Rehman Rashid, a local writer, recounts diving at Tenggol, which is an island in Malaysia notorious for strong currents. Rashid is an experienced diver. But he and his buddy ended up on a dive together with an instructor and his open water students. Why any instructor would take his inexperienced students into the rough waters of Tenggol is beyond me.
“The heck with this,” I thought angrily to myself, having sworn years before never to put myself in scary situations underwater ever again, and jack-knifed downwards to the bottom some seven metres below. The thing to do in such conditions is to seek shelter, which is not above on the roiling surface but below among the crevices of the seabed, which break up the currents and afford some calm.
As I thankfully reached such shelter and paused to catch my breath, I turned around and was startled to see that the sprogs had all followed me down, and were now looking at me expectantly through their nice new facemasks in hypoallergenic silicone and a variety of fashionable colours.
There came from above a furious clanging: The divemaster, alone on the surface, was snapping his alert — a piece of hard plastic on a bungee cord around his tank, used to attract his students’ attention. They looked around and back at me, in some bewilderment. I signalled them to group together and ascend slowly to their sifu. This they did, meeting him in mid-water, from where their excursion subsequently progressed, I presume, without incident.
Later, it transpired that the divemaster would never speak to me again. My friend — a successful CEO in real life — explained what had happened. I, he told me, had acted like a leader, and the sprogs had instinctively followed. This was the worst insult to the divemaster that could be imagined.
I was astounded. “Say what?” I said, hiply. “I was scared! I acted in self-preservation! What kind of leadership is that?!”
“But you looked like you knew what you were doing,” he said.