Deep Sea Diver
By Matthew “Hec” Hepburn
(Donegal House 1972-1977)
Philippines. 250 feet down. I was on a helium-oxygen mix, racing the clock to bolt down a leaking oil line. Tools scattered everywhere. I had 40 minutes max at that depth—then three hours of decompression underwater, and five more in a chamber. I finished the job, swam my guts out back to the basket, carrying 20 kilos of tools. Got there — barely. Then came the nightmare…
They told me to flush my helium line so air could follow. But no air came. I called it up. Nothing. My bailout tank? Empty in minutes. I remember thinking: That’s it. I’m done. Then… clarity. My whole life flashed. And there he was—my dad. As clear as the day he left us. He said: “You’re okay. It’s not your time.” He turned and walked off. And five seconds later—whoosh—the air hit. I was alive. Drunk on nitrogen narcosis. Clinging to basket wires in a storm for the next three hours. Then five more in the chamber, waiting for a blown oxygen valve to be replaced. All because someone forgot to open the damn air valve at 180 feet.
They say life moves in cycles. For me, the first one broke in a school playground.
My dad had just died. I was eight. I asked a friend if he wanted to come over for the weekend. He said, “Can’t—my dad’s taking me sailing.” That was the moment it hit me: that kind of life wasn’t mine. I didn’t have a safety net. From then on, I knew—it was just me. Whatever I wanted in life, I’d have to drag it up from the bottom.
In 1972, I got sent to Dilworth. The bullying was relentless. But I decided I wouldn’t shrink. I’d build a spine. One rainy lunchtime, we were playing rugby behind the chapel. I kept scoring tries. The others warned me, “Do it again and you’re done.” I did. They jumped me. Kicked. Punched. But inside? I laughed. That afternoon, we were learning about the Trojan War in class. Hector being dragged through the dirt. My mate Greg pointed and said, “That’s your name now.” Been Hector ever since.
Sport became my language. When words failed me, I just played harder. Sport gave me confidence—which certainly came in handy when I had to fend off the dodgy approaches of a creepy school chaplain. I told him where to go. That spine I’d built—it held. Still does.
After school, they told us we had three options: plumber, electrician, carpenter. All solid work—but none of them felt like mine. I bounced around jobs, played rep rugby, and eventually landed in Australia, searching for something more. One day I was feeding coins into a payphone, calling Mum, and flipping through the Yellow Pages. I saw it—Commercial Diving School. That was the spark. I hung up the phone. Told her I was on a mission.
I passed the course with flying colours, but the industry was in a slump. So I did what my grandfather taught me: knocked on doors, looked people in the eye, and introduced myself with a firm handshake. For three years, I took whatever came—dives that nearly killed me.
I kept going. Indonesia, India, Singapore. Picked up a ringing payphone in a $2 Singaporean doss house once—got a job hauling a robot arm to Jakarta. One time, a concrete mat landed on me at 270 feet. Luckily, it was soft seabed. Crawled out and kept working. Oh, to be young and fearless again.
Eventually, oil crashed. I joined my brother’s telecom business. We didn’t strike it rich, but we fed our families. Later, I got into property. Won, lost, learned. When oil came back, I returned. Became a dive supervisor. Then a superintendent. More wins, more mistakes.
I planned to retire at 60. COVID had other plans. So I pivoted again—commodities trading. Another ocean to navigate. Not easier. But mine.
Deep-sea diving is not a job—more like a game of rugby 12/7. You can score, but you must always tackle. Down there, you meet the real you. You can’t lie at 270 feet. You either rise—or you don’t.
I’ve been crushed, ripped off, brought back from the brink. But I’ve always gotten back in the water. That’s the deal. You fail, you learn, you move on. That’s life. And if we’re not making mistakes, we’re not trying hard enough.
