During the second dive, which I also sat out, the water was crammed with more sausages than a German butcher shop. We rescued one of the lost floaters—an older gentleman who was quite shaken by the experience. “Usually when I surface, my boat is waiting for me!” he sputtered. But he couldn’t remember the name of his vessel or his divemaster. We had room for him on our vessel because we had lost the unfortunate fellow we dubbed the Pukey Guy, after he had earlier thrown up, not over the rail as you are supposed to, but on deck, inspiring others to do the same.
