Dive Camp, Oct 1998

SCDC Divecamp 17 & 18 October 1998 - Nam She Wan Dive camps have long been one of the more popular aspects of South China’s club diving. This has been well deserved, as the tales of drunken escapades related by the older hands on Thursdays at the ABC may intimate. You may have raised an eyebrow at mention of fire-walking, or the nude trip to China, perhaps wondered at Toga Divecamp: The Roman Orgy . If the notion of twenty divers on an uninhabited island in black tie seems ridiculous then you might be too dull to partake of this institution, but fear not, it was ridiculous! A little diving also gets done.

In the last couple of years, the turnout for these events of the social calendar has been mysteriously depleted, to the dismay of many of the regulars, particularly when this has led to them being cancelled. This happened last year on at least one occasion, which is worrying for an event that only happens two or three times a year in any case. So what happened?

Over the last couple of years, it is certainly true that we have lost several stalwarts of the Club and divecamp scene. Ian and Jan Thomas, Pam Holley, Alison Wilson and Marcel Unpronounceable, Jo Ruxton, all famous for their crimes against good taste and moderate behaviour. Each has been added to the roll-call of the club departed. We hardly lack new blood to fill these bootees: our training programme has introduced many new faces both to the club and the dubious delights of underwater Hong Kong. We need to drag them along and show them what sick puppies we really are and how much fun can be had with a wetsuit, a porkchop and a family-size bag of marshmallows (the views put forward here do not necessarily represent those of the editor).

The weekend of 17 & 18 October drew near under threat of a typhoon. Weather eyes had been cast at forecasts, none more than Trevor’s, as Dive Marshal. With the confidence born of running small countries and piss-ups in breweries, let alone minor organisational feats like divecamps, Trevor declared that it was going ahead regardless of what anyone else, including Marine Dept. thought. It was thus with small relief that Saturday dawned both calm and bright and we all departed Tai Mei Tuk on time, a rare event.

Compared to most divecamps, this one was scheduled a little differently. Trevor had sensibly decided that all the camping and bbq clobber got in the way of the diving, so we headed for the beach before going to our dive sites. Having had a successful divecamp at the site last year, Nam She Wan, below Sharp Peak was chosen again. Being so remote, it allowed us to pitch the tents and leave them there during the day without worry of anything disappearing. We anchored the junk off the beach, but the fresh onshore breeze tested Hung’s boat-handling in the overloaded tender, with everyone trying to keep themselves and their gear relatively dry. The flat area behind the beach provided ample space for everyone’s tents, without danger of flooding as happened at Crescent Island two years ago, with a typhoon equally close!

At around midday, we departed for our dive-site, the rocky headland East of Tai Long Wan beach. The visibility was not stunning looking off the junk, but there had been a breeze for a few days. Though sheltered from the wind, the surge against the cliff-base was noticeable, which, while reducing the visibility, indicated that there might be more to see in a high energy area. We were not disappointed. The gullies below the rock face housed the usual Diadema urchins, small rockfish and sweepers in abundance, enjoying the dark of the overhang and large rocks. There were also lots of nudibranchs of several different species.

A stalwart few did a second dive in the late afternoon; most were content to look forward to the barbeque to come. We returned to our home beach in the departing light, discussing who would be doing the customary night-dive. There were surprisingly few takers: Eric and myself, and Keith and Paul. Trevor boldly ventured to leave the junk on anchor rather than bother moving it a few hundred metres. Given the depth we found ourselves in, it was a wise decision. His further caution, to be back in half-an-hour so as not to curtail his drinking time was less welcome: in common with many Hong Kong sites, this one was transformed at night. What in the day appears a relatively lifeless mud, sand or rocky bottom is alive with crabs, cowries and other critters.

Our descent, after a long swim, was into a mass of transparent shrimps, each about as long as a little finger. They were attracted to our lamps, so we had the disconcerting sensation of being bumped and tickled by thousands of them, both visible when lit and in the dark. Around the edge of the shoal, about a dozen squid darted, picking off the shrimp barely smaller than they were, the first time I had seen this. Sleeping rabbitfish swayed in the weed at the shore, their spines keeping them attached, a dove-grey octopus proved disappointingly unplayful or curious and we gave up marvelling at the number of cowries and cone-shells around. On our swim back toward the junk over the rippled sand bottom, we swam straight into the largest lizardfish I have seen. Usually so quick to dart off on one’s too-close approach, this one was totally inert. A measured 25cm, I rolled it over by the snout to no reaction, only when I tried to pick it up with a finger and thumb about its middle did it wake up and bolt.

Back ashore the festivities were well underway. A goodly collection of faggots graced the side of the fire and lots of firewood had been stacked, too. The usual competition on the food front, sharing and trying to impress everyone with one’s catering ability, was not so much in evidence as on some previous occasions. Hung had also brought ashore a full set of garden furniture, which added a luxurious note. I was looking around half-expecting a picnic hamper, then Bruce Forsyth prompting ‘cuddly toy; food-mixer; holiday for two in Barbados…’.

Following the food, replete, folk sat around the fire chatting, the noise of the waves in the background more evident with the wind behind them. Gradually, as the conversation waned, the familiar faces drifted off to bed. Steve, usually one of the last to retire from the fray, was this time one of the earliest. A painful crushed finger and the weariness of a late night out trying to anaesthetise it combined to render him hors de combat. Others followed, so that the familiar hilarity and insobriety were markedly absent. Neil, forever a staunch supporter of all matters to do with the club and divecamps, did his best to redress this sad decline.

In the morning, the early night saved everyone from the rigours of hangovers, always worse when dehydrated and uncomfortable in a tent. More bacon, sausages and eggs were produced than ever before at breakfast, though I found the rigours of cooking too much at that early hour. Luckily for me, and all those who were wincing at my efforts, Lorna had brought a coffee jug. A shot of strong coffee was all it took to allow me to do useful things like talking. That’s how to earn gratitude quickly and easily: provide espresso to those in need. With Hung’s tables and chairs it was quite a café scene in the morning sun, proving equally attractive to the cattle of that nameless breed which inhabits NT and Outlying Islands.

Wong Mau Chau was the setting for Sunday’s dives. There was much discussion as to how the small rocky island topped with a lighthouse came to be named for yellow buffalo or similar. After a period of silliness, the topic was luckily dropped. Beneath the junk, moored in the lee of the island, and for a short period aground, the water was shallow and quite still. Most people seemed to favour the option of dropping in on the landward side and exploring the small bay. Rounding the headland into a considerable swell proved a little troublesome for Keith Futcher. He was forced to leave his buddy to swim home alone when his BCD would not inflate or hold air. Stuck in the surge, he was forced to make a rather undignified landing. We watched, puzzled, from the junk as he appeared over the top of the island, carrying his fins and heard of his predicament as he was fortunately unscathed from the experience.

Maria and I, contrary as ever, decided to go seaward of the junk. This took us into deeper water and onto some large rocks jutting from the sand and shell bottom in around 12 metres. These were radiant with soft corals and had large aggregations of fish, for Hong Kong. Wary of the ever-present and painful Diadema urchins, we saw 4 species of butterfly fish in a single dive and the largest stripeys I have yet seen. We also passed over an area of broken shell bottom carpeted in thousands of decorator urchins, a little unnerving in their sudden congregation. With fairly good visibility and the large amount we saw, it made for one of the best dives I’ve done here. Maria wouldn’t agree with me, on principle.

The afternoon dives were done from the North side of the island, already familiar to Keith, rather than the West. A longer swim in from the junk over a gentle slope was necessary, the visibility worse than the morning dive with the change of the tide. The small rocks of the bottom seemed to hide less than we had seen earlier in the weekend, but with sponges and holothurians much in evidence, there was enough to convince me to go in a third time.

On surfacing, the afternoon shadows were already long, Sharp Peak darkening a large expanse of the sea before us. Wong Mau Chau looked less like a buffalo than ever, if possibly a little more golden. Aboard the junk, cake was being cut, biscuit crumbs being snuffled up and the first Carlsbergs of the evening broached. With the many hues of drying dive-gear decorating the junk, we upped anchor to return to the fragrant tranquility of Tai Mei Tuk and ‘normality’. The tiredness and slight melancholy that greets the end of a weekend and even more, a successful divecamp weekend slowly started to encroach....