Tubing and Touristyness.

"Don't worry, the helmets are one size fits all," they said  "I've never met anyone they didn't fit."
Chris and I look at each other, knowing full well that they have clearly under appreciated the Ashdown Cranium Gigantis.
"Well, you're about to see something really special then," we think. But alas, they did fit - albeit on the absolute maximum size. Orange helmets on, we were ready to go.

After hauling my hungover ass out of bed at 8:00am that morning, and inadvertently becoming an emergency alarm clock for an oversleeping Chris, we had hammered it to Goytre for our day of tubing.

After a haphazard introduction, safety briefing and typo-laden disclaimer, we were invited to own up to any recent surgeries or injuries.

*2 second pause*

"No one? Ok, let's go."

After laughing at Chris trying to jam himself into a somewhat inaccurately chosen size M wetsuit, we jumped into the car and drove convoy for a whole 20 minutes to Dinas Rock. We lost the end few cars on the way there due to a particularly and ill-advised slow acceleration through some traffic lights, but they were eventually rounded up.

Buoyancy aids were donned and rings were selected, we began the walk to the entry point, see below:

It turned out to be an awesome day; sunny, dry and such a laugh. See photos below:

Chris getting jammed on a rock.

Us at the end.

Here's a link to the company, Liquid Friction.


It made me think of the last time I went tubing, which was in Guatemala, an experience that I referred to in an earlier post.

Basically, we had just complete the bikini-clad, candle-holding, bat-brimming caving trip and were floating down the river to La Puente, the bridge.

It is the time that I felt the most touristy.

Ever.

So, they we were floating along really, really slowly, there's people on the bridges watching us gleaming western-white in the afternoon sun. We float a little longer (by the end it felt like we'd been floating for hours) and turn a corner. There is a few families of indigenous people watching on the river bank, washing their clothes. The men sit back and keep an eye on the children whilst the women scrub the clothes, little babies strapped to their backs.

They look up to see us pass, clothes in hand. We float by, excruciatingly slowly, the contrast was stark.

At that point, I felt like a big, arrogant and ignorant tourist, probably spending more in a day than they earn in weeks through farming or selling homemade chocolate to tourists. I may as well have been smoking a giant cigar, wearing a golden crown and waving a Union Jack sewn out of bank notes.

They resumed their washing, it was humiliating floating there in ultimate leisure over exposed in my bikini whilst they went about their daily chores, covered up in traditional dress. Us, on a Brucey conveyor belt of Queen, Country, Capitalism and Empire. I was embarrassed.

The current seemed to dwindle almost to a complete stop and the children climbed out along the rocks to us.

"¿Cómo se llama usted?" they giggle, the people in this region speak Spanish and Mayan dialects.
"Jodie," I reply. They giggle again.
"Jooodddiieeee," they repeat in a comically British accent.
We look at each other for a minute or so, laughing and trying to communicate through my rubbish Spanish.
"Adios!" I say, as we begin to drift away.
"Adios!" they chant.
I wave as I watch them disappear around the corner.

And that was it, the moment of sobriety from the cocktail called Wanderlust.

It really put things in perspective.

x

Shipwreck Poem

There's a shipwreck called The Lucy off the coast of Pembrokeshire (near Skomer Island) which I dived a couple of years ago, you can find out some more information about it here.

I remember the day quite vividly as on the dive after this, a seal swam up to me and was playing with my fins for about 5 minutes, it was amazing! Then he swam to the surface and just floated there watching us - incredible.

This poem is actually inspired by the poem 'Inchape Rock' by Robert Southey, which was written in 1820. I remember hearing it as a child and was always struck by the imagery of the bell floating deeper and deeper. Creepy.

So here is my take; due to artistic licensing I left out the fact that once I got the surface, I was really seasick and puked and puked and puked.

So, without further ado (feel free to comment, I don't think you need to join anymore!):

Me in my dive gear on a different dive but you know, it sets the mood.

The Lucy

You tumble back into the waves,

forty metres down, Lucy waits.

She’s sat there since the 60s,

but you’ve never met before.

The hazard orange, floating bauble

sits as surface evidence,

of the hidden, deeper secrets

to which it is shackled.

Her name is scrawled across the buoy

that marks her final resting place,

which you’ll use to navigate to her

in the brimstone treacle depths.

So, you slip beneath the surface

where the warm sun cannot follow,

and from red the colours fade.

You plummet slow to shaded depths.

When you have no point of reference

your mind struggles for a mark,

to put its worried self at ease

amongst the silted, gravy water.

Imagined creatures spiral

in the gloom just out of view,

tantalising your periphery,

fabricating looming shadows.

Your left hand feeds the buoy line,

ripcord-taut against the tide,

its recurring jerks and bucks

warn of skyward rolling swell.

As you sink you feel the fingers

of a seeping thermo cline,

its slicing cold snips at the skin

that sits exposed around your mask.

You see the signal trail of bubbles

from your buddy just below,

this cyclic clue of exhalation

becomes a welcome sign of life.

Down here the only discord

is the rasping of your breath,

through the tanks and tubes and pipes

of your artificial lungs.

As you descend you check your gauge,

work out depth, air and direction.

Take out your torch, its blade of light

blunt insufficient in the smog.

And then,

Her rusted bow.

She seems so solid in the dark,

sat blinking from your torch,

in her nightgown of anemones

that soften all her corners.

The crab and wrasse and dogfish,

are her pelagic chaperone.

She’s tickled by Bristle star,

and flanked by hurried cuttles,

the sea fans hide her blush.

A lace of Dead Man’s Fingers.

In ascent I train my torch down,

to watch her evanesce.

Until she fades from my beam,

And shuts her eyes once more.

x

Barney and the Wenallt.

"I know what'll be nice" I thought, "I'll take Barney up the Wenallt".

So I put him in the car and off we go.

He is loving it; frolicking in the bluebells, prancing in the wild garlic, feeling the breeze in his nostrils. Here is a video of Barney enjoying himself, my favourite moment is when he notices the other dog behind him and jumps around (I apologise for my dog voice):

So there he is loving life when suddenly, he gets a little overexcited and disppears.

Gone.

I call his name, shake the treat box, whistle. I think I was ruining everyone elses' quiet morning walk by polluting the silence with:

"Barney!", "BARNEY!", 'a-chuk-a-chuk-a-chuk-a-chuk' (the shaking of the treat box) *whistle* "Baaaaaaaaarney!".

Nothing.

"No worries" I think, "I'll just do a loop track". So, off I go. 10 minutes in, no Barney. I can hear the cars on the nearby road thinking, "please don't be on the road!".

I imagine him chasing butterflies, hunting squirrels, lapping from a babbling brook, generally having the time of his life. All in slow motion with some sort of string quartert backing track, the heady sun beaming through the trees. I get annoyed.

I walk a bit more. "Baaaaarrrnnneeeyyy!"

Nothing.

15 minutes later I'm nearing the car park, ready to loop again, when suddenly he appears out of the foliage.

He looks happy to see me.

"There you are!" I say, clipping him onto his lead, "Damn dog."

Once we've walked the short distance back to the carpark, the woman in the car next to us (who I was chatting to earlier) says, "Oh, he found you then. I thought he might have run off."

I look perplexed.

She says, "He's been sat by your car for about 20 minutes."

It turns out that after realising he may have got a bit out of control, ran too far and lost me, he circled back on himself, found the car, sat by it and stayed put.

A far more sensible option that wandering around in the trees shaking a treat box.

I think I've made my point.

Well, at least one of us had a good walk...

x