A friend of mine recently sent me a copy of the diving logbook he used when he did his first diver training with what was then the Malayan Sub Aqua Club. As my friend guessed, this is the same logbook I was given when I signed up for my first dive course. My original logbook is long gone, and seeing this brought back a flood of long-lost memories. I thought you might be entertained by a quick rundown of what we had to go through and the skills we needed to master to become sport divers in those days.

Let’s first turn back the clock to 1981…

Not so long ago, diver training agencies, equipment manufacturers and resorts were lamenting the fact that the activity was much less popular than it used to be. There was a great deal of pessimism over the future of sport diving as a whole. The early adopters were ageing, divers were dropping out, young people were not interested in an activity their parents and grandparents did, working people could not afford it and the ocean environment was deteriorating. If someone was interested in marine life, they did not even need to get wet. They could watch videos on their computers instead.

The genesis of this story was a friend asking me if I had ever been frightened on a technical dive. My answer was, “Not at the time.” There have been a few occasions when fear only arose after the dive—after I reviewed what had happened and realised how differently things could have turned out. That’s when the cold sweat formed on my forehead, a chill ran down the back of my neck, my face began to flush, and I got that familiar “uh-oh” sensation in the pit of my stomach.

Friends Phil and Donna passed this tale on to me, and it is an excellent topic for a Scuba Confidential column. They were living in Florida at the time and heard that one of the local boats had a couple of spare slots. So, they threw their equipment into the truck, drove down to the dock and jumped on board.

Phil takes up the story…

A friend recently sent me a detailed account of the Red Sea dive trip he joined in 2022. Lots of people send in “it happened to me” stories. They have read my books and know I like tales like this. I dissect them, feast on them, and then regurgitate them as magazine articles or newsletter anecdotes with the idea that divers might learn something from them.

Some reports tell the story of a problem-free fortnight in paradise, extolling the virtues of a destination or dive operator. Others talk about a dive that went wrong or a dive centre that did not live up to expectations. 

It was the second dive of a long-anticipated trip, and the site was Mioskon Island in Indonesia’s Dampier Strait—one of the crown jewels of the area known as Raja Ampat or Four Kings. This is where new arrivals often get their first glimpse of the vast volume and variety of life in the waters of this protected patch of northwest Papua. 

For the many dives we do which are uneventful, there is always the odd dive where something takes place that reminds us of our vulnerability. This often involves the failure of a piece of equipment and many of us are guilty of not thinking too deeply about what to do if something goes wrong or how to prevent it from happening in the first place.