The icy Atlantic beckoned... the surface was as undisturbed as a puppy's piddle and the dark patches of kelp under the glistening surface promised to harbour tasty denizens of the deep...
Cape Town's reputation as a Great White capital was almost exclusively reserved for the False Bay (Indian Ocean) coastline, although the odd attack had occured on this side of the peninsula. The most ironic of which occured just down the road from Oudekraal at Clifton sometime in the late '70's, when a surfer re-enacting an attack scene from "Jaws" for a laugh was munched by a Whitey... he escaped with a number of stiches and no doubt traded in his surfboard for a chessboard (or perhaps an acting career?).
Thus, the thought of perhaps making acquaintance with a Whitey that day was almost the last thing on my mind...
I slipped into the green swells, muttering curses about the less-than-perfect viz. I hadn't been in the water for more than 2 weeks, and I wasn't going to forsake my "fix" now merely due to poor viz...
I worked my way over to what I call "the cauldron", a depression about 12 meters deep flanked by granite boulders roughly 100 metres offshore. There were always a few nice size "hotties" (Hottentots Vis) lurking about, and, in spite of the poor viz, I could navigate this part of the site blindfolded (I had done my first openwater dive here 12 years ago and had visited it many times since).
I was soon rewarded with a big fat hottie on my stringer - the best I'd taken yet, I mused with a smug grin. My routine dictated that I investigate an underwater ledge next, lying about 50 metres away in deeper water, the top of the ledge coming to within 4 metres of the surface. Once again, I surfaced with a wriggling specimen of about 30cms. Thoroughly chuffed, I reckoned I had enough for my mates and I to enjoy on the 'braai" (barbecue) that evening, so I started making my way shoreward.
It's always an eerie experience swimming over fairly deep water alone in poor viz. Particularly after a strenuous bit of diving in cold water - I find my mind starts wandering when I'm cold and tired, and in that kind of claustrophobic viz, it's only a matter of time until one starts hearing cellos strumming ominously in the background. True as Bob, I'd been finning for just a few moments when I felt what every spearo finds both thoroughly scary and irritating - a telltale tug on my line...
"Whump!" With the first tug I found myself trying to rationalise the sensation - probably caught in a head of kelp, I immediately thought. But the line wasn't consistently taught... nah. Nothing then... "Whump!" This is where one's throat suddenly constricts in a reflex swallow, you're stricken by a sudden chill and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Without slackening my pace, I risk a quivering glance over my shoulder... had I seen a large fin or gaping maw of razor sharp pearlies lunging at my bouy, I would probably have resigned myself to survival mode instinctively and disproved the axiom that water cannot be walked upon. What I saw was worse - just an upwelling of water at the end of my line - no doubt where a mammoth tail fluke had thrust downward in preparation of a megaladon about to launch an attack from below... suddenly, I was certain that this was how the many poor, defenceless fish I had so brutally nailed might have felt in their last moments. I even felt sorry for them in the tiny recess of my mind that wasn't occupied with the small bothersome matter of my impending consumption. "Damn!" I thought - "who the hell does this fish think it is? I am a relatively intelligent, rather dashing fellow and here I'm about to become the equivalent of a neoprene clad pizza-pop to something who doesn't even have the sense to realise that I'm supposed to be top of the food chain! Aargh! What an ignoble end - a goldfish food flake...
I suspected that if the monster behind me was of the proportions I imagined, its appetite would hardly be satiated by my relatively measly catch, and it would no doubt be moving on to my posterior for the entree. I finned hard, attempting to look as little like a seal as I could. Pointing my gun below me at the uncertain depths, I waited tensed for the oncoming rush of jaws and horrible teeth from the threatening gloom ... I was a mere 20 metres from a pinnacle upon which I scramble... pleasepleaseplease...
And then it happened - directly adjacent to me, a large black shape erupted from the depths in a spray of water. I'm certain that some people, when faced with the imminent threat of their demise, have profound thoughts, spiritual experiences or even the steroetypical "life flashing before their eyes..." episode. Mine was a simple word: "eeek".
About a nanosecond later, a thought penetrated my fear-stricken consciousness... "what lovely, big brown eyes...". The large seal that had nicked my bag seemed to regard me with mild contempt, snorted once disdainfully at me, and then slipped into the murky depths.
Still shaking, and clinging to the contours of every rock on the way back to blessed land, I wasn't yet at the stage where I could put this down to being a gem of a campfire anecdote.
In fact, I was rather regretting the fact that I hadn't directed a particularly nasty execration at that seal whilst I'd had the chance...
:naughty
Cape Town's reputation as a Great White capital was almost exclusively reserved for the False Bay (Indian Ocean) coastline, although the odd attack had occured on this side of the peninsula. The most ironic of which occured just down the road from Oudekraal at Clifton sometime in the late '70's, when a surfer re-enacting an attack scene from "Jaws" for a laugh was munched by a Whitey... he escaped with a number of stiches and no doubt traded in his surfboard for a chessboard (or perhaps an acting career?).
Thus, the thought of perhaps making acquaintance with a Whitey that day was almost the last thing on my mind...
I slipped into the green swells, muttering curses about the less-than-perfect viz. I hadn't been in the water for more than 2 weeks, and I wasn't going to forsake my "fix" now merely due to poor viz...
I worked my way over to what I call "the cauldron", a depression about 12 meters deep flanked by granite boulders roughly 100 metres offshore. There were always a few nice size "hotties" (Hottentots Vis) lurking about, and, in spite of the poor viz, I could navigate this part of the site blindfolded (I had done my first openwater dive here 12 years ago and had visited it many times since).
I was soon rewarded with a big fat hottie on my stringer - the best I'd taken yet, I mused with a smug grin. My routine dictated that I investigate an underwater ledge next, lying about 50 metres away in deeper water, the top of the ledge coming to within 4 metres of the surface. Once again, I surfaced with a wriggling specimen of about 30cms. Thoroughly chuffed, I reckoned I had enough for my mates and I to enjoy on the 'braai" (barbecue) that evening, so I started making my way shoreward.
It's always an eerie experience swimming over fairly deep water alone in poor viz. Particularly after a strenuous bit of diving in cold water - I find my mind starts wandering when I'm cold and tired, and in that kind of claustrophobic viz, it's only a matter of time until one starts hearing cellos strumming ominously in the background. True as Bob, I'd been finning for just a few moments when I felt what every spearo finds both thoroughly scary and irritating - a telltale tug on my line...
"Whump!" With the first tug I found myself trying to rationalise the sensation - probably caught in a head of kelp, I immediately thought. But the line wasn't consistently taught... nah. Nothing then... "Whump!" This is where one's throat suddenly constricts in a reflex swallow, you're stricken by a sudden chill and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Without slackening my pace, I risk a quivering glance over my shoulder... had I seen a large fin or gaping maw of razor sharp pearlies lunging at my bouy, I would probably have resigned myself to survival mode instinctively and disproved the axiom that water cannot be walked upon. What I saw was worse - just an upwelling of water at the end of my line - no doubt where a mammoth tail fluke had thrust downward in preparation of a megaladon about to launch an attack from below... suddenly, I was certain that this was how the many poor, defenceless fish I had so brutally nailed might have felt in their last moments. I even felt sorry for them in the tiny recess of my mind that wasn't occupied with the small bothersome matter of my impending consumption. "Damn!" I thought - "who the hell does this fish think it is? I am a relatively intelligent, rather dashing fellow and here I'm about to become the equivalent of a neoprene clad pizza-pop to something who doesn't even have the sense to realise that I'm supposed to be top of the food chain! Aargh! What an ignoble end - a goldfish food flake...
I suspected that if the monster behind me was of the proportions I imagined, its appetite would hardly be satiated by my relatively measly catch, and it would no doubt be moving on to my posterior for the entree. I finned hard, attempting to look as little like a seal as I could. Pointing my gun below me at the uncertain depths, I waited tensed for the oncoming rush of jaws and horrible teeth from the threatening gloom ... I was a mere 20 metres from a pinnacle upon which I scramble... pleasepleaseplease...
And then it happened - directly adjacent to me, a large black shape erupted from the depths in a spray of water. I'm certain that some people, when faced with the imminent threat of their demise, have profound thoughts, spiritual experiences or even the steroetypical "life flashing before their eyes..." episode. Mine was a simple word: "eeek".
About a nanosecond later, a thought penetrated my fear-stricken consciousness... "what lovely, big brown eyes...". The large seal that had nicked my bag seemed to regard me with mild contempt, snorted once disdainfully at me, and then slipped into the murky depths.
Still shaking, and clinging to the contours of every rock on the way back to blessed land, I wasn't yet at the stage where I could put this down to being a gem of a campfire anecdote.
In fact, I was rather regretting the fact that I hadn't directed a particularly nasty execration at that seal whilst I'd had the chance...
:naughty
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