Oh White Water Keep On Rolling....

It was my first Christmas away from home. I’d travelled across to the other side of the world to New Zealand to spend a few weeks with my best friend Paul. It was the first time that I’d spent so many hours on a plane. Arriving on Christmas Eve I was invited to a social event that very evening arranged by Paul’s company on a large boat out in Waitemata Harbour. I was so jet lagged that I was falling asleep whilst doing my level best to be sociable and make the acquaintance of Paul’s work colleagues. Whatever those Kiwi’s must’ve made of this weird Englishman lapsing into an unconscious torpor after only two beers and right in the middle of a conversation (and, I’m told, actually mid-sentence at one point) I’ll never know. Paul found it hilarious of course.

The next morning, after a much-needed night's sleep for me and a Christmas morning breakfast of champagne and strawberries in Paul’s garden, we headed to the beach for a traditional Kiwi Christmas day. Along the way Paul stopped at the only open service station we could find, where he purchased the ingredients for a very non-traditional Christmas Dinner of eggs, bacon, snags (Antipodean for sausages) and baked beans, which we then cooked on the (thoughtfully provided) public beach barbeque.

It didn’t really feel like Christmas Day; there in the bright sunshine in the middle of a southern hemisphere summer on a sandy beach as we watched families playing cricket together and the azure and white surf waves of the Pacific Ocean come tumbling rhythmically up the beach. I wondered about my family back in the U.K. who in twelve hours time would be tucking into their traditional Christmas Dinner of turkey with all the trimmings, in my absence for the first time ever, and probably in a typically English cold and drizzly winter setting. My wistful cogitation on this matter didn’t last long though as my attention turned to the adventures that lay ahead of me in Aotearoa or The Land of the Long White Cloud, as they call it in Maori.

New Zealand is renowned as the adrenaline sports capital of the world and Paul and I would take full advantage of this fact over the next fortnight or so. Travelling around the North Island in his sporty green Honda, we'd be staying at various motels and caravan parks and visiting all the sights on offer. Amongst the activities that we would enjoy during that couple of weeks were bungee jumping, jet boating, a helicopter ride, quad biking and tandem sky diving. We lived on New Zealand’s famous Ponsonby Meat Pies (steak and cheese being a particular favourite) and the McDonald’s special Beefmeister Burger (I couldn’t get enough of those: two quarter pound patties with cheese, loads of special sauce, onions and a minimal amount of salad on one huge toasted bun). Also occasionally we'd eat a Kiwiburger although it was somewhat of an acquired taste (a normal cheeseburger but with the addition of a fried egg and a slice of beetroot).

New Year's Eve was spent mostly at a house party in Mount Maunganui, but also at an especially laid-on rock concert on the beach. I found the whole thing weird, I must say. Sitting on a beach on a relatively warm evening where it didn’t get dark until gone 10pm, and later hearing everybody wishing each other ‘Happy New Year’, it just didn’t feel right to me. I was used to spending my New Year's Eves inside, comfortable and cozy out of the inevitable cold and damp weather, during dark dingy winter nights.

I thought about the only other time I could recall that I’d spent my New Year's Eve wholly outside, one year when I was around 17 or so. Several friends and I made the short trip by train and tube to Trafalgar Square with plastic bags stuffed with bottles of cheap cider and cans of supermarket-brand lager. In those days the fountains were left open (before they started boxing them in sometime around the mid-eighties) and you could, and I did in drunken abandonment, frolic in the gushing waters. My overwhelming memory was that after the rowdy countdown to midnight I was snogging and groping a plethora of equally drunk women of various ages and levels of beauty in amongst the heaving crowds; this commotion was accompanied by the chimes of Big Ben from a few hundred yards down the road, as the cheer for another promise laden new beginning went up. Because I was a fit, blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenager of limited sexual experience I found it a little intimidating when the less attractive older women (in their 30's!) grabbed a hold of me, breathed alcohol-laden fumes in my face, slurred “Appienooyuuurrr darlin'!” and plunged their tongues down my throat before I had a chance to escape. I’m sure that is precisely when I picked up my very first cold sore infection.

We couldn’t afford a taxi and all the trains had stopped running, so we walked the six miles to Chiswick High Road where one of my friend’s older brothers had a flat in which we could all crash-out on the floor. That journey probably took about three hours as we were all so completely inebriated. I was absolutely freezing cold in my soaking wet jeans and squelchy boots from my earlier fountain frolics. I’d lost my jacket too, as I recall, and I have vague memories of someone wearing a traffic cone as a hat and some of us stealing flashing roadworks' lanterns. At one point, in desperation, we realized that if we pooled our remaining cash we could probably afford to get a cab the rest of the way and so we started trying to hail black cabs, none of which stopped of course. One look at this motley gang of drunken teenagers in damp clothing and sporting stolen flashing lanterns would be enough to tell any self-respecting cabbie that this really wasn’t a fare worth picking up...what a complete contrast that evening was to where I was now!

Later that week I found myself arguing with Paul, we’d decided that we wanted to go white water rafting and we’d picked up a leaflet from the Rotorua tourist information office. We just had to book whichever excursion we fancied, once we’d had a chance to mull over all the options of course.

“Look, it’s our first time doing this don’t you think it would be more sensible to do a nice sedate Grade 2 trip first?” asked Paul.

“Mate, this is probably my one and only chance to do this. There isn’t gonna be enough time for us to do another excursion during this trip. So we might as well do the top one - the Grade 5. It’s meant to be an adrenalin buzz anyway; what sort of buzz are we gonna get from doing a pansy-arsed Grade 2?”

The International Rapid Classification System qualifies Grade 5 as: very powerful rapids with very confused and broken water, large drops, violent and fast currents, abrupt turns, difficult powerful stoppers and fast boiling eddies; with numerous obstacles in the main current. Complex, precise and powerful sequential manoeuvring is required. A definite risk to personal safety exists.

Do we really want to put ourselves in mortal danger for the sake of a quick buzz?” Paul asked, sensibly.

“Quite frankly mate YES!” I grinned.

“But you’re a much better swimmer than me, what if I fall in?”

“Then I’ll just have to save you won’t I?”

“God you’re so fucking arrogant,” said Paul.

“I know,” I smirked. “Look mate, I'm certain we won’t regret this…it’s gonna be awesome…TRUST ME!”

After what seemed like an hour of arguing, I finally had to resort to the dubious macho tactic of questioning Paul’s sexual orientation and proclivities before he was eventually browbeaten into submission and agreed to attempt the formidable Grade 5. We returned to the tourist information office and the nice blonde woman behind the counter booked it for us, took our money for the reservation and gave us directions to the Kaituna River where we’d be rafting.

Upon arrival at Trout Pool Road, the setting off point, we had to sign disclaimers exempting the rafting company, Kaituna Cascades, from any liability. We kitted up into wetsuits, fleeces, surf booties, life jackets and helmets. Greg the instructor gave us a paddle each and introduced us to the rest of the crew that would be in our large inflatable raft. They were a mixture of people of various nationalities and, like us, all virgins to the sport.

Greg briefed us about the rafting route we were about to embark upon. Running through an extremely steep and narrow canyon, in the course of about an hour we would paddle 14 awesome drops, including two Grade 5 waterfalls and some great rapids from Grade 3+ to Grade 5. We received some dry land instruction, first practising procedures on the river bank and learned how to respond to the commands Greg would give us along the route. At the ‘put in’ point Greg organized everybody according to their weight and body build. I was positioned at the back because of my bulk and upper body strength. Paul was seated at the front to balance me out and fend us away from the rocks. Greg then told us how to operate the raft in the water, what each person’s responsibilities were and what to do in case of an emergency.

There were three other rafts in the water with us, each with a virgin crew and instructor busily explaining things. As we set off down the river in a gentle current, our raft was third in line. The first few rapids were gentle and easy and gave us a chance to practice the manoeuvres and techniques for the more challenging rapids that lay ahead. The trick was to guide the raft into the best entry point for any given section of rapids and essentially hold on for dear life as the waters took you. The raft had ropes at the sides and front to hold onto, and special handles built into the floor. We were advised on how to move to adjust the weight within the raft according to how we wanted to manoeuvre it. The most difficult thing seemed to be holding onto the ropes and your paddle simultaneously whilst being wildly buffeted by the water against the large rocks.

In between the sections of rapids and waterfalls, in the canyons and gorges, there was a chance to enjoy the scenery as we waited in clear, still pools until each raft had completed that section. The mountains rose up either side of us, covered in a thick forest of native trees. We saw trout jumping for flies in the pools ahead of us and birds swooping low skimming the water for insects. Artists and filmmakers will tell you that there is something magical about the light in New Zealand and it really does make those landscapes even more breathtaking and special.

We came to a quiet section where it appeared that, over eons, the river had carved a niche for itself out of pure granite. Cliffs rose up tightly on either side of us and there was just enough room to get a raft through. Beyond and above the strange and beautiful rock formations of this natural cutting the forest towered majestically, echoing with weird and wonderful calls from the native wildlife.

The fun really started when we went over the top of the world's highest commercially rafted waterfall, the Tutea Falls, and experienced an almost vertical drop of 7 meters. The raft was tossed violently to the swirling whirlpool at the bottom and with the thousands of litres of water falling around me, I felt like a lone sock in a washing machine on a spin cycle. There was a brief moment when the water just poured over us as if we were being bombarded from all directions by water canons. We clung firmly to the ropes and some of us had shifted around in the raft, but nobody fell out. Incredibly we remained afloat and continued to find our route through the turbulent waters until we were ejected out the other end.

It’s difficult to explain the exhilaration you feel when you complete a section of rapids and waterfalls; maybe it’s to do with relinquishing that need for control. There is a palpable excitement as you approach the entry point to a dangerous section; the anticipation is unimaginable. The water gradually deepens. It bunches up at the horizon and swells. Ahead you hear the thunderous roar as the river tumbles inexorably downward, obeying the laws of gravity. When the raft tips over the edge, through the mists you glimpse the tumultuous chaos ahead. Your heart stops momentarily, your grip tightens and you brace yourself. You surrender completely to the mercy of the flow. Huge jagged rocks loom; just as you know you are going to be dashed against them the raft lurches to one side and you are swept away by the torrent.

At the end of our incredible joy ride down this fevered stretch of water, the other rafting crews had to make several stops to pick up members who'd been thrown overboard and were clinging to boulders awaiting rescue. Our crew lost nobody.

Paul and I were unusually quiet as we drove away from the Kaituna River that evening. Our bodies were aching from the day’s exertions and a delicious tiredness was seeping through us, but there was nonetheless a warm glow within and a comforting sense of achievement.

“Thanks mate!” said Paul.

"What for?" I asked.

Paul's broad grin was lit up by the lights of an oncoming car. “You may be an arrogant shit but you were absolutely right. That Grade 5 was just fucking awesome and at least you didn't have to fish me out of the drink!”

A Page From Rock History.

March 1981. Rudi was walking with Giles back to his house. After school he’d popped into the Chelsea Coffee House as usual and Giles was there. Giles was a year older than Rudi, he was at the same school and they both attended the same youth club, which happened to be located a couple of doors down from Giles’ house. Giles was above average height with a round cherubic face. Rudi’s girlfriend, Ash, thought Giles was lovely, this made Rudi a little jealous but he didn’t let it show. Rudi had become great friends with Giles’ sister Harriet and it was Harriet that Rudi was on his way to see. Harriet was a no-nonsense; mature for her age, artistic type. She was petite and pretty but not in an obvious sort of way. Harriet had asked Rudi if she could borrow some of his clothes for a Japan gig she was going to be attending. Rudi had a black Adidas kit bag with him, which contained a few choice articles from his wardrobe he thought she’d like.

Japan were about to become huge. Their latest album Tin Drum, was incredibly their 5th, and to date they were a little known cult New Wave attraction but the times were about to catch up to Japan’s unique style, the age of the New Romantic was upon them. The well crafted and haunting song ‘Ghosts’ was a perfect vehicle to showcase the stunning voice of David Sylvian the band's vocalist, and was highly unusual in chart hit history in that, like Minnie Riperton's 'Lovin' You' several years previously, it featured absolutely no drums. It was the standout track of that album and it was about to propel ‘Japan’ to stardom…just in time for them to split up.

Giles and Rudi had just passed the hall above the church where they both attended the youth club and were nearing Giles’ house when Rupert, Giles’ brother, appeared looking excited. He had just left the house and was bounding towards them.

“Hey, you’ll never guess who’s in the house”, blurted Rupert.

“Who?” said Giles.

“Only…THE Jimmy Page!” Rupert exclaims.

Rudi looked at Giles in utter disbelief.

“No way!” Giles retorted cynically, shaking his long curly ginger locks. “What, right now?”

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen with Mum, he came to see how she’s getting on with the paintings she’s restoring for him apparently”, Rupert assured him.

“Bloody hell!” Giles gushed excitably.

“Bloody hell!” Rudi concurred.

Jimmy Page was the renowned lead guitarist with rock legends Led Zeppelin. He lived locally and Rudi had seen him before buying petrol from the petrol station where Rudi worked at the weekends. To be fair he’d not known who Jimmy Page was on sight. It was only afterwards when a co-worker pointed it out, that it registered. Now perhaps Rudi would get the chance to meet him properly.

Life for Jimmy had been tough recently. Only about six months before John Bonham, the band’s drummer, had been found dead at Jimmy’s house after a day and night of heavy drinking whilst rehearsing the new album. He had asphyxiated on his own vomit. Because of the band’s reputation as rock ’n’ roll hell raisers, media speculation abounded at the time that drugs had played a large part. This proved to be unfounded. Speculation was also rife amongst media and fans alike that perhaps Jimmy’s dabbling in ‘the occult’ had something to do with John’s death that evening. Understandably as a result of all this Jimmy had been feeling the stress lately and was deliberately maintaining a low profile.

Giles and Rudi strode hurriedly toward the front door. Giles was barely capable of getting his keys in the lock fast enough, unable to contain his excitement at the possibility of meeting one of rock’s true legends. They both stepped inside and stopped as the door shut gently behind them. Giles was listening intently. There were audible voices coming from the kitchen along the hallway, one of them was unmistakably Jose - Giles’ mum. The other voice was male but otherwise indistinguishable from behind the closed door.

“What should I say to him?” Giles asked Rudi.

“I dunno” Rudi shrugged in that way only fifteen year olds can. “Why don’t you just ask him to sign an album?”

“Good idea!” The frown lines on Giles’ forehead relaxed. “Let’s go and get one first” Giles said as he started to mount the stairs.

Rudi followed. As they marched upwards Rudi quietly cursed the fact that he didn’t also have a Led Zeppelin or even a Yardbirds album handy for Jimmy to sign. He thought about running the mile home to pick one up or, running the half mile in the other direction towards the town centre, to pick up an L.P. from Revolution Records his favourite record shop. Then he realized he probably didn’t have time to do all this. As they reached the top of the stairs Harriet appeared from out of her bedroom.

“Harriet, Jimmy Page is downstairs” Giles beamed expectantly.

“I know” said Harriet nonplussed.

Giles disappeared into his room to seek out a suitable Led Zeppelin LP.

“Hi Harriet” said Rudi “I’ve brought some clothes for you to look at”.

“Great!” smiled Harriet, “You’d better come in. Excuse the mess won’t you”.

The room looked immaculate compared to Rudi’s own bedroom that he grudgingly shared with his younger brother, and refreshingly feminine too. As the only girl amongst several brothers Harriet had the luxury of a whole room to herself.

…

A couple of minutes later Giles walked in holding a record.

“This jacket might work, with a hanky in the top pocket, but you’ll have to roll the sleeves up because they’ll be too long otherwise” Rudi was in the process of helping Harriet on with a 1950’s style second hand jacket he’s bought from a charity shop weeks earlier. It did look a bit odd over her convent school uniform though.

“Ha ha” Giles laughed “You look weird! That’s a men’s jacket”.

“Shut up Giles” snapped Harriet “What would you know about fashion?”

“I’ve got this album, Rudi” Giles showed Rudi the cover of Presence by Led Zeppelin “Will you come down with me and ask him to sign it?”

“Only if I get to keep it afterwards” smiled Rudi

“No bloody way!” Giles countered. “Harriet?” Giles looked at his younger sister entreatingly.

Harriet smiled “Are you too shy to ask him yourself Giles?” she teased.

“No, of course not” Giles answered unconvincingly.

“OK then we’ll come down with you for moral support” Rudi offered.

“Yes let’s” Harriet effused enthusiastically.

The three of them trundled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Giles’ mum was at the table and Jimmy Page sat opposite, they were drinking coffee from large brown mugs and chatting animatedly.

“Hi mummy” Harriet started “just going to make a coffee for Rudi.”

“Ok dear!" Harriet’s and Giles’ mum smiled at Rudi “Hello Rudi, how are you?”

“Hello Mrs. H., I’m very well thanks” Rudi smiled back and tried to sound as polite as possible.

“This is Jimmy” Mrs. H. gestured towards Jimmy Page “I’m doing some work restoring some of his Aleister Crowley paintings” She gestures with her other hand toward a painting on an easel in the corner featuring a demonic looking creature with what appears to be a giant red engorged penis.

“Hi Jimmy!” Rudi grinned inanely at the 'rock legend' and shook his hand.

It felt weird… Rudi didn’t have a clue what else to say, he was completely in awe of this man because of his colossal acclaim. The fingers of the hand he’d just shaken had plucked the solo on Stairway to Heaven possibly the most famous rock anthem since rock began. Hell for that matter this is the guy that practically invented 'Heavy Rock' single handedly, well dual handedly actually; he’d had to hold down the strings with his left hand too.

“This is Harriet, my lovely daughter and Giles one of my darling sons” Mrs. H. was continuing with the introductions.

“Hi” Harriet smiled sweetly at Jimmy and continued with making the coffee.

“Hello!” said Giles bounding over to shake the Rock legend’s hand, first sweeping his long curly ginger locks from hanging in his eyes. “Errrrm...I’m really pleased to meet you!”

“Giles has something he wants to ask you Jimmy” said Harriet with an impish grin, clearly enjoying herself by putting her older brother on the spot.

Giles started to blush slightly and produced Led Zeppelin’s Presence L.P. from behind his back. “Would you mind?” he asked hopefully.

“No of course not” laughed Jimmy “Presence eh! Good choice”.

Mrs. H. pushed a pen that was sitting on the table, towards Jimmy. “Thanks Jimmy” Mrs. H. laughed. “You’ve just made his year!”

“And mine” thought Rudi “and mine!...”

* Revolution Records, Windsor 1982 Copyright Mike Bennett's Photograph reproduced with gracious thanks.

London's Calling.

I was the sanguine age of 23 when I moved the twenty three or so miles eastwards into Central London. The main reason for this was that I was working for a company at Mile End in East London which meant that every single working day I’d drive down the motorway and into London through the rush-hour traffic to get to my office for 8.30am, a journey of twenty five miles or so which took around 90 mins. Returning westwards at five 'o' clock each evening back to the far outer reaches of suburbia just beyond the M25 perimeter took 2 hours. So every weekday for the privilege of working in the big city I was spending roughly 3.5 hours in the car doing a fifty mile round trip.

At first the excitement of working in London offset the drag of the daily commute, after all I had a company jeep, company paid petrol, a great (self installed custom) car stereo and I enjoyed driving. However, pretty soon the novelty wore off and I found that those journeys began to become a great physical drain. Still living with my parents and enjoying the sizeable disposable income that the peppercorn rent I paid for my bed and board allowed me, I was loathe to make any dramatic changes, but fate and fortune were about to play their inevitable hand.

At the time my weekends consisted of drinking locally, until the pubs shut and then taking a car full of inebriated friends back into London where we’d dance all night at clubs such as the WAG club (Wardour Street, W1), which played mainly cool Soul and R&B or the Limelight (Located in an old Welsh Presbyterian Church on Shaftesbury Avenue just off Cambridge Circus) pumping out more contemporary 80’s dance and pop tunes. At around 4am we’d go for breakfast at the 24 hour Beigel Bake shop in Brick Lane or to one of the all-night cafés in and around Soho, Harry’s (19 Kingly St. W1) was a favourite, as was Rocky’s* (3 New Burlington St.) before I would drive everyone back home completely shattered and slip gratefully into a welcoming bed...quite often my own.

I had come to accept that both my working and social life seemed to revolve around Central London, so moving into the smoke finally became a priority. I calculated that what I lost in disposable income would be compensated for by the fact that my journey to the office would be much more pleasant and socially I'd be able to drink more from no longer having to drive everywhere. Helen, a friend with whom I would regularly find myself out clubbing, had already made the move up to town and she had a friend Gaynor who was also looking for permanent city central based accommodation. A colleague of Helen's knew of a place that had recently become available in Camden. Pretty soon the arrangements were made and I found myself moving in together with Gaynor to a two-bed council flat just off of the Euston Road in a quite lovely but unprepossessing little area called Somers Town.

Our tenure of this property was, however, not entirely above board; it was actually a council sub-let and the legitimate tenant from what we understood was serving some considerable time at her majesty’s pleasure. Now, not being ones to look a gift horse in the mouth and hugely impressed by the extremely cheap rent we decided that these trivial details would not deter us from enjoying our tenancy. Indeed neither would the generally run-down state of the property which would take more than just a lick of paint to put right nor the fact that the number on the door was ‘unlucky’ thirteen.

Over several weeks we started to settle in to our new abode and I found that Gaynor, a very pretty petite doe-eyed brunette around my age and from my home town, was a pleasure to live with. We started doing a few bits and pieces to make the place a little more comfortable and generally everything was going rather well. Until…one night at 3am I was awoken by someone pounding rather heavily on the door and shouting the name of the previous occupant through the letterbox. He was becoming more and more insistent despite my attempts to ignore him by putting a pillow over my head and trying to block out the sounds. Eventually, worried about him awakening the neighbours and Gaynor whose bedroom was on the other side of the living room, I dragged myself out of bed and toward the front door.

"Hello" I whispered through the front door glass "He doesn’t live here any more. Go away! Don’t you know what time it is?".

"Sorry" came the reply through the letterbox "I didn’t know that. Listen man I’m desperate! Can YOU hook me up maybe?".

"Hook you up?" I answered quizzically "With what?".

"You know... some 'aitch' " came the equally perplexing response.

"'H' what?" I said still half asleep.

“Some smack, skag, horse... 'H' ".

Suddenly my brain kicked into gear "Heroin" I said.

"Yeah dude of course. I’m hanging out here. I really need it, now! I’ll take whatever you’ve got, I’ve got the cash".

It all started to make sense; the guy that used to live at this flat was a heroin dealer. That’s why he was in prison…and that’s why we got the place so cheap.

"Sorry" I said "I haven’t got any 'H', that’s not what I do".

Eventually after some considerable effort I managed to persuade the junkie on the other side of the door that there really was no heroin inside the flat; that the previous occupant wouldn’t be back for a good length of time and that he should go elsewhere for his fix. I slunk back into bed and told Gaynor about it the next day. She’d fortunately slept through the whole episode.

I didn’t really think anymore about it until a couple of weeks later when it happened again, this time at a more reasonable hour. Having heard a knock I opened the door to what could only be described as a prostitute with pock marked ashen skin caked with make-up and a blackened tooth, in a very short skirt and halter top showing just a little too much cleavage. We went through exactly the same scenario as with the guy a couple of weeks before. She was disbelieving at first and even offered me sex if I could help her out. I of course declined her offer and had to be quite insistent before she also left the doorstep and went elsewhere.

The third time it happened it was in the early hours again and I’m not sure if it was the same guy as before or a different one because I didn’t answer the door. Again I covered my head with the pillow, trying to ignore his insistent pounding and waited until he’d gone. This was starting to become a nuisance…

A while later and Gaynor and I decided to have a ‘flat warming’ party the following weekend. We both invited several guests and were looking forward to entertaining for the first time in our new cool London pad. Around 2pm on Saturday, the day of the party, I went out to fetch some booze from the local supermarket leaving Gaynor to finish preparing party snacks and generally just getting the place ready for a party.

I got into my jeep and headed for the exit archway in the courtyard (which served as a car park for the block of flats). The courtyard was bounded by two archways either side of the square shaped block. These arches incorporated into the block were like medieval castle gatehouses, without the portcullises, through which one had to drive or walk to gain access to the street beyond. As I approached I was confronted by a man hopping up and down smack bang in the middle of the archway and clutching at his ankle as if he’d just injured it. This meant that I had to stop the jeep and wait for him to get out of my way. I duly stopped at the narrow exit and waited. At that precise moment the driver’s side door to my jeep was abrupty opened and an arm came in and removed the keys from the ignition before I even knew what was happening. The guy who, moments before, was hopping in agony and clutching his ankle had made a miraculous recovery and was also coming around towards the drivers door walking at a fair pace now. My adrenalin started pumping as the 'fight or flight' instincts took over and my initial impression was that I was being mugged for the jeep. The guy who’d faked an ankle injury was now standing at the open driver’s door with the guy who had my keys and he shoved an official looking badge, encased in embossed leather, into my face.

"Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad. Get out of the car, NOW!" he shouted.

I glanced at the badge which was no more than a millimeter from my nose. It looked authentic, but how would I know, I’d never seen one before. In the passenger door mirror, I now noticed another two guys approaching the jeep from behind. They looked like they meant business too. Well if they were mugging me then they’d certainly come mob handed! I stepped down out of the jeep and was immediately pushed against the side of the archway my hands forced aloft and my legs kicked apart, so that they could frisk me. "Ah hah" I thought "Muggers don’t frisk people".

I was told that they suspected me of being a dealer of ‘Class A’ drugs and that they had a warrant to search my premises, which they then showed me. It was in triplicate, a pink topsheet with green and blue carbon copies. They ripped off the blue copy and gave it to me to read. I was completely gob-smacked! I naturally protested my innocence and they looked at me with the skeptical eyes of men that had heard it all a million times before.

One of the ‘nice policemen’ got into the jeep, reversed it back to my parking space and started searching the interior. Meanwhile I was led back towards the flat on foot by the others. As we passed an unobtrusive dirty white transit van with mirrored back windows several more ‘nice policemen’ jumped out of the back and joined us. I now realized that the transit van had been parked there for several days and as the back windows faced our flat they must have had us under surveillance.

We reached the door to the flat, which I duly opened once my keys were returned to me. I was surrounded by eight or nine ‘nice policemen’ at this point whom I realised would be helping with the search. As we entered I was frog marched through to the lounge. Gaynor stuck her head out from the kitchen and started to greet the ‘nice policemen’ with a cheery "Hello, I’m Gaynor, how nice to meet you all!". She obviously thought that these were my party guests who had arrived early. One of the ‘nice policemen’ joined her in the kitchen and must have explained what was going on, because she emerged white faced and looking very concerned. She was ushered into her bedroom where they started to question her. All around us ‘nice policemen’ were starting to search the flat; opening cupboards and looking up the chimney all with the professional efficiency and resigned air of people who do this sort of thing every day. The ‘nice policeman’ that had stuck his badge in my face earlier took me into my bedroom to start interrogating me; it was becoming plain that he was the boss of this operation.

The first thing he asked me was if I had anything in the flat that I shouldn’t have. I replied that I did and that I would fetch it for him. I went into the lounge and reached into the basket sitting on the shelves, full of ‘extra long’ cigarette papers and an interesting little wooden container with a nice imprint of a familiar five leafed plant on it. I returned to my bedroom and opened the container in front of the ‘nice policeman’. My hands were shaking slightly, after all what I was about to hand over was still an illegal substance. I stuck my fingers into the small wooden container and pulled out a plastic bank bag of the type used for sorting coins. Inside the bag was a tiny piece of hashish the size of a pea. I handed this over to the ‘nice boss policeman’.

"I’m sorry I haven’t got more otherwise I’d skin one up!" I announced cheekily.

Inwardly I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t have a more significant amount of marijuana in the flat at that moment because I'd actually arranged for one of my party guests to bring a quantity from my hometown to the party later. Surreptitiously I breathed a huge sigh of relief at the fortuitousness of the timing.

The ‘nice boss policeman’ was not amused. It was becoming very obvious that there were no ‘Class A’ drugs in the flat and that whatever intelligence or observation they were working on was flawed. I remained overwhelmingly polite and good tempered explaining how I came to live there; who Gaynor was and answering all the other questions I was asked honestly and openly. Gaynor’s story obviously matched mine too, as I discovered when ‘nice boss policeman’ stepped out to confer with his colleague who had been interviewing her. It was becoming increasingly certain that this young pair of middle-class ‘kids’ were not and never had been part of a major hard drugs network. The other ‘nice policemen’ started joking around and visibly relaxed as the idea that I was not the suspect they were looking for became apparent. I asked them please not to make too much of a mess because I was having a big party later. One of the ‘nice policemen’ suggested maybe he and a couple of colleagues should pop back later that night. I really hoped they were joking, knowing that within a few hours the place would be heavy with the smell of marijuana and a few of my guests might be on somewhat stronger stimulants; plus the fact that my own ‘gear’ would be delivered later too.

It felt weird to have people going through all my personal stuff with a fine-toothed comb. Personal letters were read; the stash of porn at the bottom my underwear drawer eagerly perused and even the cornflakes in the kitchen emptied into a separate bowl, sifted through, and then replaced in the packet. I felt slightly violated. It must have felt much worse for poor Gaynor.

After little more than an hour the ordeal was over. The ‘nice boss policeman’ apologised for any inconvenience caused and the rest of the ‘nice policemen’ left cheerfully still making jokes about how I might just see them later. I wasn’t going to be charged for the pathetically small amount of dope in my possession and nearly everything in the flat was back in its normal place with no damage done. Gaynor and I were left standing looking at each other in a state of shock and incredulity.

Finally, having had the chance to go and fetch the booze unmolested, the party that evening went amazingly well. Although I felt a little disconcerted that the ‘nice policemen’ might make good on their promise to return later that evening, everything proceeded without a hitch. Gaynor and I neglegted to mention to the partygoers that ‘we’d been busted’ earlier in the day for fear of spreading the unease we already so tangibly felt. There were certainly enough soft drugs on the premises now to make it worth the ‘nice policemen’s’ while returning but we were thankful that the ‘half hinted at’ raid failed to materialise.

The next day once the party was over, whilst we were cleaning up the mess and through the haze of a hangover, I had my first chance to reflect on the significant events of the previous 24 hours.

"You know what really disappoints me the most" I said to Gaynor as we filled a couple of black bin liners with empty beer cans and the contents of several ashtrays.

"No" she said "What?".

I raised an ironic eyebrow.

"They forgot to give me my 'I’ve been busted' button badge!".

* sadly no longer open

Back to Earth With a Bump.

It was my idea. I’d been living in Rotterdam for just over a year and my brother-in-law was coming over for a visit. I’d done some research about things we could do together whilst he was over and, apart from the usual tourist stuff available, I’d found out that it was possible on alternate Saturday mornings to either abseil or death slide from the Euromast. It worked out that the Saturday Brian would be here was an abseiling day, so I booked us in. Now I should point out here that I regularly enjoy doing crazy, adrenalin-pumping things and felt I had an advantage because at the tender age of twelve I’d actually done some abseiling.

It was at a Butlins holiday camp on a school excursion and I think the idea was that we took part in various activities as character and team building exercises. You know the sort of thing: swimming; canoeing; rafting; assault courses and also, of course, abseiling. At the time I remember we were abseiling down a wall especially built for the purpose which must have been about 10 meters high, which doesn’t sound like much, but to a twelve year old is extremely scary. I recall that at the first attempt I was totally petrified. The instructor had helped me get into position and all I had to do was lower myself gently over the edge so that my legs were perpendicular to the wall. Then it was just a case of walking down the wall whilst letting out the rope, it sounded simple. I stood on the edge of the wall with my back facing out clinging for dear life to the rope with ice white knuckles at a 45% angle to the ground which seemed to be so very, very far below. The instructor was encouraging me to let out some more rope so that I would then naturally adopt the correct position for abseiling down the wall. I kept looking down and was unable to function because of the fear pulsing through my veins. I remained hanging there, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The instructor continued gently trying to persuade me that everything would be OK. After a while my fears lessened to the point where I gingerly let out a little rope and my bottom lowered so that I was finally in the correct position to walk very slowly down the wall. It still took me several minutes to reach the base. However, upon reaching the safety of solid ground I found that my anxiety had evaporated, not only that but I was eager to do it again with a new found enthusiasm. I continued to do it many times that day each time my confidence growing to the point where eventually I was positively bouncing down the wall in three bounds like an SAS commando at the Iranian Embassy siege.

So actually I was relishing the prospect of abseiling the Euromast knowing that the secret was just to overcome your initial fears of actually leaning out perpendicular to the building. What I hadn’t thought over was that it had been twenty two years previously that I’d had my ONLY experience of abseiling and that it had been less than one tenth the height I was about to attempt.

My brother-in-law Brian arrived on the Friday evening, I picked him up from the airport and as usual we proceeded to get completely mashed showing little regard for what we were about to attempt the following morning. After very little sleep I awoke Brian early and following a hearty breakfast we drove to the Euromast for our appointment with destiny.

Arriving at the top of the Euromast we quickly signed the disclaimer forms stating that if one should die during this foolhardy attempt the only person that was to blame whatsoever would be oneself. The view from the observation platform was awesome and I was pleased to note that although there was some wind it was fairly light. We were given and quickly kitted up in a helmet and thick gloves. Now, keen to show absolutely no fear in front of Brian and remembering that the toughest part was the initial going over the edge, I started to clamber over the railing (the only thing between me and a sheer 110 meter drop) right next to the ropes which were already in place and firmly secured (I hoped) somewhere above us. I looked back at Brian and the instructor who both looked extremely startled by my actions.

“Wait!” shouted the instructor “First you need to put on a harness and then to be attached to the rope!”

“Oh yes of course” I replied trying desperately NOT to look down as I struggled back over the railing and attempting to sound nonchalant as if I did this every day.

Brian just laughed and shot me a look that said “Easy tiger!”

We got into our harnesses and were attached to the ropes via karabiners. Only then were we told by the instructor to go over the railing, which I did even more confidently than the first time and this time feeling slightly safer. Remembering once again that the difficult bit was getting in a perpendicular position I quickly lowered myself into the appropriate stance and looked over to see how Brian was getting on, making sure that I wasn’t tempted to look down at the 110 meter drop below us.

Brian seemed to be getting along fine; I was impressed considering that it was his first time. He was being encouraged by the instructor who was positioned on a rope between us. I turned back to concentrate on my own actions and started to walk down the first part of the mast from the observation deck. The technique certainly did seem to be coming back to me from when I was a frightened twelve year old and I confidently fed the rope through the karabiner as I eased myself slowly down. I was standing on plate glass and suddenly realized that I could see people staring back at me from the restaurant. How weird, I thought, to be eating breakfast whilst someone walks down the windows outside. This however proved to be the easy bit!

When you imagine the Euromast you must think of a large syringe and needle standing upright, 185 meters tall, with a marshmallow pushed over the needle (radio mast) and resting, a little over half way up, at the point where the needle meets the body of the syringe. The topside of that marshmallow is the observation platform that I had just left, and the body is the restaurant I was now staring into, watching diners gawping back at me whilst they masticated their ‘broodje ham kaas’s ‘ and slurped their coffee. Having easily and confidently worked my way down these huge windows I suddenly realized that what I now faced was a drop into effectively nothingness. There would no longer be anything solid to rest against. The last 100 meters I would be just suspended in an abyss, hanging free with nothing but the rope for support.

I waited at the bottom of the last glass window and looked to my left to see how Brian and the instructor were getting along, deciding sensibly that it was better to listen to the professional tell me how to do this tricky manoeuvre. Brian was coming down very well and had got the hang of it immediately. Soon they were both at the same level as me and I watched as the instructor showed us how to elegantly launch ourselves into the void from a rail which was conveniently placed, and went entirely around, the bottom of the aforementioned marshmallow.

I followed his example and took a leap of faith, to find myself suspended and spinning in mid-air. As I gently turned on the rope a breathtaking panoramic view of Rotterdam’s skyline, river and 'havens' (harbours) moved from left to right before my eyes, 360 degrees of awe inspiring vista...and there it is again...and again. I felt the breeze blowing in my face and heard the roar of the traffic below entering the Maas Tunnel. My arms started to ache as I realized how tightly I was holding onto the rope, every sinew of every muscle in my whole body was tensed. I conciously suppressed the urge to vomit as I spun around yet again and concentrated on controlling my racing heartbeats. I looked down at the spiralling 100 meter drop below, which was a really bad move. I tried NOT to imagine myself splatted on the pavement beneath like a stray glob of raspberry jam, falling from some giant piece of buttery toast. I tried to relax, and remember that if I let go nothing would happen. I would remain suspended and sitting cradled safely by my harness and would not move earthwards until I started to feed more rope through my karabiner. I was in control. However, my brain knowing that and my body knowing that were two different things. My hands continued to grip the rope steadfastly as if my very survival depended upon it, I flashed back to being a twelve year old with ice white knuckles petrified of the drop below. I dared to glance over to Brian and was pleased to note that he looked as terrified as I felt. He was also spinning gently in the breeze.

Once we'd stopped revolving the instructor started to speak bringing us both back to focus on the job in hand - i.e. getting down from here. He told us both to relax and remember that if we let go nothing would happen. He demonstrated the fact by completely relinquishing hold of his rope and leaning back in his harness until his body was almost completely prostrate and revolving slowly in the wind.

“Like this!” he showed us, smiling broadly.

I took every ounce of courage I possessed and gradually let go of my rope one hand at a time. My muscles relaxed a little and I started to enjoy the sensation of being suspended like a puppet high above the streets of Rotterdam. I let out an audible sigh of relief and heard something similar from Brian who had also started letting go of his rope. My muscles started to relax, and my breathing slowed as my body finally came to the realisation that I was actually not in any imminent danger of becoming a pavement pizza, squished, warm and sticky like fresh roadkill.

After this of course we got cocky.

The adrenalin was accompanied by testosterone and macho competitiveness kicked in. As we continued the innevitable descent, we carried on feeding more and more rope through our karabiners at a faster and faster pace. A race developed between us. We started to come down at a very rapid rate and finally the last twenty meters I was literally in freefall and touched the ground a fraction of a second before Brian, landing with both feet once again reassuringly on terra firma. We were both laughing uncontrollably, visibly high from the adrenalin rush and also, I think, very relieved to be down in one piece, with all our body parts still intact.

We spent the next couple of hours sitting in the sunshine on the grass in the nearby park watching others abseiling down the Euromast as the morning's events began to sink in to our hung over brains. We both agreed that it was an amazing feat and mutually congratulated ourselves for the achievement. I remember feeling that having done that, then nothing else would ever seem like quite such a challenge again. As the excess of hormones, adrenalin and other bodily chemicals subsided from our overworked bloodstreams and the muscle aches disappeared, a gentle peace descended and engulfed our very being, a calmness and oneness that only placing yourself in mortal danger can elicit. Nothing however could remove the stupid self satisfied grins that remained on our faces for the rest of that weekend!

Three Cheers for John Metcalfe.

I’m about 14 years old, sitting in the library at school. It’s well past 4’o’clock and I should be well on my way home but I’m not. I’d like to be able to tell you that I’m busy studying in my spare time, but that wouldn’t be true. Although extremely bright I’m not one of nature’s swots. I’d like to think I’m ‘too cool for school’ but that’s most likely not true either. I’m probably holding a book in my hand for the sake of appearances but I’m unlikely to actually be reading it at this particular moment as there is too much going on in my head to concentrate. The stark truth is I’m hiding here. Adrian Farley has decided that he wants to fight with me and I’m here busy evading him. I know he’ll be looking for me and I really don’t want to fight him, so I’m avoiding him. It’s not that I’m scared. Well maybe I am a little scared…scared of pain certainly. It’s just that I’m really not into all that macho posturing to ‘prove’ myself. It all seems like too much hassle to me and someone always gets hurt…usually me! I’ve never been very competitive and I hate confrontation. I really just don’t want to fight him. I mean really what’s the point. I certainly don’t have anything to 'prove' and I don’t understand it.

At my last school I was bullied…for two reasons. Reason No.1 was that I was the brightest boy in the class and always came third in exams. Generally there were always the same two girls ahead of me…but I was always the brightest boy. Reason No.2 was that I was tall for my age, broad shouldered with blond hair, very easy to spot and single out, and although I was bigger than average I was definitely not aggressive, retiring rather than forceful, introverted rather than extroverted. This was obviously seen as challenge by some of the smaller but more aggressive lads who seemed to pick on me as a way of making them look bigger and more powerful.
So I was used to being set upon, often by several boys at once and usually after a class where the exam results were announced. They would corner me and knock me down, goading me for being too clever, all of them kicking me simultaneously as I curled up in a protective foetal position. I’d often come home covered in bruises, but I never told my parents why. My father would probably have urged me to fight back but I just didn’t want to risk it. It seemed to be easier to take the beating than to try to make a stand and possibly make it worse for myself.

Now, this school is a ‘boys only’ school and I’m unfortunately no longer able to say that I’m the brightest boy in the class. But still it seems any excuse is often good enough for the emergence of hostility from my peers. There is a tangible reek of testosterone in the air and if anything the absence of a female contingent means it’s even more brutal here. Pubescence provides an abundance of the aforementioned hormone and it seems boys will seek out many ways to express this sudden excess of masculinity. Sometimes rugby and football are just not enough to dampen the energy and enthusiasm of an overbearing adolescence.

So here I am again, cowering in the school library rather than going out to make a stand for myself. An older boy walks in. I know him only vaguely, he’s in the year above me, but he has a reputation that is legendary. His name is John Metcalfe. He’s a bit of a rogue, a ‘hard nut’, a larger than life character and he’s known for being tough. He is also notorious as a ‘bullshitter and teller of tall tales’, not just at my school but throughout the entire locality. I have no idea how he gained this status, but everyone around my age seems to know about it. It is commonplace for example if you think someone is telling a barefaced lie to rub your chin in a wistful manner as if stroking a long invisible goatee beard and counter them with ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ in a sarcastic tone.

Now the boy to whom this mega reputation pertains is standing in front of me having approached the table at which I’m sitting and I must confess to being a little in awe of him, if not trembling slightly from fear.

‘Wotcher doin’ ‘ere Somerlove?’ He enquires .

‘Er, reading!’ I tentatively supply an answer I hope won’t antagonise him.

‘Bollocks! You’re hiding from Farley aren’t you?’ His perspicacity is obviously as sharp as his reputation.

‘Ok, yes I am’ I look down at the desk shamefaced.

He pulls up a chair and sits opposite me.

‘You don’t want to be scared of Farley, he’s all front!’ he declares.

‘Do you think so?’ I look up at Metcalfe again.

We talk for a while about the whole sad, sorry situation, about me cowering in the library whilst Farley stalks the corridors and playgrounds searching for me. About how I really am quite a big lad and shouldn’t be scared of the likes of Farley. Metcalfe tells me I should stand up for myself.

'Sometimes in life you find you have to fight back and assert yourself' he explains, and then the one piece of information which has resonated throughout the rest of my life.

‘If you don’t make a stand now, the likes of Farley will dog you your whole life. You’ll be a doormat! Everyone will take advantage of you simply because they can.’ Metcalfe outlines the cold hard truth with a maturity and worldliness that belies his tender fifteen years on the planet.

I agree. At least, I have the foresightedness to see what he means. In my head I picture years and years of me running scared every time a confrontation raises its ugly head to greet me. I envisage a lifetime of cowering and trembling every time someone tries to assert themselves over me, with me backing down at the slightest opportunity. It's not an appetising prospect. I look up at Metcalfe entreatingly.

‘Look, if you go and fight Farley I’ll referee. OK?’ Metcalfe obligingly suggests. ‘The moment it looks like you’re going to get hurt I’ll stop the fight’

Hesitantly I agree, motivated by the images of a life spent fleeing from bullies still buzzing around my head.

Metcalfe and I leave the school library and go off in search of Farley. We find him and several of his cronies a little later waiting just outside the school entrance and Metcalfe explains to them that I agree to fight as long as he referees the contest. A location away from the school underneath a motorway bridge is deemed to be the best setting for the fight and we all nervously make our way there, Farley and his cronies are leading the way with Metcalfe and I bringing up the rear.

Metcalfe is covertly giving me fighting tips as we walk.

‘Go in really hard, don’t pussyfoot about. Let him know you mean business. That’ll scare him. He thinks you’ll be a walkover. Remember: maximum violence immediately. He won’t be expecting that. It’ll give you the element of surprise.’ He whispers nonchalantly so as not to arouse the suspicions of those ahead of us.

Once in place, Farley and I remove our ties and blazers. We then roll up our shirt sleeves and square up to one another whilst Metcalfe outlines the rules of engagement.

'No scratching; no biting; no gouging; no kicking and no hitting below the belt. Now shake hands and lets have a clean, fair fight.'

We grudgingly shake hands and then Metcalf stands between us, arms outstretched, holding us apart. He then takes a step back and motions for us to begin. I immediately lunge forward toward Farley and swing my fist as hard as I can in the direction of Farley’s face. Thud! It connects with Farley’s jaw and he collapses like a sack of potatoes, crumpling in a heap. I feel the sting of pain on my knuckles, and wince as they start to redden. Ouch! Farley stays down. Metcalfe starts counting. ‘1, 2, 3’ Farley groans in pain and clutches his jaw. ‘4, 5, 6,’ Farley looks back at me from the floor in utter disbelief…and with…what exactly is it I detect…perhaps the unmistakable glare of…wide eyed FEAR. Farley is suddenly afraid of ME? ‘7, 8, 9.’ Now I finally understand…in the monochrome world that Farley inhabits THIS is how you earn respect. Metcalfe reaches the end of his count and declares Farley ‘OUT!’. Metcalfe grabs my left wrist and raises my arm aloft declaring me to be the winner. Farley’s cronies gather around him on the floor and try to rouse him. He's bleeding from a cut lip and is slightly groggy. I step back completely amazed, hardly believing that the fight is over so quickly. Metcalfe just stands there grinning at me with a look of pride on his face.

That evening I walk home with a spring in my step. I feel completely different. I feel confident for the first time in my life and it feels good.

Farley doesn’t ever dare bother me again after that and once word has got around the school neither does anyone else. John Metcalfe nods to me everytime we pass in the corridor; I've earned his respect too.

Of course now I appreciate what an important moment that was in my life and what a debt I owe to the infamous John Metcalfe. For several years after that kids around the town would still stroke their imaginary goatees and utter the magical words ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ when feigning disbelief. I doubt most of them even knew who John Metcalfe was. It had become learned behaviour, just something you did when you thought someone was bullshitting. I never did discover how he actually earned that particular reputation. I remember, a couple of years after the events of that evening, reading in the local newspaper how he’d saved a young woman from getting assaulted and raped in a dark alley one evening, chasing off the girl’s assailant, and was being hailed as a local hero even getting a mention in our school assembly.

John Metcalfe will of course always have my eternal respect. If I met him today I would shake his hand heartily and thank him for the profound effect he has had on my life. He would almost certainly be completely unaware and I wonder whether he would even recollect that incident so long ago. I find it strange that this single moment should have so much significance for me, yet probably so little for him.

Naturally, nowadays I am nobody’s bitch. I have consistently asserted myself throughout my life thus far and have always taken the former option when the ‘fight or flight’ instinct has arisen. But I’d like to think that should I ever again feel the need to cower, hide or run away whilst vacillating tremulously I’d summon a degree of defiance by philosophically stroking an imaginary goatee beard and mumbling sarcastically under my breath ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’

Whale Shark!

It’s April 2001, I’m sitting in a beach bar on a small Thai island in the Gulf of Siam. The sun is setting and the sky is a mosaic of colours: reds, blues, purples, oranges and yellows. The atmospheric conditions round here often conspire to paint such breathtaking sunsets, the like of which I’ve never seen anywhere else in the world.

I’m travelling with my friend Bruce enroute to see our mutual friend Paul in Auckland, New Zealand. It was my idea to make a short stop-over on Koh Tao; this will be my third visit to this little known ‘gemstone set in a sapphire sea’ since first discovering it in 1993. A true diver’s paradise, it is where I first learnt the veritable art of SCUBA and qualified for my PADI Open Water certification. We’d had to make a stop-over in Bangkok anyway and I really wanted Bruce to experience the delights that Koh Tao has to offer, plus I’d get to do some serious diving in one of my most favourite spots in the whole world. All this with the added bonus that now I had risen in the ranks and become a qualified Rescue Diver.

Problem is I hadn’t figured on Bruce putting his back out on our first night here. There we were sitting on the balcony outside his room, smoking the local Thai weed. We were sitting on the cheap sort of molded plastic garden chairs that are seemingly ubiquitous now. Bruce leans back on his chair to put his feet up on the balcony rail and then BANG! The back feet of the chair slip forward on the glossy tiled flooring and Bruce is lying flat on his back groaning in pain and can’t get up. Well, as soon as I’d stopped laughing hysterically (I’m sorry but I suffer terribly from schadenfreude!). I pulled him up and managed to get him onto the bed in his room.

The next day Bruce couldn’t walk because of his back pain, so I arranged for the local doctor to visit him and then get a masseuse sent to his room. I also had to put my own plans for diving on hold as I didn’t think it was fair for me to disappear all day whilst Bruce was in so much pain. This continued for the next few days and each day that passed my opportunities for diving grew less and less likely.

So now here I am sitting in a beach bar the evening before the day I have to leave this island, admiring the sunset. Tomorrow is my last chance to dive and, as Bruce is getting better and walking around fairly well now, I’ve booked a dive trip for the morning to Chumporn Pinnacle. I’m drinking beer with some of the people I’ll be diving with tomorrow and generally having pleasant conversation. ‘D’you know!’ I announce to the assembled divers ‘I have a feeling in my gut we’ll see a Whale Shark tomorrow’. ‘Yeah, yeah’ comes back the chortled retort from the skeptics amassed before me‘…and we’ll be ducking the flying pigs!’ ‘Nevertheless’ I say ‘you mark my words, my instincts are rarely wrong. Who wants another drink?’

Next morning we board the boat to take us out to Chumporn Pinnacle. It will be my third time diving at that particular spot over the years. Basically it’s a kind of underwater mountain with a very pointed top which lies a couple of metres below the surface. On the slopes of the mountain are coral gardens and beautiful underwater seascapes with multitudinous varieties and species of fish. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I listen intently to the dive briefing with the wind whistling past my face as we scud over the waves.

As soon as the boat comes to rest about 20 minutes later my ‘buddy’, for this dive only, (diving etiquette requires that you always dive as one of a pair so that you can watch over one another- you pair up together as ‘buddies’) Malcolm and I are already kitted up and keen to be the first in the water. Another boat has since arrived at the site and those divers are already starting to enter the water.

Malcolm takes a ‘giant stride’ off the boat holding his mask tightly in place with one hand and holding his gauges, second stage regulator and dangling straps tightly to his chest with the other. I follow, in exactly the same fashion, as soon as he’s clear of the boat. As I rise back towards the surface of the water after my plunge, surrounded by tiny air bubbles there is a shout from some of the divers already in the water from the second boat. ‘Whale Shark...WHALE SHARK!’

Malcolm looks at me and grins behind his mask, I grin inanely back from behind mine. I give the ‘thumbs down’ hand signal that we should descend. He signals ‘OK’ back with his first finger and thumb forming a circle and the other three fingers erect above it. We press the deflator button attached to our BCD (buoyancy control device) jackets and descend rapidly fins first. Visibility below the surface is great. About 20 meters before everything merges into a deep blue haze. To our left we see a group of four divers swimming rapidly towards a very large black shape still blurring in the blue haze. We head in that direction and the shape emerges from amongst the blue background, sharpening in focus gradually. My breathing quickens with the excitement and I consciously try to calm down to preserve my air and thus lengthen my dive. We swim closer to the Whale Shark and it comes into very sharp focus…

Wow! It’s magnificent! It’s really only a baby but still incredibly awesome to see at this proximity. We are no more than 2 meters away from it and can clearly see the Remora fish hitching a ride on its underside. It glides slowly past us, all 7 meters of it and then we are looking at its huge but slow and elegantly pumping tail. As I said: it’s a baby, these things are reputed to grow to about 18 meters in length. We chase it for a while surrounded by other divers who have also come to realize that this could be one of their greatest dives ever. I head it off as it turns gracefully following the contours of the underwater pinnacle and get a look at its huge mouth; almost 1 metre wide and specifically designed for filter feeding (krill etc.). I marvel at the near perfect matrix of white spots on its back, giving this ‘largest fish in the ocean’ its most distinctive markings. I reel off many, many photographs, some of which will come to grace the wall of my bathroom later and then after what seems like only a few minutes into the dive I glance at my air gauge. Shit! I’m down to about 50 bars already; I’ve been down here 25 minutes already. Moreover, all the excitement has made me use up my air much more quickly. I signal to Malcolm to check his air too. He signals back that he’s on 50 bars also….we really should have started heading for the surface 20 bars ago. I signal the ‘thumbs up’ to tell him we should ascend and he give’s me an ‘OK’ sign in affirmation.

We hang around for the required safety stop for 3 minutes at 5 meters depth and whilst I’m suspended there watching the other divers from 20 metres above, chasing the whale shark and snapping pictures, I start to grin to myself. I wish I could explain this to Malcolm right now but it’ll have to wait until we surface. I have this sudden notion of seeing things from the Whale Shark's viewpoint. Here he is surrounded by divers in awe of his size and power and strength and just the sheer spectacle of seeing an almost prehistoric creature up close and personal and they’re all thinking…Wow amazing. A real live Whale Shark!...and he’s thinking...Fuck me! Will you look at all those underwater swimming monkeys!

A Pivotal Moment.

It had never happened to him before. He stood in shock looking at the burnt out shell of what once had been his lovely vintage car. ‘Bloody kids’ he thought, ‘Bored most probably, nothing better to do, little bastards!’.

‘Hadn’t you better ring the police?’ the ever sensible voice of his erstwhile girlfriend came from behind him. ‘Damn it!’ he mused ‘It was her fault he’d parked here in the first place’.

Four days previously he’d reluctantly left his lovely old vintage Merc here at this Car Pool car park next to Junction 23 of the A29 motorway near a place called Willemstad.
Having removed anything worth stealing and securing the car, he’d jumped into his girlfriends brand new Jaguar and vowed not to think about the treasured Merc until his return.

She had been supposed to be meeting him at his house, in which case he could have left the Merc safely on the drive at home. Instead she didn’t arrive at the predicted time, nor had she arrived half an hour later when he decided to ring her and find out where she was.

‘Hello’

‘Hello it’s me. Where are you? You must’ve got off the ferry a couple of hours ago.’

‘Er yeah I did, I’ve been following the Sat Nav and the traffic’s been really bad, it’s choc-a-block here’

‘Oh OK. I didn’t realize it was THAT bad. So, where are you now?’

‘Er….the A29’

‘What! Are you sure?’

‘That’s what it say’s on the sign……near a place called Willemstad’

‘But that’s miles away….down south! You are meant to be traveling north!’

‘Oh shit……I thought it was taking longer than usual. I think the Sat Nav’s playing up then’

‘Didn’t you realize the sun was on your right when it should have been on your left?’

‘No, but I thought it strange that I didn’t recognize any of these roads, I thought the Sat Nav was diverting me to avoid the traffic though’

‘Stupid bitch!’ he thought. ‘She’d traveled the journey from the ferry port to his houseboat at least ten times, twice when she’d driven herself.’

‘Do you want me to turn around then?’ she asked, snapping him back to the current dilemma.

‘No!’ he exclaimed ‘Stay exactly where you are, I’ll come and find you. I’ll be a couple of hours though, turn off at the next junction and park up!’

It was already gone 10pm when he eventually found her. They’d decided that it would be better to leave the Merc there at the Car Pool parking spot and travel on to France in the Jag. Now it was four days later, the sojourn in France lay behind them, and his nicely relaxed muscles were again beginning to tighten at the sight of his burnt out Merc being loaded onto the back of a tow truck from the local scrap dealer.

As if finding the car in that state wasn’t bad enough, the local police had told him he’d have to pay for the car to be scrapped and to get the debris cleared up too. He’d followed the tow truck back to the scrap yard to sign the necessary paperwork, and then persuaded his girlfriend to give him a lift to Schiphol Airport so that he could hire a car to get to his office the next day. She was worried that it might cause her to miss the ferry back to the UK, but was feeling guilty about the wrecked Merc too, so it didn’t take him long to persuade her to drop him at Schiphol. In any event she didn’t miss the ferry.

However, in retrospect, now that he thinks about it with the benefit of hindsight. It was definitely at that precise point that he decided the relationship between them was over. It was really the last in a long line of incidents where her general incompetence and ineptitude had caused him to lose something of value. Not always material value either, in this case it was certainly the sentimental value which mattered more to him anyway, but there was always something of worth involved.

It was the last straw as far as he was concerned, time to cut his losses and move on. His association with her was proving to be more destructive than it was fruitful and THAT was the key issue. 2006 lay ahead of him shimmering with promise, and from deep within he felt that, with a little focus in the right places, this really could be HIS year……