Seal Soup, Part the Second (Dive at the Farne Islands)

Eventually the site was settled upon, and myself plus buddy (J) fell backwards off the boat and into the water. I spent the next ten minutes trying to equalise my right ear, which was really playing up – always fun when you’re trying to keep track of everyone else. Eventually, at the point where I was thinking of giving up, after much jiggling and swallowing, it slowly cleared with a squeak and I dropped down to my buddies’ level to play with seals. 

They were everywhere. It was the first time I’d had seals come up to me and play, or let me stroke their heads. J was in his element, since his definition of the perfect dive is probably something like “Interesting stuff to photograph + seals to play with”. I took a few photos too, one of which was sufficiently good that I later entered it into the Stoney Cove photo competition and won a new torch.  (Not the one above, although I quite liked that one too!)

We paddled merrily along following our dive leader, who was towing an inflatable surface buoy at the request of the skipper, who was concerned about us getting caught in the current. So concerned that he dispatched another diver to inform us that we were getting a bit too close to the edge of the island, where the currents can sweep you round the side if you’re not careful. 

We turned around, J and I bringing up the rear with cameras at the ready, and seals nibbling our fins. All apart from one seal, which thought the inflatable surface buoy was the best toy it had ever seen, and decided to hang upside down from it and be towed along. J and I did a quick exchange of hand signals and expressions, which would translate roughly into English as:

Me: “Shall we tell him about the seal?”
J: “No, let’s watch, point and laugh.” 

We did, waiting for the inevitable moment when the dive leader would realise why he wasn’t making much progress. I wasn’t close enough to hear his response (and I was too busy laughing into the regulator anyway), but I’m guessing from his expression it was “Fucking seal”.

As we reached the end of the island, we ascended gently and rejoined the boat for some tea and buns. The buns were provided by me – they usually are. 

The second dive was also fun, and cold. It was around this point I decided that it was time I started to think about getting a drysuit. (Though I did not in fact get one until half a year later, after my trip to Oban. More about that later.) Diving along a reef covered in soft corals with a seal nibbling your fins and a couple of ballan wrasse dancing in front of you should be a pleasure, not an exercise in how long you can endure the cold before you tap your buddy’s shoulder and signal to end the dive. It’s also not fair on the drysuit-wearing buddy, who has to terminate their dives earlier than they actually need to, since they’re not getting cold. 

Even so, it was a fun dive. We surfaced and scrambled back into the boat. I needed to be yoicked on by two of the other divers; dignity is not a big part of diving. Once all were safely back aboard, we made as fast a run as possible to get back land. I remember thinking “That was great, and I am now done for the season”. Great dives, but tough and tiring. (It took two days for my back to recover from the pounding we all took as the Moby hammered through the waves back to Beadnell.) 

Sill, I got a torch out of it.

Seal Soup (Dive at the Farne Islands Last Year)

Here's an account of a dive I did last year - one of my favourites to date. In other news, I've recently purchased a drysuit, and will be taking it out for a spin tomorrow. Updates as and when...
When the skipper of the boat begins the safety briefing with “Right, grab something in the middle and hold on tight, ‘cos Alton Towers has got nothing on this!”, you know it’ll be an interesting day’s diving.

It started with a demonstration of Murphy’s Law. I’d got up early especially to get to the Farnes by 8am, as I always seem to start my dives up there with rushing frantically to be on time. I was the second one there, just in time to find out that the boat would be leaving later than usual because the tide wasn’t in far enough to be able to launch the boat without getting stuck on the rocks. Such be life.

Eventually, we got the nod from the skipper, kitted up and loaded the boat, and escorted the Moby down to the water. Diving from a RIB from Beadnell is always an interesting experience, as the tractor drags the boat into the water, then everyone makes an undignified scramble over the side and into the boat. We perched on the sides, and hung on for grim life as the skipper turned the boat to face the waves. 

He was right. I have dived from the Moby on several occasions, but this was by far the bumpiest ride I’ve ever had out there. At one point I looked at the prow of the boat as it headed into a wave at a perilious angle (think of that publicity shot for “The Perfect Storm”, and you’re getting there), realised that I could see only walls of grey North Sea water on either side, and thought “Oh shit". At times like this, as the boat tips up one side of the wave and then suddenly drops down the other, I find it helps to have blind faith in the person driving the boat. Rationality isn’t really high on the agenda. 

Eventually, we bumped and surfed our way out of Beadnell harbour, and headed to the Farne Islands, where we spent a fair amount of time pootling around trying to find a site that was actually going to be safe to jump over the side into. The waves were not making this easy. Naturally, it was at this moment that I remembered I’d forgotten to bring my SMB and reel, and spent five minutes mentally kicking myself for being a crap Rescue Diver.

We debated the merits of a dive in what was soon dubbed Seal Lagoon, behind the lighthouse, and decided that whilst playing with seals would be fun, 4m was a little too shallow. On the plus side, we did get to watch the seals from close up, many of whom wriggled into the waters and swam over to peer curiously at us. (Apart from Dad Seal, who lay regally on a rock, regarding us with a baleful eye.)

To be continued...

The Curmudgeon’s Guide to Polling Stations

Earlier in May, I was yet again wielding the mightly 30cm Plastic Ruler of Democracy, as a Presiding Offier at a polling station for the local election and the mayoral referendum. It inspired this, which I call the Curmudgeon's Guide to Polling Stations, aka "Advice for Voters".

 

• You will usually see two people behind the desk. One will have books of ballot papers in front of them. Approach the other, who will usually be seated nearest the door, and have a set of names and addresses in front of them. This is the Poll Clerk, with the electoral register.  
• If you don’t have your poll card with you, introduce yourself the wrong way round! Most people give their name first, then their house number, then their street. The register lists streets alphabetically, then house numbers, then names. Give the street first, then your house number, then your name, and the Poll Clerk will find you a lot faster. 
• (NB you do NOT need your poll card to vote unless you have an anonymous entry on the register. If anyone tells you otherwise, they are wrong. Nor do you need proof of identity.) 
• If the Poll Clerk reads out a funny number, it relates neither to their getting your house number or your age wrong. This is your elector number, which the other person – the Presiding Officer – needs to record that you have been issued a ballot paper. Incidentally, the Presiding Officer (usually issuing the ballot papers) is in charge of the polling station – don’t be fooled by the fact that they are not the one greeting you! 
• You have the right to ask for help. You can have a magnifying glass, a tactile voting device if you have very poor vision, assistance from the Presiding Officer or Poll Clerk if you don’t understand what’s on the ballot paper, or you can take a companion into the booth with you (they will need to sign a simple form to say that they have assisted you), and you can come back later if you want to take more time to think about it. 
• The one thing the staff cannot do is tell you how to vote. That’s up to you.
• You have the right to vote if you have a ballot paper in your hand by 10pm. If you don’t, you can’t. If you disagree, write to your MP pronto and ask for a change in the law. 
• Staff eating pasta salads or reading the paper whilst sat at the polling desk reflects not a lack of professionalism, but the fact that they are there from 6.30am to 10.15pm without a break. Yes. WITHOUT A BREAK. 
• If the staff sound like robots, please bear in mind the following: a) they are not ALLOWED to give opinions on any of the issues being decided, the candidates, or the parties involved, lest they be accused of influencing voters, b) after the first 50 or so voters, they will have said “Yes, it is quite warm in here”, “Yes, it is quite a long day”, “It’s been quite busy” about 50 or so times. Repeat as required throughout the day – EVERYONE asks the same questions! 
• Please refrain from abusing the fact that the polling station staff are not legally allowed to leave the polling station to lurk by the desk and buttonhole them with your personal views about the local area, the local councillor, or the local council. They can’t respond, and they very probably aren’t from the local area anyway. (Personally I have some sympathy for lonely older people who are taking their best chance of the day to have a conversation with someone. Everyone else will be very politely requested to leave my polling station as soon as is decently possible.)

Leeds Day 4, Part the Second: The First Sign of Madness is Suggs Streaking on the Stage

And the festival continued, though by now both festivalgoers and the site itself were looking more than slightly worn around the edges. Luckily, we had the final shift of the day, so were free to go and see some of the acts. A and I plonked ourselves by the main stage, where we were treated to Seasick Steve, and Madness. Seasick Steve was great, lifting a bottle of Thunderbird wine aloft, pronouncing “Don’t think a grape ever got near any of this shit", then beginning his ode to Thunderbird before being interrupted by a streaker who bore a remarkable resemblance to Suggs from Madness. He began with his modesty protected only by an inflatable ball, before flinging said ball into the audience and dashing offstage again. Seasick Steve smiled into his beard, and continued the song. 

We were later treated to Madness themselves, and the sight of a thousand-odd people nutty-dancing to “Baggy Trousers” was indeed one to behold. The memory sustained us through a long shift. The end shift on the Sunday is always a bit of an experience, as by this point both the drinks and the cash are running out (the bar company reasoning that they may as well run the stocks down, and also that people who are desperate for a drink will buy anything once they’ve fought their way through a 20-minute queue to get to the bar). We slogged our way onward. 

I was hoping for a quiet shift, but it didn’t turn out that way. The bar was absolutely slammed all shift, meaning that the most we saw of the Strokes was a faint background sound of “Last Night” over the hubbub of the crowd demanding pints of lager (and being disappointed). 

Luckily, Pulp made up for it all. Alas, we didn’t get to see as much of them as we’d hoped, but we did hear all the hits. Towards the end, we started visually hinting to people that the bar was closing by the subtle means of dropping the covers down over sections of it, starting at the edges and working inwards. Anyone taking time-lapse photography would have seen the increasingly excited bar staff being slowly squashed into the centre of the bar. The excitement increased in proportion to how well we knew the songs, until by the finale of “Common People”, we were all squashed into a space about fifteen feet wide and jumping up and down like loons. Definitely a festival highlight. 

Our bar manager kindly handed out a few drinks, and with that we were off to see the festival (and eat a stone-baked pizza) one last time. We rejoined C, who’d swapped his shift in order to see “Rise Against”, who were playing in the afternoon. Truth be told, there wasn’t much to see, apart from drunks, so after we’d eaten our pizza and drunk our drinks vouchers, we wended our way slowly homewards to the party in the Village Bar. The drink flowed, the chips were nibbled, and everyone joined in the chorus to “I Wanna Be Sedated”. As we trekked our way across the abandoned campsite the following morning to catch the National Express home, fun had indeed been had, and I’d achieved a small goal of FINALLY seeing Pulp live. A good festival indeed.