Day 70 Utila, Honduras

My name is Stewart. I am an Emergency Responder. May I be of assistance?

Jon, our Rescue Diving Instructor, says that's what you say when find someone choking, panicking, bleeding, screaming, unconscious or just simply not breathing. But only after phoning the Emergency Services. And donning a pair of rubber gloves.

Sound silly to you? If so, I'm happy to hear I'm not alone. I just can't bring myself to say it. It seems sooo George Orwells' 1984 and New-speak. You turn up, see person on the floor turning blue and then... Hi! Have a nice day! Would you like fries with that?

Litigation-avoiding daft phrases aside, I'm happy to report that being in Utila has been rather squiffy (smiley face, smiley face).

The 2 or 3 of you reading this blog (God bless your charitable hearts!) will know we arrived in Utila in the dead of night, during a military coup. If not for the kindness of a lady called Louisa, we would have been spending the night sleeping on a dock.

The following morning brought a new day, and a new place to explore. Which - once we had visited the ATM, got our passports stamped and got some brekky - took, in all truth, about thirty minutes.

The island of Utila is not big. The whole landmass is only 14km long. It's sole main street is about 2km long, sandwiched (and I do mean sandwiched) between the sea on one side and a mangrove lagoon on the other. You can walk it in about twenty minutes.

When I say street, I should clarify. I mean single-lane concrete path. Up and down this passageway parade all manner of tourists, locals, tuk-tuks, scooters, trail bikes, quads, rust-masses with wheels and the occasional golf cart. On either side, salt-faded wooden shacks line the place, whilst sun-ripened locals cook, drink and bellow pidgin English at each other, surrounded by hordes of the happiest, healthiest and friendliest dogs known to man. It's lively.

Originally, the Bay Islands (of which Utila is one) were the property of the British Empire. They used them as a launching point for privateering, which is basically posh pirating. They'd drop the Union Jack, sneak up on the Spanish coming back from the new world and bally-well nab their gold for Mother England. Tally ho, hoo-ray and all that tosh! Wot wot.

Eventually, via a diplomatic process I don't fully comprehend, the British agreed to cede control of the islands to the Spanish, in exchange for Belize.

This has left Utila with an interesting ethnic background. The locals are a mixture of native Central Americans, Spaniards, Garifuna (descendants of Carib, Arawak and African people) and, oddest of all, the descendents of the Scottish and Irish families given the opportunity to settle the island all those years ago. I tell you, there is nothing stranger than hearing someone who clearly looks Celtic let rip with an accent that is 100% Caribbean. It's a spin-out.

There are pretty much only two reasons anyone really comes to Utila. To scuba dive, and to party. The island is in effect the worlds' largest liveaboard, as well as being cheaper than Icelandic Government bonds.

There are a something like twenty dive shops on the island. We chose Utila Water Sports. They looked good and could qualify us as Advanced Adventure divers under the SSI training qualification. In all truth all the dive shops are much of much, although there are a couple whose encouragement of partying has seem more than a few clients head for the decompression chamber more often than average.

We also bagged ourself a cool little apartment for a fortnight from a lovely American lady called Maggie. With all the mod cons - kitchen, fridge, TV, aircon, mango tree on the doorstep - it would provide a lovely little oasis of calm after a hard days' diving. Oooooo yeh.

Aaaand off we went. In between dives, we passed hours outside the dive shop chugging beers in the company of some very cool people, two lazy dogs and one psychopathic parrot. Occasionally, we'd take the party outward on onward to one of the many small bars on the island. Be it one of the wharf bars down on the water like Coco Loco (eighties nights and serious partying) or Babalu (open-air aquarium and checkers games)', or something further away from the water like Treetanic (crazy hotel built by complete tripper for tree-house partying) or Bar in the Bush (bar, amazingly enough, situated in the bush with more fights than an Irish wedding).

Alas, with the coup still in force and the President in exile doing the diplomatic equivalent of knock and run (Oh look! I'm back in Honduras! Oh no! I've stepped back across the border again! Ner ner), the only downside to this sprightly little schedule was the 12pm curfew.

Still, no matter. The benefit of Utila's diving scene is it gives everyone a focus; something everyone needs to get up for. It also helps you forge friendships quickly. We met some very cool people, meaning curfew time simply meant changing venues to someone's home, followed by a late-night dash home, avoiding the police patrol (although, in honesty, I'm not sure they were anywhere but home in bed).

So, the first two weeks rolled along nicely. We got to know Vicki and Lee very well indeed. They told us how they had arrived in Utila for a short holiday, completely scared of water, before staying four months to become Dive Masters. We enjoyed the company of Kiwi lad Terry and his Dutch girlfriend Sebine (from Rachels' Dads' home town of Nijmegen no less!). We warmed to the shops' silent but strong Swiss superman, Ramun, and his 70m+ depth diving feats. The company of the aussiest of Aussie brothers Shane and Craig was similarly a damned pleasant way to waste an hour or four over a Baleada (awesome food!) and a rum.

Then, one balmy morning, Rachel proposed what had been bouncing around her visually-pleasant bonce for a week or so. "Let's become Rescue Divers," proposed the raven-haired beauty.

"Great idea," I responded. After all, if one doesn't come back from life-changing year long travels with a whole bunch of brand new "mad" skills, well, it's just not cricket, is it?

The thing is; becoming a Rescue Diver ain't easy. Especially when your instructor, Jon, takes great pride in his course. Great pride in the sense that rather than teaching you the course one way, or the other way; instead he teaches you everything you could possibly need to know. His approach was like teaching someone to bake a cake by first beginning with the molecular composition of flour.

It was tough. We studied long hours. We spent hours at sea pulling "unconscious" divers up from the depths, or trying to get someone onto boat against current. Rachel accidentally locked smackers with Terry once whilst simulating CPR on the boat. (Note: real corpses don't piss themselves laughing, Terry).

In the end, we did it. Sixteen days, seventeen dives, countless beers and more baleadas than you can fit in a Mini cooper, we boarded the Utila Princess (don't be fooled by the name. It's a box on a boat) happy in the knowledge that if we ever see someone drowning, Rachel will most likely end up snogging them.

It's almost worth it...


For all dem photo fer Utila, click here, mon