Diary Of A Travel Blogger: Learning To Dive In The Whitsundays

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Avid traveller, Victoria Moore, spent three days learning to dive In the Whitsundays. Here, she recounts her somewhat hilarious experience…

Leaning over the side of the wooden tallship unexpectedly greeting my breakfast, I wondered how much I was going to enjoy my three-day sailing trip around the Whitsundays. As it turns out, rather a lot, but first I had to find my sea legs. Given that we hadn’t actually left port, I didn’t hold out much hope, but after a day of looking pathetic I was soon looking out over turquoise waters without turning a complementary shade.
The Whitsundays are the jewel in the Great Barrier Reef’s coral crown, and to miss them out on a tour of Queensland is like going to Las Vegas and remembering every single thing that happened on every single night – it just shouldn’t happen. The launch pad is Airlie Beach, a lovely and lively town thanks to the hordes of travellers passing through, and a good spot to relax or party the nights away after your sailing trip.

I was booked on a snorkelling/diving trip, and the thought of seeing the Great Barrier Reef for the first time made me as excited as Mick Jagger when his daughters bring home new friends. The trip included a free introductory dive, so I was going to be able to venture past the namby-pamby snorkellers and head for the proper hard place – the bottom of the sea (a very shallow seabed, obviously). I did, however, first need to put on a very fetching stinger suit. The hooded all-in-ones may leave you looking like a cross between a James Bond frogman and a fat sausage, but these babies will protect you from the sting of the deadly box jellyfish – and you want to be protected, believe me. Whilst they are a disarmingly small size, they can – with the merest caress of their tentacles – inject you with an extravagant amount of lethal toxins that will have you screaming in abject agony long after you’ve been doused in enough vinegar to keep a Glasgow chipper going for a week.

“Do you fancy me in this?” I asked of my travel companions as I waddled up to them in my new, rather tight, attire.

“We preferred you when you were being sick. Now go away and find some Russian spies,” came the reply.

I wasn’t going anywhere until I had learnt to clear my mask. When you’re learning to dive, it seems there are two things you must do before you are allowed to progress to actual diving: learn to breathe underwater and clear your mask. Breathing underwater with an enormous tank strapped to my back, weights around my waist, and mouth clamped around a tube seemed as natural as, well, breathing. The comparatively simple task of freeing my mask of water as we bobbed our heads underneath the sea was, however, monumentally difficult. I spluttered up for air an amazing 12 times, choking, snotty, and scratching at my salt-filled eyes before finally managing to get rid of the water. Any attempt at regaining some cool was worthless, as my instructor announced to the class, shivering half-submerged near the shore, that he’d never had anyone so rubbish before.

Aside from the few cases of hypothermia, I’m sure everyone agreed it was worth the wait as we dived underwater for the first time and greeted a world of astounding beauty and grace. Everywhere my reddened, swollen eyes looked, hundreds of exotic fish darted about over coral of muted browns and oranges. I tried to get close to a group of Nemos, but they scarpered as soon as I drew near. Must have been put off by the suit. Victoria found Nemo and her sea legs courtesy of Adventure Travel Bugs.

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