“RAPTURE OF THE DEEP As well as being my birthday, 23 August had a special significance for me in 1971. I was serving with the Royal Air Force in Malta and most of my spare time was devoted to the excellent diving club, run strictly to British subaqua rules.
I was one of four instructors in the club of about 140 members and my immediate boss was an experienced diving officer called John, known affectionately as ‘the old man of the sea’. An expedition was planned for a six-week period to explore the coast around Gozo, a small island off the coast. One of the sites chosen was a small inlet in Xlendi Bay, searching for Punic and Roman wrecks.
The initial dive on the site by myself and another instructor called Bob revealed that we would be diving at depths often in excess of 130ft (40m). As there was no decompression chamber on Gozo, strict diving procedures would have to be followed. We were testing out an Italian decompression meter which John thought was unreliable.
The descent to 130ft was uneventful and all was going to plan when Bob’s demand valve started acting up, restricting his intake “of air. Against all the rules, he indicated to me to stay down while he surfaced and sent down the standby diver to keep me company. I swam around for a while looking for anything of interest on the rocky ocean floor. I saw a light ahead of me and was drawn to it both by curiosity and by what seemed to be an unknown force.
Over the next ridge and much further down, I saw a very beautiful young woman, tall and slim, with a lovely figure, standing at the entrance to a large cave. She was dressed in what looked like a white Indian sari; she wore sandals, her hair was plaited, and her wrists were adorned with various bracelets. The incandescence of the surrounding “area added to the serenity and calm of the sight before me.
I thought that I must be suffering from ‘the narcs’, nitrogen narcosis, described in the early days of diving as ‘the rapture of the deep’, a feeling of euphoria, closely resembling drunkenness. As a very experienced instructor with more than 200 deep dives under my belt I realised that I was in deep trouble, deep being the operative word.
A look at my depth gauge revealed that I was 230ft (70m) down. The Italian decompression meter strapped to my wrist had long since given up as it was full of water. Fascination at what I saw overruled my training and my immediate need for an ascent and decompression procedures.
Then she spoke. “Hello, I have been waiting for you. o not be afraid, I mean you no harm, with me you are safe”. I backed away, but she smiled, walked towards me and held out her hand. It felt warm, sensual and safe, and my fear disappeared.
“When you return to me I will be waiting for you, then you will stay with me forever. I have a gift for you”. She handed me a small jar about 5in (13cm) tall, shaped like an amphora, which I took from her with my other hand. “Now you must go. You will always be safe for your return to me,” she said. As I ascended, I saw her waving as she slowly faded from view into the azure depth. After a very long decompression stop aided by a spare set of air cylinders it was explanation time: the needle on the depth gauge registered 235ft (72m).
“Faulty gauge,” said John, “because if it isn’t you are in a lot of trouble; with that sort of depth on the clock you had better stay within camp area and keep someone with you in case of any bends problem.
About one week later I was summoned by John, who told me that the depth gauge had been tested and was completely accurate and serviceable, making my dive the longest and deepest in club history. Why I did not get the bends was a mystery to him. He also told me that Mr Mallia, the curator of the archaeological section of the Malta national museum, had identified the jar I had retrieved as a Phoenician scent jar of about 2000BC, used by the royal ladies of that time. The mystery was that its contents still smelled fresh, the potter’s stamp on the side of the handle was crystal clear and the jar was described in the report as being in mint condition. John was curious where I had got it. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.
In September 1995, I revisited Xlendi Bay and swam out to the entrance of the bay for old time’s sake. The next day, on my return to England, I suffered a severe heart attack. I was very fortunate to survive. Ian Skinner, Hull, Humberside, 1996”
Excerpt From
Fortean Times: It Happened to Me! Volume 1
Fortean Times
https://books.apple.com/gb/book/fortean-times-it-happened-to-me-volume-1/id441512544
