Diving: My Journey into the Deep

My journey into diving happened over years – not days or weeks as it often does for many younger enthusiasts. My early exposure to the sea began with my parents’ love of beach life and coastal getaways. I was an infant splashing in shallow waters and quickly became fascinated by marine life.

Where I was born, there was an old-style fish market, and my parents often brought me along. I vividly remember the sheer variety of creatures hauled in by the fishermen – hundreds of species on display. Though this was the Arabian Sea, my later dive training and most of my snorkeling and diving experience would be in Egypt, where the marine life is markedly different.

My brother had a fishing rod, and I remember weekends spent in Al Fujairah – a modest settlement at the time, primarily inhabited by pearl divers and fishermen. He caught fish from the shore, and I recall popping their eyes with a fork while Mum prepared them for dinner. She’d bake them in trays with vegetables and herbs or fry them over the hob. Of course, the fish were long dead by then, so it wasn’t as merciless as it sounds.

I also recall chasing crabs on Egypt’s Mediterranean coast and spearing jellyfish with broom handles – a pastime I now look back on with mixed feelings. Sometimes I’d fill a little beach bucket with small fish, caught with almost no effort, just to observe them more closely.

This fishing interest matured into something more exploratory. Rather than removing marine life from their habitat, I wanted to visit them where they lived, to understand their environments. The fascination turned from food to fellowship.

Early Encounters with the Underwater World

My first vivid memory of snorkeling was in El Gouna. My father had moved there as a consultant surgeon to help establish the town’s new hospital. He bought me my first set of fins – fluorescent yellow, Japanese-made. I still have them. They made me feel fast and unique, and though my feet were far smaller at the time, those fins became a symbol of my connection to the sea.

Even earlier, I remember a school trip on a motor yacht where I was reluctant to jump in. But once I did, I loved it. There were a few such day trips – all in the Red Sea -usually organized by commercial outfits. When the whole family was present, we were afforded a bit more privacy and comfort.

By the time I was 15 or 16, I was fishing from boat piers in El Gouna’s newly dug lagoons. I often carried beers in my backpack along with my Walkman or Discman, selecting music for my solo fishing afternoons. They’d quickly go warm in the sweltering heat but it was good company not only a drink. I rarely caught anything worth taking home – most were too small and thrown back. On the few occasions I did succeed, Mum would show me how to flour and fry them. I’d add Dad’s signature sauces and present him with a humble tomato soup and fish meal. These moments brought us closer during a time when we both felt the isolation of resort-town life. One that was under construction, nonetheless.

One week, Dad arranged a trial dive for me and my brother with a dive physician colleague he trusted. The water was murky, and the memories vague, but I remember enjoying the sense of buoyancy – of floating in a suspended, tranquil space. That feeling stayed with me.

Years later, after many more hours spent snorkeling (and some regret over collecting corals for display), I was given another chance to dive. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the ecological value of coral, but fortunately, the places we picked from were often already marked for construction like piers and marinas.

The Turning Point: PADI Open Water Certification

The real beginning of my diving journey was my PADI Open Water course. I signed up after a few try dives that rekindled my passion. My instructor was Kimberley, a warm, capable British professional who reminded me of the loving, dedicated teachers from my early years in a British school in the UAE.

On one of our training dives, Kimberley pointed out a sea moth – a creature I struggled to identify at first. Its alien, angular shape left me stunned. Once it clicked in my mind, I remember letting out a muted “wooooow” through my regulator. That single sighting captured the essence of what diving had begun to mean to me: discovery, reverence, and wonder.

That course marked a true beginning. I met fellow divers, joined casual dives, and grew more confident underwater. Eventually, I enrolled in the Advanced Open Water course. Though I had doubts about the professionalism of that particular instructor, the course itself was fun, allowing me more depth, more freedom, and more adventure.

Going Deeper: Advanced Courses and Global Dives

Between those first certifications and my eventual Divemaster qualification, I dove in many locations across the Red Sea – Hurghada, Dahab, Sharm El-Sheikh, Marsa Alam – and beyond: inland quarries in the UK, many more locations in the Mediterranean, inlcuding Spain (Tossa de Mar and La Herradura), France (Nice), Italy (Catania, Sicily), Malta, Croatia, Greece, Gibraltar, even Kenya and Zanzibar.

In Catania, Sicily, I dove among volcanic boulders that had tumbled into the sea from ancient eruptions. The seascape was raw and jagged. I saw fireworms in numbers I’d never imagined, glowing red against the dark stone. It was like diving through an ember-streaked canyon – strange and spectacular.

In Marsa Alam, Egypt, I was dropped by a RIB boat directly into an area where dolphins had gathered that afternoon. Swimming among them in their natural environment was magical – graceful, powerful, and unafraid. Later, I dived that reef multiple times, discovering lush coral gardens teeming with life. Despite nearby construction, the reef remained vibrant and resilient.

Among the most unforgettable dives was my time at the SS Thistlegorm – a legendary WWII wreck in the Red Sea. I completed three dives on it over two days. On the first, I watched our liveaboard dive leader, a seasoned Coptic Egyptian instructor, descend to the stern and secure our motor yacht directly to the wreck with a heavy mooring line. He tied a textbook bowline underwater – several meters deep, in current, with quiet precision. It was a masterclass in calm control, and a dive that etched itself into memory.

Night dives have a way of intensifying everything – sound, movement, presence. One such dive took place near the Thistlegorm, just off our anchored liveaboard. Descending into warm blackness under a full moon, it felt like drifting through another dimension.

Another unforgettable night dive was in Tossa de Mar, Spain. The dive guide had an uncanny ability to spot octopuses, and we followed an otherworldly underwater terrain that felt carved by ancient forces. It was quiet, alive, intimate – a dive I’ll always treasure.

One particularly strange and striking dive was to Horse’s Head, a submerged rock formation off Kythnos Island in Greece. At 40 meters deep, it looked exactly like its name – an ancient, silent horse’s head sculpted by time and myth. The surreal nature of the dive, combined with its remote location, gave it a kind of eerie stillness I’ve rarely felt elsewhere.

Training as a PADI Divemaster

After logging around 100 dives, I decided it was time to pursue the Divemaster path. I had too many questions that needed real answers. The Rescue Diver course was an important milestone, though I found it slightly incomplete – it required balancing alertness without becoming someone who seeks out problems to solve. Still, the training taught me how to recognize and prevent issues, not just react to them.

Becoming a Divemaster solidified everything: the knowledge, the habits, the mindset. It gave me a professional foundation to continue my diving journey – whether guiding others, continuing recreational exploration, or pursuing further specializations.

Today, I dive whenever I can, combining it with travel, work, or yachting. The journey continues, deeper and richer with every descent.