I had a pretty hairy dive in Bali, and it was my own stupid fault too. It was the last dive of the trip and so far everything had been just amazing, I had seen everything I had came for including a fabulous long shallow dive on top of a sea mount with mantas and, on another dive, a huge mola mola (oceanic sunfish).
We were waiting out our surface interval in a sheltered bay on the southern end of Lembongan, an island to the southeast of the main Balinese island. I was looking into the water when I saw a little purple bag, and then another, and then dozens, if not hundred of these little purple air sacks. I asked the guide what they were and he replied "Portuguese Man-of-War". Yikes. Needless to say, the guide decides not to dive the southern end of the island. Fair enough, eh? Nobody wants to go diving with deadly stinging hydroids!
So we motor for about 30 minutes to the north end of Lembongan and into the straights, planning to do one of the exhilarating drifts that Bali is so justly famous for. I have serious misgivings about the dive but, whilst there is no sign of our Portuguese friends, I am badly spooked and not keen at all. I decide that if the guide says it's cool then it should be all right and I will do the dive. After all, he's the guy with the local knowledge, right?
The guide gives the OK and, after a briefing, we splash and descend for a ripping drift down the channel. The current is so fast that it feels like we are flying. The dive isn't too deep, maybe fifteen metres, so we have a good fifty minutes to an hour of dive time during which time we probably drifted a fair few miles. As I am getting ready to ascend to my safety stop, I have my customary look toward the surface for obstructions, boats and the like and there, above me, are dozens of Portuguese Man-of-War. Now, what can I do? I am lucky that I am wearing a full wetsuit, I also have gloves in my BCD pocket, but my entire head and neck are exposed. I am down to eighty bar and it's only a matter of time before I have to surface. Visibility is excellent, maybe thirty metres plus, and I can see the dive boat drifting with me. I know that the tendrils of PMOW extend some distance underwater so I stay at around ten metres and start swimming toward the boat, my computer still has me within my NDL so I decide to forgo the safety stop and go straight for the ladder hoping that I don't get stung on the way. I was very relieved when I reached the ladder and dragged myself onto the boat without being stung, more so when the boat crew pointed to the long strands of stinging tendrils that were stuck to the back of my wetsuit and BCD. They picked the worst of them off with a knife while the boat returned to the shore. I kept my gear on the whole way and, when we arrived, me and my rig went under a very hot shower while I carefully removed my equipment making sure that there were no stingers on me.
All in all, we were all very fortunate, PMOW stings have been known to be fatal. Amazingly, nobody got stung, even though some divers were wearing shorties.
The lesson I learnt was simple but important. If you aren't happy, for any reason, call the dive. It doesn't matter how far you have travelled or how much money you have spent, if it isn't right, you must call the dive.
If you want to read about another near death experience I had, in Thailand, you can look
here.
