sitting in the

bow, I closed my eyes I just didn’t want to look.

Suddenly, I was 6m up in the air still sitting on the bow of the boat we were turning over,

lengthways! Cylinders, weight belts and kit bags were shooting past my head and I was

thrown into the sea. Somehow I surfaced next to the upturned boat with a cylinder strap over

my arm - at least one piece of kit was saved.

I heard shouting and saw a diver struggling in the current while trying to reach the boat, her

head was close to the still-turning propeller. I reached out, grabbed her hand and pulled her

towards me so she could hold onto the boat next to me. We were helpless, the water was too

deep to stand in and the current was pulling us further from shore.

Eventually, with a thud, the propeller stopped turning and all I could hear was the other

boat’s engine. They were surfing in to the shore as fast as they could, with the engine tilt

lever released, this would allow them to drive straight up the beach without too much damage

to the engine.

Once they were on the shore, all the divers ran to our aid. They threw us ropes and pulled us

and the boat to the beach. We tried to rescue the kit, but most of it was at the bottom of the

sea. Days later, some of our dive gear was found further down the beach, but some was lost

forever. We were very lucky that day as we could have lost much more than diving

equipment it was the wrong decision to launch and dive in those conditions.

I should have trusted my own judgment and not have been so easily persuaded to dive that

day, but it is very easy to be swept along with other people’s enthusiasm. The most important

thing I learned was that, in the end, each diver is responsible for their own safety and should

not be afraid to go with their gut feeling none of us should be persuaded to go with the flow.

The other lesson was how important it is to tie equipment into the boat. Diving gear is

valuable and should be safeguarded at all times. Waves come in all shapes and sizes, and it is

easy for kit to be washed away or knocked overboard on a crowded inflatable.

FLOWING UP

Dive leader Bev Dixon got more than she bargained for when a free-flowing air inflator

gun led to an emergency ascent.

LAST AUGUST bank holiday weekend, I was diving in Porthkerris, Cornwall, with my club.

On the Sunday, my husband Peter and I were enjoying a dive around the wreck of the Volnay

from a local dive boat. It was a classic square-profile dive we descended down the shot-line

to the wreck on the sea bed at around 21m and stayed at that depth for the whole dive. When

we were about to go into deco time and ascend for our safety stop, Peter signalled to me that I

should put up my delayed surface marker buoy (DSMB). It was at this point that things

started to go wrong.

As I inflated the DSMB with my air inflator gun, its button stuck down, causing a free-flow. I

checked my air gauge - 70 bar - while Peter tried to free the button. We made a few attempts

to stop the free- flow without any success and kept a thumb over the nozzle to try to slow the

flow. The water between us was a mass of bubbles, so it was becoming difficult to see each

other. I could no longer see my air gauge, either.

I held Peter’s jacket and signalled that we should ascend. Then I saw Peter’s hand emerge

through the bubbles holding his octopus I assumed he could see my air gauge and that I did

not have enough air to ascend. While still holding onto his jacket, I took his octopus and spat

out my own regulator, blew into the octopus to purge it and drew a breath, nothing but water

came gushing into my mouth. I tried a second time to purge and take a breath again water

came rushing in. Okay, I thought, third time lucky please let it be air! But it was almost

impossible to prevent the new torrent of water from rushing into my lungs. I was at 21m with

an air gun free-flowing, a buddy’s octopus that wouldn’t give me air and my own regulator

floating somewhere that I couldn’t see, damn all those bubbles.

I don’t know if it was a snap decision or total blind panic, but I let go of Peter, dropped his

octopus and finned as fast as I could to the surface. I thought I’d worry about the

consequences of a fast ascent if I made it. I didn’t try to inflate my BC on the way up,

believing I had no air. Having tried the octopus three times, I had little air in my lungs and

was now desperate to take a breath.

As the water got lighter I thought I had reached the surface, then realised I could see ripples a

few metres above me. I thank God that, at that moment, I had the presence of mind to inflate

my jacket just enough to push me to the surface and keep me afloat.

The skipper tells me I surfaced like a Polaris missile, but all I remember is breaking the

surface to take the most wonderful, sweetest breath I will ever take. I swore, I cried, I waved

frantically, but best of all I breathed in great gulps of air, time and time again. The dive boat

came in swiftly, picked me up and, once on board, gave me oxygen. I had no symptoms of

decompression illness, but was carefully monitored by the dive centre and members of my

club for the rest of the day.

Peter and I have had time to reflect and some important lessons have been learned. The air

gun that failed had been checked just before the dive and was fully functional. It’s not a

serviceable item, but Peter dismantled it after the incident and found that a tiny O-ring had

split at the bottom of the button, presumably wedging it open. The air gun attaches to a

pressure hose, with a similar connection to that of a drysuit. Because my previous gun fell off

while diving, its replacement was fastened to the hose with plastic ties. That was the first

mistake had it not been tied to the hose, we would probably have been able to disconnect it

and stop the free-flow.

Peter was adamant that his octopus was okay, and it certainly appeared to be. Later, I found

out that some regulators will deliver water if they are used when upside down. So, on the next

dive, Peter and two other divers tried out the offending octopus, and sure enough they all took

in water when it was upside down.

Shamefully, neither Peter nor I knew our octopuses would not work when used the wrong

way up. I should also have checked my air gauge again before taking the octopus, instead of

assuming Peter had seen it. But the biggest single mistake was letting go of my own regulator

altogether back on the boat, I found I still had 30 bar in my cylinder.

We have done more than 700 dives between us, developing numerous skills along the way.

But, no matter how much you train or practise, you never know how you will react until a

situation occurs will it be total control, sheer panic or a basic instinct to survive?

FENDING FOR YOURSELF

During a dive off Oban, new diver Jo Smith thought her more experienced buddy would

take the lead, but when he made a rapid ascent, she was left on her own

SHORTLY AFTER I learned to dive, I was on a trip to Oban organised by a club in

Newcastle, where I live. I’d initially trained in Capernwray, an inland dive site in Lancashire,

and subsequently dived in Malta. Although I had been to Oban before with the same club, I

was still new to diving and had only logged 15 dives.

The first dive was a wall dive from a RIB, with a bottom depth of 40m-plus. I was rather

nervous about this, so I was buddied up with a divemaster who had only just joined the club. I

felt a little happier that I was in the hands of a much more experienced and qualified diver (or

so I thought), but still somewhat nervous.

I had a chat to my new buddy and told him that I would really only be happy diving to about

15m - no deeper - so I could get comfortable with some new kit, which I had just got for

Christmas. Also, this was one of my first dives not under tuition or in warm water with a

guide. He said he was fine about the plan and not to worry, he’d look after me.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. The RIB ride out to the site was great fun –

the sun was shining and the sea was calm. We arrived at the site, did our buddy check and

rolled off the boat into water. As we descended, I was watching my new computer with

interest as the metres clocked up and then I watched with fear as they continued to increase. It

was getting darker and I didn’t have a torch. Very soon all I could see was the beam of my

buddy’s torch. Panic started to rise.

I tried to get my buddy’s attention, he was supposed to be looking after me and we’d agreed

to only go to 15m, but he was diving deeper, into the gloom. I followed him, and we had

reached 30m before I managed to grab his fin and tug it so that he turned around and looked

at me. I signalled that I wasn’t happy and that I wanted to ascend and level off he signalled

back ‘okay’.

As we ascended, I began to calm down. Unfortunately, this was only to be short- lived. When

we got to 18m, instead of levelling off, he shot upwards and, a couple of moments later, came

hurtling back down again. He reached out and grabbed at me and pulled off my mask! I could

hardly see, but my buddy had disappeared and I was totally alone in 18m with no mask.

For a split second, I remember thinking of giving in and disappearing to the bottom of the

ocean then something in my head told me not to be so totally ridiculous. Through the blur of

salt water, I focused my eyes as best I could on my new computer, remembered my training

and ascended slowly to 5m. I carried out my three-minute safety stop, and a bit extra, even

though my eyes were smarting and I was scared half to death.

Then I came to the surface. I had no SMB, as my buddy had taken that, and desperately

hoped the boat would be able to see me and pick me up! Thankfully, they spotted me.

My buddy was already on the boat, having made a rapid ascent. When they picked me up, my

language was choice -that is, what you could hear though the tears of relief and frustration.

He said that he’d had problems with his BC and couldn’t control his buoyancy. When we

reached the shore, he jumped in his car and disappeared. He never reappeared at the club

again.

I thought that I would never dive again, but the guys from the club got me in the water the

next day. I was extremely nervous on that dive, but I was absolutely fine and grateful that

they got me straight back into the water to restore my confidence.

This was some years ago now, and I’ve since trained as an instructor and enjoyed hundreds of

dives, but the memory is as clear as if it was yesterday. I was very frightened, but funnily

enough I’m actually quite glad it happened. I know I can cope, and that I can do the right

thing in the face of adversity. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and a better diver.

I learned that while you should be able to rely on your buddy, you should always rely on

yourself and your own kit more.

ICE COLD IN ARRECIFE

On a hot sunny day, hypothermia is the last problem on any diver’s mind. But BSAC sports

diver Toby Mottram found you should be prepared for the cold, whatever the weather

THE FEBRUARY sun was shining strongly as I sat on a beach in Lanzarote. I’m a BSAC

sports diver with about 100 dives, and do between ten and 20 dives per year whenever I get

the chance. My friend Connie was training with a commercial school and going through those

exercises that most of us forget and never practise controlled ascent and surface towing. The

water was so clear that I’d been able to snorkel overhead for most of the dive, watching them

at 15m, but I’d gone back to the beach to warm up. The water temperature on the surface was

20°C, but colder at depth.

I squinted at the sea to see three heads appear on the flat, blue surface of the water. A few

minutes later, after Connie had practised towing the other diver, the party were standing

waist-deep in water doing their debrief. Then I noticed that my friend looked distressed. As I

reached her, she collapsed into my arms, saying I can’t breathe, I need to lie down. I dragged

her up above the waterline with her heels making twin tracks in the wet sand and lay her

down in the recovery position.

At first, I believed this was just a case of post-dive tiredness, and that in a couple of minutes

Connie would be up and celebrating a successful dive. When she was in the recovery

position, her face was blue and a little trickle of vomit came out, which I wiped away. She

again complained that she couldn’t breathe. Her skin felt cold, but it was the sort of day

where you’re normally peeling off your wetsuit because of the heat.

I sat her up to try to help her breathe. As I leaned over her, I could hear a gurgle of water as

she breathed in and out. Connie is fit and healthy, and it still wasn’t clear if she needed proper

emergency care or just a rest. Lungs are designed to reject foreign matter by coughing and by

water absorption, and she never lost consciousness or stopped breathing.

We sat her on a chair in the dive shop, gave her diving oxygen (which can’t hurt) and tried to

dry her. The water in her lungs was frightening, it didn’t occur to us that she might be cold.

At that stage, we decided that we needed more expertise and phoned the ambulance. In

hindsight, our indecision was unforgivable we should have acted immediately.

The ambulance arrived within a few minutes and the paramedic staff were well organised

when getting her hooked up to a pO2 meter and administering oxygen. We set off at a sedate

pace to the general hospital at Arrecife a few miles away. As we climbed the hill through the

village, there was a rapid exchange in Spanish, then suddenly the blue lights and sirens were

on and we took a wild ride down the middle of the road, Connie’s blood oxygen had crashed.

The rush to the hospital was the scariest part of the whole incident.

At the brand-new Urgencias hospital, the staff had Connie through the doors in seconds. She

was white and slumped on the crash trolley. It was a shock to see her in this state, when she

had been so strong and healthy just a few minutes earlier.

At this stage, I wished I’d had more than my basic Spanish to describe the dive and what had

happened to the doctors. I then had a long wait.

Three hours later, I was able to see Connie. She looked grey and was hooked up to several

monitors. An intensive care ward can be an intimidating place and it was difficult to find

someone to explain what Connie’s diagnosis was.

Eventually, two doctors did a sort of double act in Spanglish. They explained that her

temperature had been below 35°C when she was admitted, in other words, she was

hypothermic. The x-rays showed a lot of water in her lungs, and there was probably other

debris, sand, salt, fish goo, that would have entered with the water. Her arterial oxygen had

been lower than normal.

Connie said she had been too busy during the dive to feel cold and it was only on the surface

that things went wrong. They had been simulating an out-of-air situation and she had to orally

inflate her BC on the surface. She had let go of her buddy’s octopus and had probably been

swamped by a small wave as she breathed in. Despite this, she had completed a 50m surface

tow of her dive buddy.

I learned not to underestimate the effect of hypothermia, even on a sunny day, and not to

hesitate to call an ambulance. Be decisive and take action yourself, don’t rely on someone

else to do it for you, even if they work for a professional dive centre.

The main treatment she received at the hospital was getting her warm her lungs were able to

clear themselves. We could have treated her hypothermia on the beach if we had had a rescue

blanket and if we had recognised it.

DCI DENIAL

Heike Weichert, an open water instructor, had logged around 500 dives before she realised

she had been regularly suffering symptoms of decompression illness

I HAVE ALWAYS been a very safe diver. I stick to the decompression profile that the

computer gives me and I am cautious not to ascend faster than I should. However, I often

found myself feeling extremely tired and weak after a day of diving. There were many times

that I had to sleep for a couple of hours in my car before going home, because I felt lethargic

and unable to move. I also had headaches but put these down to dehydration.

After a while, it became normal for me to feel like this after dives, I thought that this is just

something different about me. All the dives were well within depth-time profiles that were

generally considered to be safe. Basically, I just did not want to believe that I was suffering

from decompression illness (DCI), I did not do anything wrong on the dives.

One day, after a perfectly safe and uneventful dive, I suddenly felt an intense burning on my

upper back. When I got out of my drysuit and was in the pub, I had a look at it in the mirror

there were irregular red patches on my upper back and on the left shoulder, which felt as if

they were burning. I explained this to some of my fellow divers, but they laughed about it and

told me that it must be my drysuit. I went home, feeling unwell and embarrassed that I said

something. Eventually, I just waited and the skin bend went away.

I had six more skin bends after further dives. I took an approach of, if I ignore it, it will go

away, and the skin bends always went away. I also asked fellow divers for advice and all of

them said I should wait and see if it goes away, this seems to be the general attitude. I did not

want to cause the other divers the effort and inconvenience of managing an incident.

The skin bends came with increasing frequency. On one occasion, I was having a drink in the

pub on a Friday night after a diving expedition. The following morning, I still felt rough and

sick, but put this down to the alcohol and exhaustion from a week of diving. When I woke up

on Sunday morning, I was unable to write properly and clearly had coordination problems. I

was then too embarrassed to call anyone and just suffered through it. I just hoped it would go

away, which it eventually did.

The last time I had a skin bend, I had been diving on the City of Waterford wreck near

Brighton. I was filling cylinders with another diver afterwards and had visual disturbances – I

saw lots of colourful, fast- moving zigzag patterns together with tunnel vision and a strong

headache. My buddy called the chamber and I was then driven by ambulance to a hyperbaric

facility. Here, they discovered that I also had some impaired coordination and balance

problems, and I was diagnosed with neurological, constitutional and cutaneous

decompression illness. I was recompressed therapeutically, during which I had an oxygen

convulsion, but luckily I made a full recovery.

Following this, I met a friend, an anaesthetist, and told him about my episodes of

decompression illness. He said that I should be checked for a patent foramen ovale (PFO), as

he was quite certain that I had one. A PFO is a hole in the heart between the two upper

chambers. A quarter of the population have a PFO, but in most people the hole is only tiny

and they have no ill effects. However, a large hole means a predisposition to decompression

sickness. Only a very small percentage of people have a large PFO but it turned out that I did.

I learned later from my cardiologist that a skin bend in combination with a migraine aura

almost certainly occurs because of the presence of a PFO.

My cardiologist said I could either stop diving, dive within very conservative limits or have

surgery to close the hole. I chose the surgery. A few months later I got the all-clear, and can

now dive again.

I was lucky I could be paraplegic now or even dead. However, just because I have had my

PFO closed does not mean I am now immune to decompression illness I now am at exactly

the same risk as everyone else without a PFO.

The lesson I learned from all of this was to realise that you can still suffer from DCI, even

when your dive profile was, safe. If you have a symptom after a dive, even a minor one, do

not think it will go away as it can lead to a more serious DCI, get advice from a diving

doctor. Even if the dive profile was okay, there can be many other factors apart from a PFO,

such as fatigue and dehydration, which can contribute to DCI.

If you see a diver with symptoms, and in particular when this is an experienced diver, never

assume that he or she can make their own judgements about the management of the incident.

If you’re the casualty, it’s often quite embarrassing and you don’t like the hassle around you.

I am certain that there are a great many divers out there, including experienced divers, who

live in denial. However, a serious hit can always happen, and once you’re in a wheelchair, it

is too late. Every diver should be aware about the danger of DCI denial.

You've finished. Before you go...

We hope you enjoyed reading the first seven stories of SCUBA STORIES: Real life diving

dramas. This book details scuba diving experiences of real people in real situations.

SCUBA STORIES: Real life diving dramas, is available on the Kindle and can be

found by searching for ‘Scuba Stories’ on the Amazon marketplace.

NEW: SCUBA STORIES 2: The long awaited follow up to SCUBA STORIES is now also available by searching for ‘Scuba Stories 2’ on the Amazon marketplace.

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