Now diving has never really been glamorous, as anyone with a maskful of green snot can testify, but there are a few ground rules, which must be borne in mind before embarking on this sport. I quickly learnt to explain the following half a dozen points to any Dive Barbies before they even started on one of my diving courses, thus saving myself and the rest of the world a lot of time and grief:

1) In all probability you will get wet when diving – and that includes your hair. Although drysuits were developed solely to protect the delicate female form from contact with water, it has not yet extended to a fully enclosed hood. Try a submarine or, even better, a bin liner.

2) Fingernails and wetsuit zips don’t like each other. Inherent in all zip manufacture is a design fault, which is guaranteed to painfully rip off any unsupported projections. You may worry about your fingernails – just imagine what the boys worry about!

 3) Talking is not possible with a lump of rubber in stuck in your mouth, as all BDSM fans will know. Although you may look forward to clenching the soft sensual mouthpiece of a regulator between your teeth, it will mean that you won’t be able to spend your dive discussing the finer points of Brad Pitts abs. In all possibility, you may have to spend up to an hour completely silent.

4) Neoprene has a strange effect on both the male and female pschyce. Obviously, the main reason girls go diving is because they like dressing up in rubber. All men know that girlies enjoy the feeling of neoprene stretched tight against their skin and are thus totally naked beneath that smooth, shiny, erotic material. It’s common knowledge that girls become so aroused during a dive that although they try to suppress their raving nymphomanical tendencies, they secretly long to perform sexual favours upon anything in trousers, (or preferably without them) in order to alleviate their frustrations. The men on the boat know, understand and have even come to expect this behaviour. They will help you overcome your shyness and inhibitions.

5) Chanel doesn’t make dive gear. Neither do Prada, Gucci or FCUK. Mares may be Italian, but the closest their dive gear gets to a catwalk is when your pet pussy pees on it. I also regret to inform you that fins are not available with stiletto heels.

6) Periods and sharks. The shark has a very keen sense of smell and will home in on your scent from several miles away. This will make your monthly cycle of great interest to the whole group on any shark diving expeditions. Expect your dates to be posted on the club noticeboard.

So, if any of you sweet delicate dolls have considered started diving, stop immediately and take up something more suited to your requirements – such as making tea and baking cakes for your brave, hungry Kens who are out there hunting and gathering beneath the cruel waves.

The fondest memory of my diveguide career is of the 2 East German girls, one (true) blonde, one redhead, who kept disappearing – not easy on a safari boat – until the last night when I ‘stumbled’ across them practising mouth to mouth resuscitation and cardiac massage techniques on the roof of the bridge. Yes, of course I often climbed up on the roof of the bridge of an evening. As a newly qualified MFI Instructor I felt duty bound to assist and advise on certain other medically based techniques requiring a third pair of hands or other surgical equipment. That was my first encounter with a couple of Dive Dykes – but nothing wrong with that.

My worst encounter was with a French group of CMAS divers. Now I don’t understand the French – who does - and I’m proud to admit that I don’t know much about CMAS. However, in my innocence, I’ve always assumed that there are basic laws of physics that govern all divers regardless of creed, colour, diving organisation or even sex. Having spent an extremely stressful week endeavouring to impart my bountiful knowledge of the underwater world of the Red Sea to a bunch of nitrogen addicted frogs, I felt duty bound to register yet another species of dive girl with the authorities. Despite dive briefings, planning’s, and countless explanations, a certain Dive Bitch spent every dive lurking in the depths far below me, only to shoot past after 30 minutes having seen absolutely nothing but blue, racking up 15 minutes deco and running incredibly low on air. With her computer beeping furiously, she would shoot to the surface and then blame me for taking them to a boring dive site, the crew for not filling her tank to 300 bar and Uwatec for making computers that talk back. When I tried to explain the finer points of depth / pressure / air consumption and even decompression procedures, her hitherto admirable understanding of English became rather selective although she did refer to me later – affectionately I believe – as some kind of Gallic farmland animal. Although she assured me of her precise understanding of diving profiles, I have yet to discover whereabouts in the CMAS training manual it states that due to their different physiological characteristics, women are not required to carry out deco procedures and MUST stay 20 metres below the dive guide at all times.

Not many girls look good in wetsuits, but there are a few – and those that do know it only too well! I met my first member of the Dive Tart species after I’d been guiding about a month. She’d disappear coquettishly into the bathroom to change into her ultra lightweight diveskin, only to emerge 30 minutes later with her zip undone to her crotch exposing vast areas of naked flesh, leaving the rest of us in no doubt whatsoever that there was absolutely nothing else worn beneath. She would then proceed to stretch and twist like a ballerina warming up, first one leg up on the table, then the other, running her hands up and down her legs to ‘adjust’ her suit. Having stopped fondling herself, barely short of masturbation, she’d bend over at every opportunity to adjust her weightbelt, finstraps, bootees, or even to inspect the insignificant mark on the dive deck floor, only to stare hurtfully back at me from between her legs just at the very moment I happened to inadvertently be glancing in her direction and complain to her 6’2" boyfriend about my voyeurism. I denied "ogling his bird" of course, but unfortunately you can’t really hide your feelings in a 3mm shorty.  

We all know that the Germans are not as shy as the British regarding nudity. However, we also know that 99% of human bodies look better covered up. So, is it really necessary for a fat forty something Dive Slut on a boatful of testosterone laden men away from home to strip off all her kit, hang up her suit, stow her weighbelt, mask and fins, change the film in her camera and pass around the beers before even considering reaching for a towel. After every dive it was the same routine, and that’s 4 times a day on a liveaboard! She quickly developed a taste for seamen and my poor Muslim crew, who were used to their women being covered from head to foot, didn’t know what to do with themselves. The result was guaranteed. The skipper hit the reef, the deckhand disappeared overboard still hanging onto the mooring line, and the chef - no, I can’t tell you what happened to the chef but suffice it to say it involved a chopping board. She went through the whole boatful of men from the group leader to the ships cat within a week – whether they wanted it or not. I only escaped her attentions by professing to be an impotent homosexual and sleeping in my wetsuit.

Perhaps the saddest species I’ve ever encountered is the Dive Nag. Now I’ve always enjoyed the fact that when working in the tourist industry one is dealing with people who are on holiday. They’ve spent all year working in a dull grey climate, saving up their meagre incomes to have some fun in the sun and make life seem just that little bit more worthwhile. At least, it would have been fun if you’d remembered to pack the special PADI pink tank banger for her. " Just because I said I didn’t want a new wetsuit didn’t actually mean that I didn’t. And stop looking at that girl in the thong. You think she’s prettier than me don’t you. Why haven’t we got that cabin? I know I wanted this one but that one’s better. Are you arguing with me? We’re meant to be having a nice time. I’ve saved up all your money to come on this holiday and now you go and ruin it. Where’s my special mask defogger? I will not spit in it, That’s common. There, now you’ve made me break my fin strap. Oh No! That’s another nail gone. It’s all your fault, making me do this stupid diving." 

Finally, there’s the few and far between gorgeous blonde diving instructor. Happy, cheerful, always smiling, full of knowledge and experience, looks good in a wetsuit, fabulous in a bikini and even better without. She dives safely within limits and encourages everyone else to do the same. She can fix a free flowing regulator with her teeth at 5 metres and load 30 tanks onto a boat without complaining. What a girl. What a Dive Babe. If you guys out there ever come across one of these I recommend that you marry them.