A Strange Phobia?

I'm a water baby.  One of my earliest memories is of being plucked out of the freezing harbour at Aberdyfi and swiftly shoved up my dad's jumper to warm me up because I'd made a beeline for the water.  I learnt to swim at an early age and won quite a few awards at school swimming tournaments.  My family and I used to go canoeing and sailing on a regular basis and, now I'm older, I'm a keen boogie boarder and kayaker.  It may seem odd, then, when I tell you that sometimes I simply can't approach the water. 

The sea, estuaries, rivers, canals and lakes are all beautiful places to me.  I feel most relaxed when I can hear a bow wave splashing nearby or the pinging of ropes against masts.  Put me in a wetsuit, chuck me in the water and I'm in my element!  But add a large, man-made object to that equation and things change dramatically.

Take this for instance:

The rotting wreck of the RV Sarsia in Birkenhead's East Float.  I went there earlier this year with Coyote and I couldn't get anywhere near the wall to which she was moored.  My heart raced, my palms got sticky and my throat constricted.  I had to stand back far enough to know that even if I stumbled and tripped, I would be nowhere near this horrible thing.  I was so scared, in fact, that when Coyote approached the edge of the wall - showing no sign of fear at all - I almost begged him to step away from it.  Just looking at the photograph now makes me feel physically sick.

I've never had a scary experience in the water.  I've never been on a ship that sank or been tangled up in anything near or in water...so I can't explain this fear.  Basically, it's anything large and man-made in water that sends me into a complete panic.  I'm bad enough just looking at them from afar; but the thought of being in the water next to them fills me with such a fear that I can't even think straight.

It's not just boats.  Finding myself bobbing up and down next to any of these would paralyse me:

I trawled the internet trying to find a name for this phobia.  It's not megalophobia because if any of these were on dry land I'd be perfectly happy to bounce all over them.  It's the fact that they're partially submerged.  If I was in the water and knew there was a shipwreck several hundred feet beneath me, that wouldn't bother me either.  This, however, does bother me:

The very thought of my feet touching that sends a chill down my spine.  The water's beautiful...but that vile hulk lurking just under the surface petrifies me.  (Trawling Google for these images was hell!)

I guess what I'd like to know is if many others out there share this phobia...and is there a name for it?  Loving the water as much as I do, I find it bizarre that I should be so scared of such things.  It's not just an 'I don't like it' fear, it's an 'oh my god I'm going to die' fear.  

So if anyone can shed light on this - or if you have experiences to share - please get in touch via the usual channels.  It's be great to hear from you!

Thanks :)

PS - I'm also scared of Huw Edwards.

What Lies Beneath

It was a beautiful evening in Aberdyfi.  A delicate breeze whispered through the rushes in the warm dunes as Coyote and I made our way down to the deserted shore; the quiet incoming waves washing over our toes as we slowly walked along the tide line.

When I was growing up, my dad, brother and I saw the Dyfi Estuary and local beaches as our playgrounds.  We swam, we body-surfed, we kayaked and we canoed...and no weekend was complete without getting salt in our hair and sand in our shoes!  Coyote was brought up in a city, so I thought it was time to introduce him to the Mid Wales ocean.

We waded out into the water; the initial shock of the chill fading fast...even when it finally froze my boobs through my wetsuit.  (Trust me - that's the moment when you know you're properly soaked!)  We held hands and let the increasing waves buffer us, laughing and smiling as the sun gradually dipped lower in the sky.  It was so tranquil, so relaxing...and then it happened.

The pain shot through my foot like a red-hot poker.  The words that spewed forth from my lips were bluer than the sky.  I'd trodden on some unidentified object that was lurking on the sea bed; something sharp...something evil.  It certainly wasn't a shell - the pain was far too great for that.  I limped to the shore not knowing what I was going to find when I examined my foot...which was by now throbbing relentlessly.  I flopped down on my bodyboard (it's a Gul.  It has a slick bottom.  Mmm...slick bottom...) and lifted my injured extremity, for a moment terrified by what I would see...

A tiny puncture on one of my toes.  I wiped the blood and seawater away as a concerned Coyote looked on, ready to carry me back to the car.  It didn't make sense!  How could such a small injury cause so much pain?  The first thing that came to mind was glass.  Just in case I had some in there, I sucked the wound as hard as I could in an attempt to dislodge anything that might be embedded in my flesh.  Still the pain persisted.  A syringe, perhaps?  I began to make plans to call my GP to have my bloods checked.

Coyote carried all our kit as we walked - well, he walked and I limped - over the golf links to the car park.  

We got back to HQ shortly before the daylight disappeared.  By now, my toe was beginning to swell and grow hard to the touch; the skin paling as blood struggled to flow through.  I picked up my phone...

(Well...it is 2012.  A crisis isn't a crisis if you don't tweet about it...!)

Soon enough I started to get replies.  Suggestions ranged from a shark (I still had my leg so I doubted that was likely) to a shopping trolley - as propounded by Derek Brockway.  I assured him it wasn't a trolley. As it was Aberdyfi, it was more likely to have been a discarded chandelier.  They have champagne on their chips in Aberdyfi. 

Then a reply from Tracey in Pembrokeshire caught my eye.  They know about the sea in Pembrokeshire...

Oh.  Hadn't thought about that.  I've been splashing about in the water for years and never been on the receiving end of a weaver/weever fish spine.  It's something that you always expect to happen to others.  I tweeted her back, asking if they left a small puncture wound and she promptly replied...

I'd only just been for a wee (TMI, sorry!), so Coyote rustled up a bowl of hot water which I promptly immersed my foot in.  The pain immediately started to fade.

The following morning, my toe was still hard to the touch and having circulation problems, but that was just the poison working through.  The main thing was that I could now put weight on my foot...so I could enjoy the impending weekend in Scotland with Coyote!

Thank you, Tracey.  You're a star! xxx

WEEVER FISH - THE BREAKDOWN

Look at it.  Look at it lying there; hiding in the sand, waiting to stick you with its venomous spines so it can laugh at you as you limp away, crying.

Ok, that's not actually what it does...but that's what it feels like when you're unfortunate enough to wind one up!

The lesser weever fish has an enormous gob.  Think Julia Roberts...only bigger and with less lipstick.  It lies in wait for smaller fish to unwittingly swim into range; then it snaps them up and enjoys a sushi feast.  It's not the teeth you have to worry about though.  Oh no.  It's the dorsal fin that sticks up above the sand.

Three black spines protrude from the body, waiting to defend the little fish from bigger, bully fish...and, unfortunately for us, innocent seaside-goers.  

As you've probably gathered, if you've been stung by one, you know about it.  As Tracey said, the best course of treatment is to immerse the wounded limb in hot water - as hot as you can bear without scalding - and leave it there for around 15 minutes.  The more time that passes before treatment, the longer the immersion should be.  The venom is heat-liable, so water over 40°C should do the trick.

Occasionally, the spine may break off and be left in the flesh.  If this is the case, you need to remove it as soon as you can.  Treat it like a splinter...make sure you wince a lot and make hissing noises as you - or someone with good eyesight, a steady hand and some tweezers - removes it for you.  Then clean the wound thoroughly.  I would recommend TCP...but I spilt a tiny drop of it on my study sofa a fortnight ago and the room still smells like a hospital...so I'd go with Dettol if I were you. 

If the pain doesn't ease within a few hours, or if you think there's another cause for concern (headache, shortness of breath, vomiting, dizzyness, a desire to bury yourself in the sand and attack surfers or an insatiable craving for raw shrimp), get to A&E.  You won't suffer any long-term effects, but they'll be able to ease the symptoms quickly for you.

Heed my tale, folks.  Next time you go to the beach, wear something sensible on your feet.  I suggest thick-soled aqua shoes, trainers...or moon boots. 

Happy splashing!

BOF Bay

Last Sunday, Coyote and I took a jaunt along the Llyn Peninsula.  It was a glorious day; the sun shone gently on the verdant hills and floated lazily on the clear waters of the various bays and harbours dotted along the timeless coastline.

Somehow - call it an error of judgement - we ended up at Morfa Nefyn golf club.  We padded about a bit, marvelling at the allotted car parking spaces for the golf club bigwigs:  President, Vice President, Vice Vice President, Vice Vice President's Secretary, Vice Vice President's Secretary's Dog...and so on.  Just as we were running out of things to snigger at, I noticed a mound of earth jutting out from the hedge at the back of the car park.  Before Coyote could compare me to a mountain goat, I bounced up and looked down upon a stunning site:

"That's beautiful," Coyote commented as we gazed at the pretty harbour.  "Let's get down there!"

On the third unmarked, loose chipping-riddled road, we turned back from another dead end and drove for a mile with the wing mirrors tucked in.  We wouldn't give up, though.  Oh no.  Somewhere down there was a beach that was crying out for Coyote and Roadrunner's footprints!

Long story - involving abandoned cars, surfers, scary farmers and the slowly-dawning realisation that there was probably a road through the golf club that would've got us there in three minutes - short, we parked up on a narrow road by the beach.  Coyote made use of a BOFmobile (yes!  It's possible!) by parking behind it so that any car barrelling down the road would smash into its ugly bumper instead of injuring Monty.  Clever Coyote.

A quick change of footwear later and we were strolling hand-in-hand along the shore.  The cool breeze played around us as soft waves licked at the sand; it truly was a gorgeous day.  Just then, Coyote stopped in his tracks.  He sniffed the air and I watched as his eyes widened.  Before I could ask him if he'd caught the whiff of a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, a FOBOFmobile cruised past us.  Wordlessly, I swapped lenses on my camera and waited for the evidence to present itself.  We weren't disappointed.

Churning up the sand, the gleaming monstrosity came to a halt...in bay 1, of course.  The BOF emerged, his Wellington boots crunching the shale as he purposefully gathered items from his vehicle.  While he busied himself with this task, his BOFWAG paid as much attention to him as she would a woodlouse.  The BOFdogs trotted around, lingering over scents on the ground.  Probably trained to hunt down bacon sandwiches.

A few moments later and the BOF strode ahead with a set of oars on his shoulders.  As you can see from the photo below, his BOFWAG was the last thing on his mind:

Following at a safe distance, we tracked them to the harbour around the corner.  There, the BOFWAG disappeared into the hills with her trio of BOFdogs - leaving the grinning BOF to take to the water in his dinghy. We're pretty sure he was humming Rachmaninov as he rowed across the harbour:

We surveyed the vessels moored just off the shore.  Which one was his?  Not the fishing boat, that's for sure.  Nor the dredger.  How about the elegant Drascombe?  No...that would require a sparse knowledge of  actual sailing.  BOFs don't have time for that.

With a few more strokes of his oars, our question was answered.  Of course, it had to be the pretentious Cobra RIB with the smelly Mariner outboard. 

Slowly, the BOF rose to his feet and attempted to board his nautical steed...

...then he stumbled (probably weighed down by the size of his own ego) and tried again...

"Blast!"  One more go...

Quite how I managed to take these photos I'll never know.  I was doubled-up with hilarity and my legs were plaited...but we triumphed!

With a lot of grunting and an extraordinary amount of needless effort, the BOF finally managed to clamber aboard.  He spent an inordinate amount of time faffing around (probably setting his webcam up and trying to remember how to start the damned thing) and eventually steered out of the harbour:

Did he tear the sea up in his souped-up inflatable dinghy?  We'll never know.  We'd seen quite enough and decided to cross back over the beach before the tide cut us off.

To this day, we hope there's a FOBOFmobile bobbing about somewhere in the Irish sea.

*MEEP MEEP!*

Photos: Landscapes

Sunsets, clouds, seascapes, cliffs...nature's finest :)

Calon Cadarn Cymru

As much as we enjoy the craziness, the downright lunacy and the sheer randomness of our adventures; nothing can quite equal the sense of awe we experience when we witness Wales in all her glory.

We're dropping the madness down a cog for this one - because we'd like to share with you a few minutes of peaceful beauty...and prove that we're capable of exercising sanity.  (Just!)

All photos taken in Wales over the last 4 months.  Music by Martyn Joseph.

Enjoy xx