Technically Within Standards: Side Quest Scandal

“I had already begun to feel like lost and found, but I was slowly becoming Ocean Caretaker”

Some dives begin like a PowerPoint slide.

Clear objectives. Roles assigned. Equipment laid out. A collective nod of professional competence. You look around and think: this is going to be smooth.

This one began as such…

We were preparing a drift bag to lower BRUV - Baited Remote Underwater Video - into position for a survey on indicator species: the fish that quietly disappear when humans get too greedy. A tidy bit of science. A tidy bit of teamwork.

We had a squad of DMTs primed to supervise less experienced research assistants and, of course, the elite instructors with us to make sure no hell broke loose. Everyone knew their job. Everyone had their slate. Everyone looked like they belonged on a laminated training poster.

Then we did the single most dangerous thing in diving: we asked someone how the current was.

“All good,” said one of the Divemasters. “No current.”

We should have heard the ocean smirk, as we rolled in unassumingly.

For approximately three seconds, everything was exactly as promised. Blue water. Calm reef. A satisfying sense of purpose.

Then the ocean cleared its throat.

Not a gentle nudge nor a suggestion. A proper, directional shove. Suddenly, “no current” became “efficient relocation service”, and we were being briskly transported across the reef whether we liked it or not.

Oh, and we still had to place BRUV, with that whole drift bag thing...

I was buddied with a guy older than the rest of us - pleasant enough, but in a committed relationship with his cylinder, and the air that it contained. He used air like it was about to be discontinued.

While we fought the current to wrestle BRUV onto the substrate, I could see his bubbles pouring out like he was mid-arguments with physics. His fins battled the water with the same conviction that a labrador has when paddling through wet cement - a lot of effort, questionable effectiveness.

Somehow, BRUV went down and victory was briefly achieved.

We handed over to another diver in the group who deployed their SMB to mark the spot. Textbook move - except the textbook forgot to mention that they would lose grip of the reel. From 20 metres down, the spool shot upward like it had somewhere better to be.

Up they went after it, while the rest of the group waited for the buddy group to return, hovering awkwardly at depth with the rest of the divers and other instructors, pretending this was all very normal.

Might I remind you of the ocean’s hilarious idea of a current…

While they were gone, I noticed something drifting serenely in front of me: their second reel, descending gracefully toward the reef like an offering to Neptune. So I retrieved it. Because apparently I was now the Lost Property Office.

When they returned, slightly out of breath and missing one reel but richer in life lessons, I handed it back. Teamwork. Leadership. Growth.

We paused to check air.

I had 150 bar - perfectly respectable given the graft my fins were putting in. My buddy, however, had 70 - which is the sort of number that makes instructors develop new facial expressions. He paired up with another similarly unfortunate breather and peeled off for the surface, looking both relieved and (mostly) vaguely ashamed.

Fine. Fewer problems. Or so I thought.

Moments later, another diver caught my attention. I turned. Their tank had slipped clean out of its strap.

So, mid-current, I shuffled sideways, wrestled the cylinder back into place, tightened everything like I was torquing bolts on a racing car, and carried on as if this were a perfectly reasonable thing to be doing underwater.

Like a slightly long pit-stop…

At this point, the dive had ceased being a research mission and become an escalating game of “What Will Fail Next?”

Answer: a pencil.

Toward the end of the dive, a slate pencil floated past me with the elegance of plankton and the sense of direction of a lost tourist. It belonged to another in my group.

Naturally, I retrieved it.

Naturally, I returned it.

I had already begun to feel like lost and found, but I was slowly becoming Ocean Caretaker.

I title that I weirdly didn’t mind…

Soon, we decided to stop losing stuff, and decided to return to where air is.

We hit the safety stop. The boat was directly above us. Other divers were already surfacing onto it. Everything looked calm.

However, for my next challenging task… I saw a mask drifting free beneath the hull.

Some poor soul’s face seal, making a bid for freedom.

Of course I went after it. Of course, I came back with it.

By the time we finally surfaced, I hadn’t really done a dive, but a tour of duty in underwater admin.

We had placed the BRUV. We had technically completed the survey. Nobody was unsafe. Nobody panicked. Nobody violated standards.

And yet, we couldn’t exactly call the dive tidy… 

The ocean didn’t misbehave. It simply ignored our confidence.

The current wasn’t “wrong.” Our assessment of it was.

And me? I wasn’t a researcher, a buddy, or even much of a diver.

I was logistics. Lost property. Quality control.

A moving, breathing scuba caretaker.

Back on the boat, all we can do is laugh. It wasn’t dramatic enough to be dangerous, but messy enough to be unforgettable. That, in the end, is the quiet truth of many dives:

They don’t explode into chaos.

They just slowly, efficiently, and very professionally unravel - all while remaining technically “by the book”.