There are some names that just have to go in a diver's log book - for the name, if nothing else. Who could resist the “Drinking Dragon”? At the south-east corner of the Calf of Man this rock is more properly known as “The Burroo”, which actually translates as “Fortress”.
In a calm sea it only takes 15 minutes from the slip at Port St Mary to the tip of the Calf. Sometimes these natural rock sculptures take a lot of imagination to perceive. As we come side on to the Burroo, the Drinking Dragon is obvious. The holes and cracks in the rock suggest an interesting topography underwater.
The tide is still just moving north when we drop in to 20 metres in the area that would have been swept by the dragon's tail. The seabed is a smooth plate of rock cut by rounded winding gullies. Some little more than cracks, others narrow canyons 3 or 4 metres deep, just wide enough to swim along. The walls are tightly packed with plumose anemones.
The current is slack enough that we could have swum against it. Nevertheless we head with the current and towards the shore, the seabed gently shallowing and the gullies getting bigger.
We had seen seals basking on the rocks before the dive, but I am still surprised when the first seal shows up. With a black muzzle and fins and grey flecks on its body, all I can see at first is a big fishy outline of silver grey. Then the seal flicks its fins and jinks towards me, its identity suddenly becomes obvious. I follow it into a gully and patiently wait while it settles by a rock to scratch its back, with only 2 shots left on my film I need to make them both count.
For a second dive we head south again and through Calf Sound to the wreck of the Clan MacMaster. Earlier I had driven to the observation point and watched the tide ripping through, a strong wake and standing waves building over every little rock. Close to slack water this has faded to gentle ripples.
The Clan MacMaster was a 6535 ton steamship on its way from Glasgow to Liverpool when it struck the rocks of the sound in thick fog in September 1923. The sea was calm and all the crew made it safely ashore.
Much of the general cargo was salvaged before storms broke the back of the Clan MacMaster and over the years dispersed the wreckage about the west side of Thoulsa Rock.
We follow wreckage and then rocks out into the main channel of Calf Sound along walls of big white plumose anemones, then we are flying along the sound. The seabed becomes more varied. Anemones, hydroids and muscles compete for real estate with the dead men's fingers. The current pushes us shallower and to the north. We end the dive above streaming kelp. I duck amongst the roots to see that the sessile animals are still having a party in the shade.
Conditions are still calm in the morning and we head south again. It doesn't take long to get a good echo from the Fenella Ann, though being 38 metres down with the tide still slacking it takes a few attempts to get the shot in place.
This small wooden scallop dredger only sank in November 2002. Having struck The Burroo on the way back to Port St Mary, the Fenella Ann made it another mile north before sinking. The 2 crew were rescued by another local trawler.
In clear green water it doesn't take my eyes long to adjust to the light. Descending the line I can soon see an entire “toy” fishing boat laid out below me. Its all there, from rigging to instruments in the wheel house. Everything is furry with a dense mat of hydroids.
I work my way round slowly, taking in the detail of the rigging and fishing gear. It's a gem of dive, but with a wooden hull I wonder, how long will it survive?
An hour before the afternoon slack the sky has darkened and the weather is a little bit squally. We head south and through Calf Sound hoping for a little shelter from the land.
We get some shelter, but it is still a rough ride to the wreck of the Thracian, a 2154 ton 4 masted barque. The Thracian was newly constructed at Greenock and under tow to Birkenhead to complete fitting out and be loaded with cargo. On the night of 14 October the ship capsized in a storm. The tug Sarah Joliffe was forced to cut the tow cable before the Thracian sank. None of the 17 on board survived.
The shot is hooked into a miscellaneous scrap of wreckage right next to the stern at 36 metres. Upturned with plates fallen away, the curved frame of the rudder and the V shaped ridge of the keel have a magnificent covering of anemones. At the other end of the wreck the bow is equally spectacular with even more fish.
As we head through Calf Sound on Monday morning its getting rough again, though improves as we get away from the strong inshore currents, out to the west and the wreck of the Ringwall.
On a high water slack the seabed is at 38 to 40 metres, though I manage to spend most of the dive at about 35 metres. This small coaster of 407 tons sank after striking a mine in January 1941. Mine damage is immediately apparent amidships, the wreck is broken with the holds and forward part twisted maybe 30 degrees out of line with the aft part containing the wheelhouse, engine and boiler.
Planning to dive again on the west side of the Isle of Man, we leave the boat at Port Erin rather than driving it all the way back to Port St Mary.
Its Tynwald day, marking the day of the Isle of Man parliament and a bank holiday. The Queen is visiting to open the ceremony, tour the island and open a few buildings and other occasions while there. I just have a wander round Port Erin and enjoy the sunshine.
By late afternoon and low water slack the wind has picked up again. Too rough to dive, I help Mike recover the RIB and head off for the motorbike racing. The Isle of Man is famous for the TT race, but there are several other races though the year on different road circuits.
This week is the Southern 100, a series of 100 mile road races on a short route beginning and ending in Castletown. I follow my nose along the road until I meet a closed section, park my car and join a group of spectators sitting on a wall at a bend.
I soon get chatting to a local motorbike enthusiast who explains it all to me. In the TT bikes run against the clock. In the Southern 100 each class of bike races together. Just south of Castletown I have stumbled on one of the best spectator spots, a 90 degree bend at the end of a long straight. Tonight is the opening practice night, so the first few laps are cautious before the riders begin to push it a bit.
The last day of my trip comes all too soon. There are no constraints on choice of dive site. Slack water is late in the morning and surface conditions couldn't be more perfect. We head out 7 or 8 miles east from Port St Mary to the wreck of the Liverpool.
This 686 ton ship is another wartime casualty, this time from the First World War having struck a mine and sunk in December 1916. The name crops up throughout her story. She was built in Liverpool in 1892, was on her way from Liverpool to Sligo, and sank in Liverpool Bay.
At 38 metres it feels larger than 686 tons would suggest. The layout is conventional, with holds either end of boilers and engine amidships. As with the Thracian and the Ringwall, the wreck is teeming with fish. Pout, coalfish, pollack, congers and one or two rather bold lobsters just strolling about.
Visibility is good enough that I can hang off the stern and see the propeller, rudder and steering quadrant while popping my delayed SMB at the end of the dive. Local divers comment that it is unusually murky and recant tales of looking up to see the boat above.
To finish I opt for a final scenic dive. Anywhere round the southern tip of the Isle of Man or the Calf seems to offer good marine life without going that deep and there are just too many sites to choose from. In the end we head for an outcrop of rock on the west of The Calf called simply “The Stack”. This would normally be a drift, but by descending close to the rocks we can work our way out in the shelter of the reef.
I land in the middle of a valley in about 15 metres. The floor is a mixture of dead men's fingers and kelp, and the walls are solid squidge. There is just about everything; sponges, hydroids, anemones from tiny jewel anemones to fat looking plumose anemones, and off course yet more clumps of white and yellow dead men's fingers.