Nha Trang - Hoi An

Thanh, guardian angel of the deep
The previous night's drinking hit back with a vengeance.

I'd booked a diving trip. For the morning. The pick-up was at eight. By the time I'd crawled out of bed ten minutes earlier and made it down to reception there was no time for breakfast -- not that I felt like eating anyway. Sitting on the back of an open-top jeep we gunned around the town collecting the other divers before heading to meet the boat.

I felt sea-sick already.

Then we got on the boat.

I sat in the middle of the boat and closed my eyes. Monks performing zen meditation couldn't have been more focused in removing themselves from the realm of the external world. I was the dead, still centre of the universe.

Unfortunately, the boat wasn't.

Sea spray whipped across my face. The ship pitched and swayed. The beautiful horizon jacked up and down as if God were shaking out the sea like a rug. Waves -- small, pathetic little waves, but waves nonetheless -- rocked the boat as they passed. I tried to eavesdrop on the conversation between the Dutch divemaster and one of the other rookie divers to distract myself, but the nausea held firm.

After about twenty minutes we came to our dive spot. The stillness was bliss. It was time to get in the water.

One of the things you never notice when you watch footage of divers in action is the temperature of the water. Arctic or tropical you still see a balletic-esque sequence often against a soundtrack of classical music. The South China Sea is not the world's warmest body of water. It was probably exacerbated by the alcohol, but even in a wetsuit I had the chills, and was shaking from the cold a couple of metres under the surface.

The dive was still excellent, though. I had a great instructor named Thanh. He was so skilled that for the duration of the dive the only part of him I saw was the occasional signal from his hand over my faceplate. Kind of like my own guardian angel. The rest of the time my gaze was trained on the legions of fish, snakes and coral-types all around. The water was a little murky from dust churned up from the recent rain, but once up-close everything slid into view nicely.

The weirdest sensation came when we went under the boat and I lost the direction of the sun -- and therefore which way was up. I panicked and couldn't grasp if the surface was beneath my feet or above my head. I decided to call it a day and gave the thumbs-up sign indicating I wanted to come up.

On the deck Thanh informed me I'd got down to a depth of seven metres and spent thirty-one minutes underwater. Both figures beat my stats from the King Alfred Leisure Centre swimming pool in Hove, so I was pretty happy. Some of the shine was taken off when a right-on Danish guy emerged from the water thirty minutes later, and started talking about depths of twelve metres.

The hangover was still lurking and I nibbled at my lunch before we headed back to shore.

I took it easy in the afternoon and got ready for the twelve hour bus ride to Hoi An which left at seven.

If there's one thing that unites countries from pole to pole, rich and poor alike, it is this: getting a decent sleep on a overnight bus is impossible. It must be an international conspiracy. There are countless ways to arrange your body on a pair of seats in a half-full bus. The prayer position. The curl. The sideways slide. The feet in the air.

None of them are comfortable.

How I envied that guy laid out straight on the back-row.

As I finally began to drift off I had an idea for any budding entrepreneur: design a bus seating plan where everyone can lay flat. You'll be a millionaire within a year. The idea soothed me, gently leading me to the land of dreams. I imagined getting comfy on a deluxe sprung matress with a pillow filled with the best eiderdown feathers. Covering me was the softest duvet in the world; snug and fresh smelling like just washed and dried fluffy towels.

Then a pothole in the road jolted me awake again. Somebody's cheesy foot brushed my nose.

Cycle Culture