Million Love Songs(7)
At the swimming pool, I get changed in the cramped and slightly chilly cubicle, realising that it’s several years since a swimsuit has graced my body. This is an ancient thing found in the very dark recesses of my wardrobe and it’s a miracle that it even still fits me. Reluctantly, I emerge in public, thinking that burkinis are, in fact, the most excellent thing ever invented. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and whilst my swimsuit might fit, just about, the Lycra is stretched to the limit and is struggling to contain the more comely of my curves. This is borderline obscene. I try to cover as much as I possibly can with my cheery towel and, worrying about whether I’m going to take some other scuba-diver’s eye out with my puppies, I head off to meet my fate.
The pool area is brightly lit to an intimidating level. I feel as if a spotlight is following my every move and my stomach is a churning mass of regret and terror. I rue ever signing up for this and I’m terrified of going underwater. Surely they won’t make you do that on your first lesson? Perhaps we’ll just have a little paddle about in the shallow end while discussing the finer points of scuba-diving. That would suit me. While my mind is urging me to get dressed again and make a run for it, I take a shower and tiptoe my way through the hideous water bath – which, far from making me feel cleansed, always remind me that there are veruccas lurking everywhere – and on to the side of the pool. I’d forgotten what chlorine smells like too. It hits me like a wall and starts me off sneezing.
At the far end of the pool, there’s a group of men huddled together and no one else in sight, so I’m guessing that these are my fellow novice divers. No other women. Just blokes. That either makes me a rufty-tufty go-getter or an idiot. The only comforting thing is that the majority of the blokes look worse in their swimmers than I do. Secretly, I was hoping they might be all off-duty lifeguards or firemen, all pumped and ripped – but no. These are the male diving equivalent of the Lycra-clad, middle-aged ladies at Zumba.
All except one and he steps forward. ‘Hi. Welcome.’ This man is tall, handsome, broad in the shoulder and lean in the waist. There is a six-pack very much in evidence and he wears his swimmers rather more pleasingly than the rest. He holds out a hand and I shake it. ‘I’m Joe Edwards. I’ll be running the session this evening.’
‘Hi. Ruby Brown.’ I remember to give his hand back.
‘Good timing. We’re just about to get started.’
Which I read as Cutting it fine there, love. I pull my towel a little bit tighter around me.
Without further preamble, Joe takes us through the equipment we’re going to use, his voice echoing the way voices do in swimming pools. There seems to be an awful lot of stuff we need and I learn that those massive flipper things that you put on your feet are actually called fins by those in the know. Who knew? He gives us a run-through of some safety basics and then, before I’m quite ready for it, he says, ‘We’ve got some really experienced guys here to help you, so let’s get into the water and we can show you some more.’
Water? So soon? I thought it might be lesson two or maybe even three before the dreaded water would be introduced into the mix.
While everyone else picks up their equipment and partners up, Joe sees me dithering and comes over. ‘OK?’
‘Just nervous.’ I try to stop my teeth chattering.
‘Your first go at diving?’
I nod.
‘It’s easy. You’ve just got to be methodical, safety-conscious and stay chilled. I’ll buddy up with you for this lesson. You’ll be fine.’
Hmm. I think I’ll be the judge of that. Though the idea of buddying up with Joe does have a certain appeal. He gets my equipment while I stand there like a wet fish. Joe patiently explains what it’s all for, one more time, while he loads me up but I’m not sure that I take any of it in as terror has turned most of the information he’s imparting to gibberish. First the fins go on and then a weight belt which weighs a ton and makes me wonder how I’ll manage to move at all. Then I’m kitted out with air tanks which weigh even more and I’m feeling like a beached whale rather than the vision I previously held of sporty sleekness cutting a dash through the water. I tell you, I’m going to drown, not scuba-dive.
‘This is the glamourous bit.’ Joe raises an eyebrow. ‘Now you need to spit into your face mask and smear it around.’
‘Seriously?’ I’m sure I gag a bit. When I was a child, my mum used to spit on a tissue and rub it round my face to clean it – didn’t all mothers? Totally gross. I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from the trauma. Thank goodness some bright soul invented Wet Wipes.
‘You’ll thank me for it later when your mask doesn’t steam up.’
‘There’s no other way?’
He shakes his head. Someone ought to patent a waterproof mask gel or something for moments such as this. I compromise and lick my finger then rub it, reluctantly, round the inside of my mask. Joe laughs.
‘Wait until we do a cold open water dive and you need to wee inside your wetsuit to keep warm.’
That day is never going to happen, I can tell you now. If I’d known that scuba-diving involved being bathed in your own urine, I’d never have signed up. More than ever, I am finding the thought of extreme crocheting or a bit of macramé more and more appealing. However, I’m here now, so what else can I do other than subject myself to it?