Short Story # 6

The Beauty of Statistics

By

Della Galton

“It says here that only six percent of divers can get themselves out of trouble at forty metres,” Garry announced to the boat in general, holding up the magazine he was reading. “What do you reckon, guys?”

“The beauty of statistics is that they can be manipulated to prove or disprove whatever you like,” someone said.

That was true, I thought, glancing at Garry.

“I bet it isn’t far out.” He grinned and put down the magazine. “The deeper you go the more risks there are.”

“Pack it in,” said Steve, who was our dive leader for this trip and my buddy. “It’s lack of experience that gets divers into trouble. And there’s no-one on this boat who isn’t up to doing this dive. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t capable.”

I stared out of the cabin window at the calm, grey sea and wondered if he was including me in that. I was the least experienced diver on board. I’d only started last season, just before Dad had been diagnosed with bowel cancer.

It was Dad who’d persuaded me to sign up for lessons. He’d been in the merchant navy when he was younger and had always fancied learning to dive himself, but had never got round to it.

“It’ll give us something interesting to talk about,” he’d said. “And it’ll stop you hassling me every five minutes.” He grinned as he spoke. We both knew that he liked my visits, but he was worried that I was putting my life on hold for him.

Mum wasn’t around any more so it was just the two of us. Not that I lived with Dad, but we’d always been close, and I popped in several times a week.

In the end I’d agreed to sign up for a course just to shut him up. The lessons were on a Monday evening at the local swimming pool and I’d call at Dad’s on the way home and regale him with the latest things I’d learned. I qualified just before Dad’s first operation and he said my tales of the deep, as he called them, stopped him worrying about it.

I was glad I’d started too. There was something addictive about being an observer in an alien world. Since I’d been let loose in the sea I’d seen all sorts of things I’d only ever seen on television before. Conger eels, free-swimming in the water; lobsters battling over territorial rights; cuttlefish at night, looking like something prehistoric with their strange lit up bodies. I’d fed wrasse with sea urchins and once I’d seen a dog fish gliding through the water, grey and sleek, and looking every inch a part of the shark family that it was. Contrary to popular belief, there was a lot to see beneath the English Channel and it wasn’t too cold if you had the right kind of gear.

“Right, you lot, time to start getting kitted up. We’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Steve voice broke into my thoughts and he came across to me. “We’ll go in last, Maggie, and then we can go down nice and gently. How are you feeling?”

“A bit nervous,” I admitted.

“Well that’s only natural. I’d be worried if you weren’t. But we’ll be fine. It’s a lovely calm day. The visibility’s excellent. I reckon we should have at least ten metres down there.”

We were diving a shipwreck called The Aparima, which several of the guys had done before. It stood upright and was fairly intact, which meant that you couldn’t go inside much of it. Not that I had any desire to go inside. I’d heard too many horror stories, about losing your way and getting trapped. I was quite happy to view this one from a distance.

There was an air of expectation on the boat as everyone got ready. Pulling on dry suits, fastening weight belts, connecting up and testing air supplies. Steve and I didn’t rush. There was no point if we were going in last. And I had no desire to sit around in the heavy kit for a second longer than necessary. Although it was only just ten, the sun was already warming the July sky.

Just before we went in Steve went through our dive plan one more time. We wouldn’t be staying down long. The deeper you went, the less time you could stay there for safety reasons.

“Just time for a quick scout about. And let me know if you start feeling odd at all.”

I nodded. He was talking about the effects of nitrogen narcosis, which I knew about, but had never actually experienced, as it only tended to happen at depth. It affected divers differently. Some never felt it all; others reported it as being a bit like being drunk.

“Right let’s get going then.”

Moments later we were slipping below the water, our air bubbles heading in trails back up to the surface. The visibility was wonderful. When we were ten metres down we could see the dark hulk of the shipwreck below us and the lights of a dozen torches moving around and across it.

It was like something out of the film, The Abyss. I stared in fascination, before dragging my gaze back to the dive computer on my wrist. Soon we were at thirty three metres and dropping. I’d never been so far beneath the ocean and a mixture of excitement and nervousness churned within me.

Close to the seabed Steve gave me the OK sign and then we set off around the perimeter of the wreck. Many of the portholes still had glass in them, glinting blackly off our torchlight like long dead eyes. I made a mental note to tell Dad about them. He’d have loved the chance to do this.

Once we were out of range of the other divers’ torches it was pitch black but it wasn’t scary. It felt as though we were supposed to be there, swimming in this water world amongst the fish. I half expected to see a mermaid fin by.

And then Steve was tapping my arm. I stared at him and was amazed when he gave me the signal to go up.

I raised my eyebrows in query and he pointed to his dive computer. I could hardly believe our time was up, but he was right. He prepared to send up the line that we would use to ascend. It was up to me to make sure his reel was free of obstruction. If it jammed, he could be dragged up with it, which at best might give him a bend and at worst could kill him.

“All clear?” he signalled.

I nodded, even though I was aware that something wasn’t quite right. But it was as though my brain was working in slow motion. I watched as the line began to unravel, faster and faster, and then, too late, my brain caught up with what I’d seen and not properly registered. The line snagged, the reel jammed, and Steve was dragged up with it towards the surface.

For a few seconds I was too shocked to move. That had been my fault. Why had I given him the all clear? The answer filtered slowly through to my brain. Nitrogen narcosis. So this was what it felt like. Not like being drunk, as someone had described, but like thinking in slow motion. I thought about Steve. He’d been diving for twenty years and I was sure he’d react quickly enough to detach himself – but I’d still put his life at risk.

And my own, I thought belatedly. Stupidly, I hadn’t bought my reel with me; you only needed one to get up. Garry’s words echoed disturbingly around my head and for a moment I tried to remember what percentage of divers could get themselves out of trouble at forty metres. Had he said four or six? I couldn’t remember, but neither sounded very promising. Less than ten percent – such a small figure, with all the odds stacked against me, like the mass of dark water pressing down on my head.

I was surprised that I wasn’t more scared, but perhaps that was an effect of the narcosis too. I gazed up into the blackness. Getting up safely, alone and without a reel, was tricky, but not impossible. I inflated my jacket cautiously. Speed was critical and hard to control with no line to hold. I looked at my computer to check my rate of ascent and wished my brain would work properly. None of the numbers made sense. I couldn’t tell whether I was going up or down. And then my feet touched solid ground again and I realised that I was back where I’d started. And I felt the first dull thump of fear.

* * *

Every season one or two divers died. It was something that we all knew. We’d talked about it on the boat sometimes. It happened because of equipment failures or lack of experience, or sometimes just plain bad luck. It had never happened to anyone in our club, although now and again it had happened to the friend of a friend. Death had crept a little closer, touched the outer edges of our world. I looked at my air gauge and wondered idly what it would be like to drown.

Then I thought about Dad and wondered how many times he must have considered dying. The odds had been stacked against him from the minute he was diagnosed, but it didn’t stop him fighting. I began to kick up towards the surface again, my brain still sluggish and slow.

And then suddenly, miraculously, I became aware that my head was clearing and suddenly the numbers on my computer made sense again. Twenty nine metres and rising, the effects of the narcosis losing its grip, my mind coming sharply back into focus. The relief was dizzying, but it wasn’t until I was back in the brightness of sunlight, back on the boat, crowded with anxious faces, with Steve administering oxygen to lessen the effects of any damage, that I realised how close a call I’d had.

* * *

I didn’t tell Dad what had happened. Partly because I hadn’t made up my mind whether I wanted to dive again and partly because he had another hospital appointment looming and I didn’t want to worry him.

Dad wouldn’t let me see the consultant with him. “I prefer to hear bad news alone,” he muttered.

“Who said it’s going to be bad?”

But when he came back out to the car where he’d insisted I wait, I could see that it was. His face was too controlled. Only a pulse beating in his forehead gave the game away.

I drove us to a café where we often went on the way back from his appointments, ordered cappuccinos and waited for him to tell me.

“They want me to have another operation,” he said at last. “Quite a major one. They want to remove another load of my insides. Can’t be much left in there now.” His voice was light, but the pain of it showed dully in his eyes.

“When do they want to do it?”

“As soon as possible. My latest scan showed up another tumour. To be honest, Maggie, I’m thinking of saying no.”

“Because you can’t face another operation,” I asked, when I was sure my voice would be steady enough to speak. We’d discussed this before. He’d always said that this time might come. And I’d always promised that I wouldn’t try to talk him out of it.

“Partly. But mostly because the odds of getting rid of the cancer are very low.” He put his hand across mine. “The success rate is less than ten percent, so we’re talking ninety percent failure rate – now I’m not a betting man, love, but I don’t go much on those odds.”

“But someone has to be in that ten percent. It could just as easily be you as anyone else.” I could hear now that my voice was giving me away. Husky with my tears and my love for him.

“Maggie, love, look me in the eyes and tell me that you’d carry on fighting something with those sorts of odds.”

“I would,” I said, and then I told him why.

* * *

Dad had the operation and it was a success. Three years on he is still clear of cancer. I still go diving, too, although I rarely go below thirty metres. I don’t want to push my luck. Steve, who’s still my diving buddy, is quite relieved about this, although he’s long since forgiven me for trying to “kill” him. In fact, he forgave me enough to ask me to marry him last night.

One in four marriages ends in divorce, you know. But Steve and I aren’t going to waste time worrying about that – because statistically we shouldn’t be here anyway. Neither should Dad. We’ve just been discussing it with him over a bottle of champagne to celebrate our engagement and we’ve all come to the same conclusion. The only thing you can say for certain about statistics – the beauty of them, if you like - is that they don’t prove a thing.