It is now Sunday and, as I have a fairly dreadful week coming up, I wallow in the joys in front of my house. I do not look at email and I leave my phone in the car. I do not believe in being plugged in 24/7. I look upon my weekends as a kind of Ramadan. I deny myself email and phone and so gain spiritual and physical healing.
There is a subtle sense of desperation about today’s watersports as a mega typhoon is on its way to do harm. Will I be able to protect the Scaffie, or will I betray her in her time of need, as I did to Dileas. I sail out to the reef and scuba.
The water is now so warm that a wetsuit, even a baby one, is superfluous. Well, actually they do protect you from coral cuts and Lion Fish and snake bites and stuff but I have never enjoyed squeezing the huge lump of lard that my body has become into tight rubber clothing.
Scuba diving is great fun if you reduce the fetishism to level extra low. I have shorts, a tank, a BCD, a mask, fins and a thing that lets me breathe the air that is in the tank. Whilst snuffling around the reef I come across a group of divers – tourists methinks. What y’all doing in my hood?
Talk about fetishism. These guys are tightly bound and have all kinds of gadgets hanging off them. The gadgets are attached to nipple rings.
I am quite a good diver now in as much as I use little air and feel totally at home under the water. How lucky am I that I can do this only 200 metres from my toilet.
Here is a little film about it.