Diving for Scallops
They say that your first thought when you wake is to see what time it is. For years my ears have broken this rule and they wake first, listening to the wind on the house. From the snug warmth of my duvet I can tell the wind, it’s direction and strength and more crucially where or whether there will be diving today.
The trick then is to leave any other normally conscious sections of the anatomy dormant because the thought of three bottles in a cold sea in a damp suit on a wet and dreary day can cause a physiological rebellion, manifested in a half turn, a wriggle to poach the warm bit on her side and a return to sleep. Automatic: that is the only way to get to sea. Down to the boat, check oil and water, fire the engine, throw the ropes off and go. Wake with the first of the slams as the spade bow and cathedral hull of the Offshore 105 slap the white horses. Round about, the boys are also coming to, having followed the same procedure. Money is made on the bad days: anybody can make a pound when the sun is shining and the sea is flat but if you don’t go whatever, whenever, then the pounds slip away.
First decision of the day is where to go. Bad days are easy: where is dive-able? Which little lees are sheltered enough to work? Pick the ground from the limited areas possible and when the wind is screaming the options are short. On better days the field of view is rosier and on the days when you have hit ground the days before then there is a quiet anticipation of the water. A good haul the days before, with the knowledge of more ground to come, and everybody is eager to get in the water. The boys jostle to get in suits till the last man draws the short straw and gets left as first boatman in a round-robin shift.
Conditions are cold and the daylight limited in the best diving months, the months that lead up to Christmas. At £3.00 a kilo, “in shell” weight, the price is good and demand is high; all the clams landed can be sold and it is a seller’s market. With the sobriety that follows the New Year comes a slump that doesn’t redeem itself until the spring cynically coincides with the time when catches increase and selling becomes a chore The buyers call the shots so prices bounce along the £2-£2.50 mark. Fifty pence may not sound much but multiply that over a 100kilo day, then a week, then a month and the extra work required to make up the lost money takes a toll.
A diver keeps ¾ of his own catch. The other quarter goes to the boat, whether you own the boat or not (like a “clam tax”) The incentive for each diver is there: you only get paid for the scallops you bag and any reward is a direct result of his own labour and with all the catch on deck within easy comparison there comes the unspoken desire to be top man. The smug satisfaction of a quiet snooze, (with a woolly hat over the eyes like a neoprene cowboy) on the way home knowing you have caught more than the other boys is almost better than the money from the landing. Almost. But worth sweating for, none the less.
The winter water is crisp and clear but neoprene frequently has to be bent through an icy shell to become flexible. The worst always comes last, a quick drag that draws a clammy, damp neck seal over the face. Once zipped, the warmth starts. Traditionally scallop divers wear massively oversize suits: I have a 58inch torso to house a skinny 12 stone chest. With 40lb of lead, I can bounce along the bottom wearing two woolly bears in a cosy super inflated cocoon. Lobster mitts sealed at the wrists, with elastic bands to prevent flushing, complete the package, assuring warmth. The gear worn is the minimum required with no stab, just a bottle on a backpack and computer on the wrist.
Each diver has a mesh net bag with a plastic hoop to keep it open in the top and a lump of lead in the bottom (the weight of which varies depending on the tide: more lead, the less the diver drifts). Attached to the loop is 40 odd meters of rope tied off with a Dan buoy which acts as an SMB so that the boat always knows the diver’s location. The bag is hooked on a part of the boat, the Dan thrown over the side and the rope streamed from the boat until the mark is reached. Then over the side and straight down as fast as sinuses will allow.
This is where the clock starts.
Think 50ps on the seabed. Think when the kid yelled scramble in the playground and threw a handful of sweets over his shoulder. Next look at the bottom time on your computer and you see where the deal with the devil comes in. Off to wait at the crossroads in the balance between bottom time, air left and collecting 50ps. That is scallops in a nutshell. A 50bar reserve costs money. Leave bottom with 0 min left and enough air to get topside (note, you get a few more breaths from an empty cylinder at 3m). Use eyes first then feet: it requires less air to look than to swim.
Some boys can find a clam in a muddy puddle. I always had to work at it but there is a knack and with practice, catches improve. The most visible part of a scallop is usually the mantle as they bury their stern quarters in the seabed as an effective camouflage. They detect a diver drawing closer and will narrow their gape becoming even harder to see: often, as they close, they emit a small tell tale discharge that is distinctive if largely imperceptive. They also will orient themselves in a particular direction to maximise their filtration of the tide so if you look into the mouth of one, you can see them all. Swim the other way and they remain invisible.
Everybody has a theory where to find them and mine seemed to work for me: the spat are sessile and attach with byssal threads (similar to mussels) before reaching size enough to grow on the sea floor. Look for their former attachment points, I guessed kelp, and the adults are normally nearby. Areas of rocky bottom with kelp where a sandy seabed butted were always good starting places. A lot of legwork helps too.
The best ground I ever saw looked like the ground in a farmers field that narrows as the gate funnels the cattle. If you picture the imprints of all those hoof prints butting next to each other then you can picture the distinctive crescents of endless scallops jostling for space, each open mouthed and sandy backed. Hundreds and hundreds of scallops, all nearly touching, as far as visibility allows. Fever sets in with the frantic pace required bag all the shells in a short time. “Beep beep” on the meter and then shoot up the line to 3m to get breath back.
Strangely, the main pleasure in diving for scallops comes from all the incidentals that happen whilst you are getting on with the job. There is a pleasure on a harsh weather day watching what the elements can do, a sight that is normally missed when prudence would dictate staying at home. Swimming along and actually concentrating on looking for something means that other creatures emerge from the gloom too, creatures that would normally be missed as there is no other reason to swim across a flat featureless muddy seabed. And the sheer amount of time spent underwater broadens the odds of the rarity occurring: I have seen guillemots swim past at 30m, skate resting on the bottom and killer whales take a seal. Spend 3 bottles a day, 5 days a week, 50 weeks a year underwater and the time mounts up. There is satisfaction from a bonanza catch on a calm sunny day when everything has gone well but, all in all, the absolute pleasure is just in having been there.
(Originally appeared in the April 06 edition of Dive Magazine)
Now see the movie…… (8Mb so for broadband only)