Memoirs of a Worker

Scuba Do, or Scuba Not

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On one of my trips to Djibouti, East Africa, we (the crew) got there before all of our supplies arrived. Being paid to sit is not my idea of a good time, nor was it for any of my crew members.

Someone on the crew suggested we go sky diving over by Lac Asal (Lake of Salt, in English), which is 512 feet (156 meters) below sea level, and the lowest point in Africa. I protested at that suggestion since I’ve never heard of a good reason why someone would want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.

“Think of the fun that would be,” one of them said.

I objected and mentioned that I had read something in the regulations where contract embassy employees were not allowed to sky dive while deployed to overseas locations.

“Bummer,” he said.

“Whew! They bought it,” I sighed to myself.

There’s not a whole lot to do in Djibouti if you’re not working. A few times I went down to the beach, which by the way is an awesome beach. But with temperatures in the 120-130 degree range, it’s difficult to want to spend even small amounts of time basking in the relentless sun, of which there is an abundance.

Sometimes some of the crew would join me on a lone bluff which overlooked the sea, where we watched schools of flying fish, soar through the air for long distances. On one of these occasions it was easy to see why the fish flew out of the water. Four feet long barracudas leaped out after the flying fish and would smack their teeth laden jaws in a vicious attempt to snag them, and some of the barracudas were actually successful. It was pretty cool to watch, and I enjoyed it.

Three of my crew members were former US Navy Seals. In the boredom of waiting for supplies one of these guys said, “Why don’t we go scuba diving?”

“Scuba diving?” I liked that idea. I had never been scuba diving, but scuba diving sounded a lot better than sky diving. Besides that, when I was a kid I used to watch the Lloyd Bridges television show Sea Hunt, so I was somewhat familiar with the tanks, flipper things and what have you.

Djibouti happens to be a former French colony and so the official language there is French. English is almost nonexistent in Djibouti, so trying to communicate was a bit difficult until Mike joined the crew, a few days after we got there. Mike was raised in a French speaking town in New Hampshire, USA, and he didn’t learn English until he entered grade school. I didn’t know there were towns like that in the USA, but there is in New Hampshire.

When we talked to Mike about scuba diving he was all for it, in fact he lined up the boat, the guide, and the gear. The guide showed up at our hotel that afternoon. He also owned the boat and the gear. He spoke only French so Mike interpreted for us.

The first words out of the guides mouth was “Are you internationally certified?”

Mike shook his head and said “yes.”

“Let me see your certification cards.”

The three former Navy Seals all pulled their cards out of their wallets and showed the guide.

“Where are yours and Lloyd’s cards?” the guide asked again in French.

“Oh, we left ours home,” Mike informed him, not interpreting that last bit to me.

The next morning, all five of us met the local scuba guide down at his boat. We jumped aboard and headed out to sea. In fact we went out so far that when I looked back, the land was just a tiny sliver against the horizon, that’s when the guide shut off the engine and threw the anchor overboard.