Do not go gentle into that good night

There I was, stepping cautiously in a gently rocking dive boat. It’s more a canoe because this is Gizo, in the Western Province of the Solomon Islands.

I’m 85 years old, a great-great-grandmother and haven’t been scuba diving for a decade.

The big question is: will I be able to get back up the ladder into the boat?

But like riding a bicycle, it fell into place on the first dive.

A gentle drop down onto the infamous Toa Maru No.2 (the wreck of a sunken World War II Japanese patrol boat) and yes, slowly and cautiously, I could climb up the narrow, three-step ladder.

Raul Fernandes, the 23-year-old dive instructor, takes time during our first dives to take the photos I’ve asked for this article.

I look like any other diver … until I see the pictures of me out of the water, and there is a little old, grey-haired lady.

Why return to the islands to go  scuba diving?

Firstly, because my time is fast  running out.

Secondly, because I’ve been diving with my hosts Danny and Kerry Kennedy for  40 years.

Finally, because I had to decide where to be and what to do on Christmas Day.

My daughter, granddaughters (and two great-grandchildren), now living out of close range and busy with their own lives, meant Nan P had to do her own thing.

Kerrie suggested, “Why not come up  to Gizo?”

But can I cope with the flight, carting luggage through endless airport corridors?

Kerrie replies, “Yes – you now fly  into Munda and the new air- conditioned terminal.”

Friends advised to pack light, take emergency medication, wear comfy shoes and drink a lot of water.

And, so I did.

Despite my twice-weekly gym  sessions (myofascial, all-body workouts) which keep me strong, I’m still losing power. Recovery takes longer. In fact, everything takes longer.

My bridge game has levelled out and when I make a mistake, it is one that comes with mental fatigue.

Same with the weekly backgammon group games.

My regime for staying upright  includes an hour in a hyperbaric chamber every fortnight.

This became routine after I spent a year (2014) on chemotherapy/radiation after breast cancer surgery.

Plus I need some laser treatment on my ‘numbish’ feet: peripheral neuropathy, also caused by the chemo.

Walking is out, and as I am not a sporty person, I swim as body maintenance.

To avoid stacking on the pounds, I’ve been spending time with a friend who is teaching me how to make sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers and beetroot.

My morning cocktail is an ice cube (melting in a fine crystal glass) of mashed turmeric and ginger root with a touch of apple cider vinegar. Life has changed  lanes, and now is the time to make the  most of what is left … and what friends are  still around.

In the nearby Solomon Islands, Danny and Kerry are long-time friends.

We met on my first visit in 1986, one year after they opened Dive Gizo.

We have aged together.

But there was a subtle difference from the last trip a decade ago.

Same local islander dive team, underwater sites, glorious clear and turquoise waters (with a temperature of  30 degrees Celcius), but everyone was treating me with a respect that was more than kindness: it was genuine caring.

I felt loved – like Old Deuteronomy  in Cats the musical.

On the third day, I meet a family of teenagers, fresh out of dive school with just four logged dives.

Young, fit and fearless, they are none-the-less being guided by their parents and are far from reckless.

They are brilliant in the water.

Natural divers.

James Black, the 17- year-old, tells me the title of this story should be:  ‘Diving not dying’.

Between dives and lunch on Njari Island, he takes photos of me with  local children the same age as my  great-grandkidlets Maya, 7, and  Matthew, 4.

They make houses with grand  floor plans from shells, coral, berries  and driftwood.

Solomon time means no rush on any day, and I was also cautious and didn’t pretend to be otherwise.

At the risk of looking like someone away with the fairies, I took time to consider each stair, every handhold, or anything I could hit that would tear a piece of my skin (now like tissue paper) before I stepped up or down, in or out.

Deciding to dive one day and rest the next meant lazing in a hammock, drinking bush-lime Fatboys in one of my favourite places in the world.

There’s no doubt going to the gym, twice a week, for the past 15 years has kept me upright.

I have not fallen, although recently came close. When standing on the loo seat to reach the top shelf of a cupboard, I slipped backwards and landed heavily, bruising my heel.

A lesson learnt. And now, no more ‘stuff’ on high shelves; no more standing on anything more than a one-step stool.

So how did I end up a scuba diver?

I learned to dive illegally.

In 1961, aged 21, I met two Australian Navy clearance divers.

Scuba was not yet a sport.

I’d read of Jacques Cousteau and  Hans Hass and this was a world I wanted  to explore.

(I later interviewed Hans Hass when he came to Cheviot Beach, Victoria, to the site where former prime minister Harold Holt vanished in the rocky surf.)

My Navy lieutenant clearance diver smuggled me aboard the boat he took out into Port Phillip Bay to train reservists.

Years later, married with a daughter,  I went back into the water doing the then necessary training course with the National Association of Underwater Instructors (NAUI) in December 1988.

I’d lied about my age throughout most of my working life.

With my NAUI card, I took off  five years.

Doing several advanced courses with Professional Association of Dive Instructors (PADI) in the Nineties, I dropped a good eight years.

Even when standing for local government in 2000, when I was asked if I had turned 50 years of age, I said “yes”, when in fact I had turned 60.

Obviously, I’ve always looked a little younger – probably due to genes, as my paternal grandmother was still living alone well into her nineties.

Why disguise age?

Because way back then, most women I worked with did, too.

Being even a moment older than the boss was to be avoided, and I always seem to be befriended by younger people.

I was relieved when the then prime minister John Howard moved legislation which no longer mandated having the  year of birth on any application, with exceptions being passports and  driver’s licences.

My only medication is Symbicort, the asthma preventative, caused by 50 years of smoking which, of course, I now regret.

Since breast cancer, I’ve worked consistently on rebuilding my immune system, reminding myself that you are what you eat, drink and breathe.

My GP is great.

He says: “Put turmeric on everything”, while ensuring I do regular blood tests.

This, my last dive trip to the islands of the Solomons, was amazing and remarkable in so many ways.

People cared and there was always someone there, holding out their hand,  just in case.

Knowing what used to come naturally now doesn’t means prioritising and planning, which includes rest and  recovery time.

Life is not only getting faster, I’m moving slower. But so are friends.

There are still so many things to see  and do.

So, it pays to follow the ones with the grey hair.