The Blue Horizon is moored at the end of a long pier near a pseudo-luxurious hotel, in the sandy and faded outskirts of Hurghada. Despite all the neglected aspects of Hurghada, at the pier entrance we are greeted by a series of impeccably dressed attendants with uniforms and earpieces, who go out of their way to take care of our bulky and heavy luggage, load it onto a pickup, and allow us to reach the ship burdened only by our existence. So, in swimsuits and flip-flops, after two initial dives in Hurghada that were supposed to be just orientation dives but have already taken our breath away, we head along the pier towards the Blue Horizon. As we approach the ship, it is impossible not to notice a colossal figure awaiting us with open arms on the ship’s gangway, with a smile stretching from ear to ear. I will soon learn that his name is Ashraf and that he will be our dive guide for a week; he has a contagious smile, and I immediately feel like I’m on vacation. He probably thinks of me, at this exact moment, as a chubby unfaithful pork-eater, but it’s clear he’s paid to make me feel at ease, and he does his job professionally, which is all I need; certainly, his 1.90 meters in height, 120kg weight, jovial and noisy character, and impeccable English challenge many stereotypes about Egyptians.
The first step onto the Blue Horizon’s gangway is accompanied by mixed feelings; on one hand, the excitement of starting an adventurous vacation where I will dive into vertical reefs plunging into the abyss, lost in the middle of the sea, with the expectation of many sharks on the menu; it doesn't take much to realize that this is the most adventurous thing I've ever done in my life; on the other hand, the idea of spending a week at sea gives me some apprehension. The boat seems fine, but it’s the first time in my life I will spend a whole week at sea: the longer the time at sea, the higher the chances of bad weather. Do these Egyptians know how to navigate? I am Italian; we’ve been navigating for millennia; they, okay, 3000 years ago did some remarkable architecture, but at Lepanto, we kicked the whole Arab world’s butt, and in scuba diving forums in the last few weeks, I’ve read many unsettling pieces of information; many episodes of diving cruise ships catching fire and sinking in the middle of the Red Sea, not due to fortuitous events but because of a known reluctance by Egyptian crews to adhere to the most basic safety measures; then I read about a company that reportedly has a habit of cyclically going bankrupt, leaving damage compensation claims by clients unfulfilled, and many other stories told to young divers around the Halloween fire.
Anyway, setting aside inevitable worries, it’s time to indulge in a week where we will live a thousand emotions, fill our lungs with sea air and salt, admire the wonders of the Red Sea, spend hours of idleness on comfortable sofas, have free access to the ship's minibar, and fill our eyes with fiery red sunsets.
The first tactile memory of the cruise week is acquired when a crew member kindly asks us to hand over our shoes, which will be returned only after a week at the end of the trip. Living a week with bare feet in contact with the ship's parquet is priceless, just as disheartening is the sense of constraint felt when putting on those shoes after a week, the first prelude to returning to Western life.
The first day is spent in port, waiting for the ship to refuel and stock up. During these hours, we get acquainted with the ship which, despite the horror stories read on scuba forums, conveys an apparent sense of security; the relaxation areas are a joy with comfortable teak sofas; the equipment logistics are perfect, as is the organization, from charging stations for camera and flash batteries (Western plugs, 4 per station) to the fresh water tank for rinsing, to the membrane compressor that allows leaving the BCD attached to the tank all week, minimizing the diver's unpleasant work, nothing is missing.
Besides getting acquainted with the ship and savoring this half-day hiatus between the first taste of the Red Sea in the waters near Hurghada and the real beginning of the adventure, a perfect interval to savor the expectations for what the coming days will bring us, the first hours on the ship are also dedicated to studying our adventure companions. The first good news is that there are no Italians, which at least would force us into some unwanted social interactions, while now we can devote ourselves to being the antisocial couple for a week facilitated by language barriers. Apart from the providential absence of Italians, there is an extremely crude group of Afrikaners; they listen to terrible music, imposing it on the whole ship; they were probably staunch supporters of apartheid and today seem to be staunch supporters of alcoholism, judging by their bleary eyes and worn faces. I wonder what drives people to listen to awful music when they could enjoy the silence of the sea and the song of the seagulls. I always feel that these people need background noise to distract them from facing themselves, a sort of horror vacui of identity. Then there's a fifty-year-old with a military haircut, an impenetrable British accent, bodyguard glasses, reading military books, looking like Agent Smith from The Matrix; I will soon find out that he is a technical diver, one of those crazy ones who dive apart from the group, with two or three tanks on their backs at 100 meters depth; he has a diving buddy, a seventy-year-old Englishman who looks like he came out of a Sergio Leone film and who, during the first crossing when two-meter-long waves will toss the ship considerably, while everyone else will be busy vomiting, will be hopping around the ship with incredible balance informing everyone with enthusiasm "this is nothing, it does get much worse than this!!". There is a British army officer with his 14-year-old son who has just 10 dives to his name and follows his father on more challenging dives; it might seem reckless, but the father exudes confidence, and the son follows him with enthusiasm and more confidence than many seemingly more experienced divers. There is a group of Belgians (men) with a lesbian couple. There are three Chinese who seem to have much more money than manners and then, thank God, there is a South African girl who loves the sea and talks passionately and precisely about all marine life and generously about all the places she has visited.
Homer, in the prologue of the Odyssey, says that traveling by sea means first of all knowing the thoughts of the people, and in the evening at dinner with people of many nationalities, before leaving the moorings, you breathe in so many different cultures, but you also realize how ignorance and vulgarity can take different forms in different latitudes. The night passes with little sleep, partly because of the hot wind blowing from the land, partly because of the restlessness of the impending journey, partly because of the boatload of boors moored next to us who set up a techno music disco until late at night. But then the next morning, while we are all sitting down for breakfast, the diesel engine of the Blue Horizon starts to rumble, and we set off.
To be continued...
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