I blame the French.
Or rather, one in particular. It was Jacques Cousteau and his magical underwater TV programme that inspired me to get kitted up in thick rubber, buy a speargun and tell my school that I wanted to become the next great marine biologist. Or something else to do with being underwater.
I’ve never quite worked out why the teachers at Westlake Boys High School laughed at the notion, particularly as they had never even seen me in a wetsuit. They made me take chemistry instead, and I was as good at that as maths (Translation: Not good at all).
I didn’t even have a wetsuit when I first started snorkeling. My brother conned me into believing that a thin nylon jacket worked just as well and he even generously agreed to sell me one for a small fortune.
I froze my butt off during winter dives until I could afford the real thing … by the time I worked out that I had been royally conned he was enjoying the warmer climates of London, the SOB. Yes he is also the one who used to think it funny to stash all his dirty socks inside my pillow slip.
My first experience of snorkeling was at Scandretts beach, where we used to stay with friends of my parents. I was smitten from the first time I went into the water with a mask and snorkel – what an amazing experience. The water on that occasion was murky and muddy, and for some notion I decided I wanted to spear an octopus.
My surprise at seeing one through the murk was tempered only with disappointment as I stabbed at the thing with a Hawaiian sling spear and missed. It was only when we got out of the water I noticed that our host, a burly and genial Scot by the name of Bill, was wearing orange flippers.
To this day I have my suspicions about whether octopus can change their colour to bright orange and I suspect Bill is lucky to still have both feet.
The speargun I bought was the only thing my mum ever let me take money out of the bank account for – and a horrible old heavy clanking and totally inaccurate thing it was too. Apart from an octopus and a red moki that may already have been dead I don’t think I ever killed anything with it. Except for my hands. The rubber bands would always come unhooked from the spear and the metal clips would take a decent hunk of skin out of my hands as they flew past.
I wasn’t that keen on eating red moki either – someone told me that you have to keep the slime off the flesh but the taste certainly didn’t inspire me to spend long periods under the water holding my breath. The red moki stayed safe, despite there being plenty around.
There is a thing about spearfishing – looking upwards when you are at the end of your breath and the crystalline surface is a long, long way up. It’s an interesting experience.
I eventually got my octopus. It was at Goat Island (in the days before it became a marine reserve). I had been invited by a friend of mine to camp up there. As a challenge to our spearfishing skills we weren’t allowed to take any food – we could only eat what we caught. In hindsight, we were always going to starve.
And freshly caught octopus – which is the only thing we managed to kill – is about as appetizing as a gumboot that’s been in continuous service around the farmyard for many years.
I’m told that to prepare the Octopus, you boil it in a billy with a rock in the water. When the rock is soft, discard the octopus and eat the rock. I believe it
In fact that trip was memorable for more than one reason. I came home in the back of my mates Mark 2 Consul (a two door car) with his girlfriend sitting in the front with a five gallon can of petrol held firmly between her knees. The cap was not that well secured and petrol was sloshing around the top of the can. Remember, the bit about no rear doors next to where I was sitting? The raw fuel sloshing around the lid was bad enough but when she reached for her cigarettes, I found myself on the side of the road hitch hiking before my ass got fried.
Our efforts at securing a feed took on a more positive note when my mate Peter bought a rubber duck. At least we could go further than walking distance.
It had an oil spewing, noisy and cantankerous old Carniti or Crescent outboard and wooden floorboards that you fixed in place when inflated. Or tried to fix in place. The fittings were old and worn, so this thing flexed over every wave and was guaranteed to make the inhabitants seasick. We’d relieve the boredom by falling backwards into the briney at high speed. It used to take a long time to get anywhere in that thing but it sure was fun and I’m still amazing none of us lost an arm as the outboard clattered past. The folly of youth.
Spearfishing was also my introduction to drinking hard liquor, after a work colleague showed me the delights of a few slugs of Kirsch after every dive. The stuff is absolutely lethal. The only problem was that Brent tended to extol the virtues of his sex life after a couple of swigs and hearing him tell his many stories it’s a wonder that at least half the females in the North Island weren’t knocked up and giving birth to pissed little blonde babies wearing flippers.
Spirits Bay, that mythical place at the top of the North Island, beckoned one Easter, so armed with a tarp to use as a tent - and very little else – we headed off. It was a rich time and we were actually quite successful with gathering plenty of paua for eating.
The expedition leader mentioned a dive around the point, so fully kitted up in our wetsuits and full weight belts, we hit the track. He failed to mention that his plan involved a full walk up over the hill in scorching hot conditions.
I’m not sure whether any Maori spirits were departing that day but they must have thought the King of Tonga had died young and what he was doing wearing several radial ply tyres as he walked over the hill to jump off towards the promised land.
When we finally got into the water, steaming and sweating, it was like someone had filled the wetsuit with ice cubes! This was made tolerable by finding an underwater cave chocka with huge paua. Immediately I swam in and gently prized half a dozen off the cave wall. It was about this time I learned that flippers don’t come with a reverse gear.
So imagine if you will a hippo wedged head first in a 44 gallon drum of water, with no reverse gear, as his air runs out and you will have a vivid picture of that occasion I remember so well. The fact that I am here to tell the tale proves I survived, but since then I’ve been far less likely to swim blindly into small caves, no matter how much food is inside them.
And I’m still likely to throw the snorkel, mask and flippers into the boat when we’re off for family picnics. It’s some of the most fun you can have with your clothes on. I never did get the attraction of scuba with all its gear and the amount of time it takes fiddling with the gear compared with short time under the water.
To me snorkeling is a pure form of pleasure, simple and enjoyable. And through all these adventures - at least I learned how not to stab at coloured objects, swim into caves, set fire to myself or trust my brothers
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