Jessica Berry is a 44-year-old marine archaeologist
It was a simple day of diving on a day that had begun so promisingly, one job done and only one more to complete, which ended catastrophically.
Surfacing from my dive, I signalled to the boat to collect me: he couldn’t moor as we were diving close to the rocks in south Devon.
The day was very cold – there were icicles growing on the rails – but there was very little swell and the sun was out.
I surfaced and approached the transom, the area at the back of the boat. I released the shot line (a buoyed rope attached to a weight used by divers to descend and surface) and approached the port side at the stern.
I was upright in the water making ready to climb when a small swell pushed the boat back slightly.
Suddenly my legs, that had been perpendicular to the boat, were swept under and parallel with the keel. The right propellor, though in neutral, was still turning ever so slightly.
A combination of the swell and the gently turning propellor sucked at the shot line that had been a good five metres from the boat.
As my foot, attached to my fin, was now up close to the propellor, the rope wrapped itself around my fin and the blades simultaneously and began to twist itself around my fin, effectively wrenching my foot from my leg.
My foot was probably pulled 270 degrees around my leg before the propellor cutter, tucked behind the blades, came into action and sliced the rope – releasing me.
I can reason this now clearly but it’s taken a couple of years during which it has been too hard to even talk about. Suddenly I was spat out again, and free. It took me a few seconds to stop screaming – a scream that must have haunted those on the boat watching me helpless – and have the courage to open my eyes.
I truly believed my foot would be drifting towards Plymouth, leaving me in a pool of blood. Miraculously it was still attached, although it would take a further set of miracles to have it once again functioning, albeit not to marathon standards.
Torbay’s A&E told me I had a bad sprain and Mark Davies, who at first wondered if I would ever walk again, has performed the role of magician, tying up so many bits of ligaments it must have resembled spaghetti bolognese. I am indebted to him and the London Foot and Ankle Centre.
