Technically Within Standards: The Batfish Experience

“For a brief moment, I was neither diver nor Divemaster - I was infrastructure.”

If you’re reading this, you’re probably fairly competent at diving.
Advanced Open Water, Rescue, maybe even a Divemaster. Congratulations - you’ve earned the right to opinions.

As such, you’ll also know that not all “memorable dives” involve sharks, mantas, or anything remotely planned. Some are memorable because everything quietly goes sideways while remaining, technically, within standards.

Yes. I’ve been there too.

My Divemaster training was a steep learning curve, a confidence builder, and occasionally a masterclass in “how did this become my problem?” Plenty of great dives, and a few absolutely feral ones.

Which brings me to The Batfish Experience.

No, I wasn’t attacked by Batfish. I didn’t even see one.

I was assisting an instructor I’d worked with plenty before - we’ll call him Larry. As a DMT, you’re required to assist a number of lower-level courses. One of these is the DSD (Discover Scuba Diving), otherwise known as the underwater lottery.

You either get:

• Someone emotionally committed to the bottom.

• Or, a human helium balloon with legs.

This dive?
Both!

We start in the pool, running through skills that are deeply interesting to us and of uncertain relevance to the people actually doing them. Reg recovery. Mask clearing. The sacred ritual of pretending everyone’s listening.

After some shallow work, we go deeper. Some students do well. Some reinvent physics - standard stuff.

Before the ocean, we made them swim slow, obedient circles to practise underwater movement. It sounds peaceful. It is not. This is where you quietly take notes.

A few hours later, we’re at the ocean.

There’s current. Not a suggestion - actual, directional intent. The students are a mixed bag: one calm, one focused, one spiritually unprepared.

Larry gives me a look before the dive. A slight side-eye. A smile that says this will be educational. A nod that translates to “brace yourself”.

We roll in.

After the surface speil of “everyone okay?” and “reg in, down we go”. And with that, we descend.

Well… Some of us do.

One student, we’ll call her Julia, decides not to fully deflate her BCD and instead remains on the surface, flapping gently like a confused seal. We offer signals. Encouragement. Optimism. None of it works.

Eventually - after a fully deflated BCD and the quiet addition of two kilos of weight - I grab her BCD and physically escort her down, handing her off to Larry once she’s breathing and calm.

I look around for the rest of the group.

That’s when I find Greg.

Greg is brushing calmly along the bottom like a hungry turtle. Entirely settled. Completely oblivious.

New mission: retrieve Greg.

I grab his tank and signal to inflate. He nods. Does not inflate. I signal again, now with intent. Eventually, buoyancy is established and Greg rises slightly, surprised by this turn of events.

All of this is happening at five metres, while being gently ushered along by a current with plans of its own.

Which is when Larry peels off to rescue the final student, Alena, who has decided the group dynamic is optional.

I turn away for maybe two seconds to get my bearings.

When I turn back, two things are immediately, painfully clear:

Julia is drifting briskly toward the surface, full of optimism and lift.
Greg has returned to his spiritual calling as a turtle, firmly attached to the substrate.

And this is where the dive earns its name.

I flatten myself horizontally in the water column. One arm stretched upward, gripping Julia’s BCD and dragging her back toward reality. The other locked onto Greg’s tank, hauling him upward from his chosen depth.

For a brief, glorious moment, I am neither diver nor divemaster.

I am infrastructure.

Later, I imagine it must have looked like the dorsal and anal fins of a batfish - wide, awkward, and doing far too much.
Not elegant.
Effective.

Larry comes to my aid, establishing some kind of buoyancy for both Julia and Greg, who are now delightfully distracted by their newfound love of the sea and the very strong current dragging us along.

We lock eyes and shrug.
This is our life now.

Control - fragile, temporary control - returns.

Larry leads. Three students in front of me. I bring up the rear, counting heads like a nervous parent.

We edge a little deeper. Greg is no longer auditioning to become coral. Julia is mostly still, requiring only gentle reminders that hovering is the goal.

And then - because the ocean has a sense of humour - a third problem appears.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Larry. His eyes are wide. His gestures theatrical. He’s signalling urgently at Alena to deflate.

I turn.

She’s four metres above me. Somehow behind me. Completely inverted. Attempting to deflate her BCD while upside down, like she’s solving a Rubik’s Cube in zero gravity.

I swim up, calm but purposeful - the kind of movement that quietly communicates “for f**k’s sake”. I grab her hand and guide her down.

This proves difficult, because her BCD is now fully committed to the concept of lift and is expanding enthusiastically.

Physics is winning.
Again.

By now, we’re about 35 minutes into what can only be described as a hectic - but undeniably funny - dive. Larry signals for the safety stop and I send up my SMB.

The safety stop is… optimistic.

For roughly one full minute, everyone achieves something resembling respectable buoyancy. For a first dive and all things considered, it’s fairly impressive.

Which is when Greg decides he’s done being a turtle.

He begins to sink, panics slightly, and grabs his inflator in a vice-like grip, like it’s the World Cup trophy being lifted above the Burj Khalifa.

Before either of us can intervene - we’re genuinely within arm’s reach - he’s gone.

Up.

Larry doesn’t hesitate. He gives the universal “up” signal - the one that says “we’ve tried” - and accepts that the ocean has won this round and humans belong above water today.

The boat scoops us up. We’re all on board. Wet. Slightly shell-shocked. Laughing far more than seems appropriate.

It wasn’t the dive we briefed. It’s not the dive I’d recommend. And it’s absolutely not the dive I’d wish on anyone mid-certification.

But we loved it and so did our poor students.

Though no mantas were seen, this dive which was unflattering to the underwater marine life (and us) is one of my more memorable.

Larry and I surfaced bonded for life.
Diving does that. Occasionally against your will.