The week was attended by an impressive selection of the good and the great of British diving at the time. And I was stupid enough to declare several times that I wanted to photograph a basking shark. No-one said much at the time. At least not to my face. Indeed, there was not much to say. No-one had ever photographed a basking shark before but one friend muttered that he had heard they had a habit of leaping out of the water and smashing down on top of anything they didn't like. Cheerfully he told me: "It would be like having a double-decker London bus crashing down on top of you."
Well, the day came when I wished I had kept my trap shut. We were diving from a hard boat skippered by a grizzled old character who used to drink his breakfast out of aluminium cans. Indeed, he must have been haunted by the fear of dehydration because he always climbed aboard carrying a large crate of cans of lager and placed it within easy reach on the bridge. Eventually, to a string of barely comprehensible oaths and curses, the crew would spring into action, the boat's engine would cough and splutter into life, and we would head out for the open sea. This is the point when we had begun to realise there was a slight navigational problem. The skipper was better at turning right rather than left.
This day was a tough one. We steamed out of Plymouth Sound gracefully enough but then we had to turn left. This was eventually accomplished by much cursing and swearing at the crew and a sudden depletion of the stocks of lager before we were on our way to Prawle Point to dive a wreck reputed to lie at 160 feet. The sun shone. The sky was a blue dome. The boat was steaming along in a straight line with barely a rock or roll from the waves. I lay on the warm deck dozing and at peace with the world. Then the engine faltered and stopped. I sensed movement around me then a voice said: "What's that. Jesus Christ look at the size of that." Anyone with any sense would have kept their eyelids firmly closed and feigned a coma. Instead I sat up and joined the throng on one side of the boat. Wallowing alongside was something about the size of a midget submarine. "What's that," I asked. With a leer my friend said: "That's your basking shark."
Then I knew I had no alternative but to climb into my wet suit, which I did very, very slowly. The Nikonos was loaded with black and white film - Kodak Tri-X rated at ISO400. I looked at the sun and then, with what I hoped was cleverly concealed reluctant, flopped into the water. The basker was ploughing backwards and forwards, straining a meal out of the clouds of plankton hanging in the water. Positioning myself in its path, I waited as its tall, flopping fin progressed towards me.
No-one knew what might happen, least of all me. I went in without a tank or a weight belt so at least the body would float if the shark breached and landed on top of me - after all there was about 160 feet of water beneath me. I was quite keen there being something to cremate if the worst came to the worst.
Of course, today it is no big deal photographing a basking shark. After all, there is no comparison with being bashed about in a cage by a great white. But then it was unknown territory and it was an extra-ordinary sight when the shark came near with its huge mouth wide open as it sieved its lunch out of the sea. When it was open the mouth looked big enough for someone to park a small car in it. Well, it did to me and cars were smaller in those days. However, there was a problem. I needed more light in its mouth.
As soon as the shark was sighted, one of our party had leapt into our Zodiac so he could get a better look at it. Perhaps he was a natural exhibitionist, but he jumped into the boat in such great haste that he was only wearing a shirt. Indeed, he was a most impressive sight standing up in the inflatable with his shirt tales flapping and revealing all his equipment as the boat leapt from wave to wave. We didn't mind but it was a hoot to see the expressions on the faces of the blue rinse brigade sitting in the cockpits of their husbands' yachts as they tacked out of Salcombe estuary. Helpfully, he was able to encourage the shark to swim into the sun and towards where I was waiting in the water. I hope the ladies in the yachts also appreciated the lighting.
The only thing that was out of control was the skipper. Every so often he would spring to life, toss another empty can into the ocean and attempt to do a right turn - an alarming manoeuvre if you were in the water anywhere near the prop.
Nevertheless, I was able to shoot 36 exposures on the first roll of Tri-X,
get back on board, reload the camera and get back into the water and take a
few more shots before all the wreckies got bored and demanded the boat
proceed
to Prawle Point with or without me. That was when it seemed prudent to join
them even though I had only had an hour in which to take my shots.
That night I mixed up the necessary chemicals, crawled under the bedclothes
in my hotel room, loaded a spiral with the second film and developed it in
the wash basin. The exposures were OK so I processed the first film,
hung both
up to dry and went off for a meal happy in the knowledge I had taken the
first pictures in the world of a basking shark feeding. 