As I watch a line of crimson blood trickle down my foot, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. The injury – even if it is minor – secures my place alongside the other passengers of this jostling dinghy, a vessel currently being tossed around the Indian Ocean like a marionette under the influence. The boat’s 10 passengers, all being kept from going overboard by a foot jammed beneath a strip of webbing, bear similar scrapes and scratches. Such cosmetic wounds are the unofficial badges of a scuba diving “Divemaster”, as identifiable as the labels on their rash vests.
I’m at the tail end of a month in Sodwana Bay National Park in South Africa, where I’ve been training to become a PADI Divemaster. It’s been a challenge. My body has been put through its paces (I’m not what you’d call an F45 kind of girl) and my underwater skills are seriously tested.
