I’ve told the story before, but looking through an early diving log book, I see that it’s now almost 59-years since I made the entry, “Search for ceremonial brass cannon, basin, HMS Tamar, Hong Kong. Search unsuccessful. Poor visibility.” It was a memorable dive.  Probably because …

Included among our 1964 state-of-the-art-diving-equipment accessories was a personal underwater light activated by a salt-water battery.  The light could be attached to the top of the hood by a fixed metal spring clip stuck on to the neoprene; a device intended to leave our hands free to perform more meaningful tasks during night-time ships bottom searches for things that might go ‘BOOM’ and that didn’t belong on the bum of a ship.

In 1965, on one of our ship’s several visits to Hong Kong, we were berthed alongside the wall in the Royal Navy dockyard, a shore station named HMS Tamar.  During that particular stay, our diving team were ‘invited’ to carry out a search for one of the two ceremonial brass canons, mounted on wheeled wooden carriages, that had stood at the entrance to HMS Tamar’s administration building.  It was believed – and some of us (those with clearer memories) never doubted it for one moment – that sailors returning from a heavy run ashore during the early morning hours,  and possibly suffering from an excess of alcohol and high spirits, may have decided to the give the missing canon a ‘float test’?

Never having heard of Archimedes, the canon had apparently failed the test in spectacular fashion.

As a day-time dive, the light was redundant.  The U/W light’s retaining spring clip, however, being permanently attached to each neoprene hood, remained.

The search proved an impossible task.  Despite having insider knowledge on the ‘possible’ location of the canon, attempts to penetrate the deep silt of the seafloor reduced the visibility to zero and coated each of us in thick slime.

Back on the surface – and before being allowed off the ship’s quarter-deck and down to the dive locker – we were subjected to a thorough hosing down to remove the mud and silt.  The duty-watch tasked with manning the hose seemed to take great delight in focussing the powerful water jet on my head.  Despite my prowess at bobbing and weaving, the water stream followed me – together with jeers and laughter from a gathering audience of crew-members.  It seemed that, on surfacing – in what was the then less than pure waters of the ‘Perfumed Harbour’ – the spring clip attached to my hood had neatly speared a … a … a large and solid piece of  ‘effluent’.

(This probably helps explain why many people – even to this day – often refer to me as a “S&^%-Head”?)

—ENDS—

Categories: General