Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

  I cursed under my breath as I turned the helm to come about.

  "What's wrong?" Missy asked. "Why are you turning around?'

  "I lied to you," I replied, "I can't anchor very easily here. I'm going to have to take the dinghy closer."

  When the depth gauge read about 25 feet, I released the anchor windlass from the control in the cockpit. The 50-pound Rocna anchor dropped off the bow into the sea. When it settled on the seafloor, I locked the windlass and put Carina in slow reverse. When I felt the anchor resist the motor's pull, I shifted the gears back to neutral.

  "What do you need me to do?" Missy asked.

  "I'm going to load up the gear into the dingy," I explained, "and if you want to ride out, you can make sure the dinghy doesn't go too far from me."

  "Guess I gotta put a top on," she sighed as she sat up and reached for her bikini top.

  My scuba gear is in the starboard compartment, and I started pulling out what I needed. Last year I bought a compressor that can fill the air cylinders. That way, I don't have to go into port every time I need air. I do a lot of diving, and while the cost is a significant factor, the best diving spots are remote. Carrying more than two cylinders seems impractical, as did going back to the dock every day to refill them between dives.

  Attaching the air regulator to the cylinder, I tested the flow of air. I hooked the cylinder to the inflatable buoyancy compensator before putting the entire contraption into the dinghy. Around my waist, I cinched a weight belt. I tend to float, and any extra help getting to the bottom fast is always needed.

  Grabbing my fins and mask, I tossed them into the dinghy before lowering the dinghy to the water's surface. I strapped my dive knife to my calf and grabbed my speargun. Might as well hope to snag some lunch.

  "Ready?" I asked Missy.

  She waited until I stepped into the dinghy so that I could offer her my hand for extra balance.

  "It's easy to operate," I told her. "Should start on one pull."

  With that, I barely pulled the rope, and the four horse-power outboard fired to life. I carried Tristan's handheld chart plotter so that I could get back to the coordinates. As we drew close, I dropped a 15-pound anchor over the side. The rope raced through my hands as it descended. I pulled two extra-long lines that I had on board. The one tied to the anchor was about 100 feet long, and when I felt the rope stop as the anchor settled on the bottom, I tied the end off to the dinghy.

  "I'm going to attach this rope to me, so I should stay within a small radius of the boat."

  Missy nodded as I explained what I was about to do.

  I continued, "If I have to untether myself, I might need you to bring the dinghy to me. You'll need to pull in the anchor and the extra rope. I will stay tethered, though, unless I have to. In that case, I'll give you three sharp pulls in a row. You should notice a change when I let go."

  "Okay," she replied nervously.

  I smiled as I slipped my arms inside the BC and attached the clasps. Donning my mask, I rolled back into the water.

  "Can you hand me my speargun?" I asked Missy.

  I checked the time on my watch. "I won't be down more than twenty minutes."

  The air released from my BC, and I sank below the surface. About 15 feet below the surface, I felt the pressure build in my ears. Over the years, I've done enough diving that I can adjust to it without thought. By the time I passed 40 feet, I had another wave of pressure. This time I pinched my nose and blew out gently to relieve it.

  The rest of the descent was slow and quiet. The stream of bubbles every few seconds as I exhaled was the only sound. I followed the anchor rode down since I was as close as possible to the coordinates when I dropped it.

  The visibility was good, and at 50 feet, I could distinguish the bottom. With the sun out, the light was making its way down to the floor. The depth change that I noted on Carina was caused by a sudden drop-off, and the result was a cliff wall about 75 feet to the west of me.

  I reached the bottom and checked my watch. The descent had taken about three minutes. If I didn't want to make a decompression stop during my ascent, I needed to keep my bottom time to about 20 minutes. I could stretch it to 25, but I like to keep a good buffer for myself.

  The seafloor was mostly sand with a few rocks and coral growths. This was too deep for most of the recreational divers exploring the reefs and wrecks in the Biscayne National Park area. Plus, it was on the farthest edge of the reef. There was still plenty of sea life, but without the extensive outcrops of coral and artificial reefs created by the slew of wrecks in the shallower waters of Biscayne, there were a lot less.

  The fish that were meandering by were large and seemingly unaffected by my presence. A grouper swam up to me curiously watching me. Grouper makes a great sandwich, but many species are overfished. Not being an expert, I usually look for a Scamp Grouper. This one wasn't one of those. When I got back to Carina, I could look it up in a handy field guide I keep aboard. Until then, he could just tag along with me.

  Visibility was incredible down here, and I could still clearly see the surface. The waves and movement of the water made it look like a distorted glass ceiling.

  That also left me somewhat disheartened. There was nothing down here. I wasn't quite sure what I expected. If Tristan was tagging this coordinate for a rendezvous, there should be nothing down here.

  Kicking my feet, I glided along the bottom. A pair of antennae stuck out of a small rock formation. My fins pushed me past until I felt the rope tug against my BC. I'd reached the limit of my radius. Beyond my reach, the seabed looked similar. My time on the bottom had only reached eight minutes. I started on a circle, taking a western bearing. Using the guide rope as a radius, I swam around the bottom.

  When I completed the route, I checked my time. I had been down for 16 minutes. My grouper friend had bored of me and swam off after some small fish. Making my way back toward the rock formation I had passed earlier, I thought I might investigate those antennae.

  Probing the crevice in the rock with the end of my speargun, I coaxed a decent size lobster from his hidey-hole. Snatching him by the tail, I stuck him in the mesh bag hooked to my BC. With a couple of minutes to spare, I searched the rock hole with my spear point until I saw the tell-tale antennae come out of the opening. Swiftly, I grabbed him as well, adding him to my bag as well.

  With my lunch securely fastened to my BC, I checked my time once again. Safely under my 20-minute deadline, I kicked toward the surface. When I passed the 50-foot point, I began looking upward for the dinghy. Inflating my BC a bit, I gave my legs a break as I ascended slightly faster.

  By the time my head broke the surface of the ocean, my BC was fully inflated. The dinghy was about 20 feet from me, and I rolled to my back and pedaled my feet to propel me backward toward it.

  "You're back!" Missy exclaimed as I grabbed the side of the boat.

  Tossing the bag of lobsters into the dinghy, I said, "I brought you lunch."

  She let out an excited squeal as I detached the inflated BC and cylinder from my back. My fins kicked downward, pushing me up over the side of the boat. I sat up and pulled the rest of my gear aboard.

  "Find anything?" Missy asked. "Besides the takeout?"

  "Nothing," I admitted.

  She poked at the bag and jumped back when the lobsters moved. "You do know I can't cook," she said.

  I looked up at her with a grin. "No worries," I promised her. "I can do amazing things with lobster."

  She beamed at me. "Good. Get me back to the boat, and I'll do amazing things too."

  23

  Moving Carina closer to shore, I felt a lot more comfortable with the anchor's holding. We were sitting in about 12 feet of crystal-clear water with a white, sandy bottom. Lowering the anchor slowly, I slipped the engine into reverse to pull the ground tackle deeper into the sand. When the boat was secure, I fired up the little propane grill attached to the railing of my cockpit. The two lobster tails fit nicely on the grate, and I seasoned t
hem with some garlic butter seasoning.

  While I was cooking lunch, Missy dove into the ocean. She was about 50 yards off the starboard side, snorkeling a small reef. I had restocked some of my provisions earlier in the week, and I found some instant mashed potatoes and a can of green beans. The can of beans fit on the grill, and all I needed for the mashed potatoes was some hot water.

  The art of cooking aboard is tricky. When I'm out for an extended cruise, most of my food is easily stored-lots of canned foods, instant potatoes and noodles, and dried foods. Between spearfishing and casting a line, most of my protein comes from the sea. Fresh produce comes from local markets or bartering with locals. My refrigerator is tiny, and only things that absolutely have to be kept cold, like beer, get that special storage.

  "Missy!" I shouted at the figure, kicking erratically along the surface. I might need to teach her the best method for swimming in fins so that the kicks didn't break the surface.

  Her head popped up and looked about curiously, reminding me of some video I had once seen of a sea lion.

  "Lunch!" My voice raised above the waves.

  She responded with an understanding nod and began kicking awkwardly back to me. I took her mask and fins so that she could hoist herself up on the boarding ladder.

  "There was a baby stingray out there," she exclaimed as her wet body raised out of the water. "That was so cool!"

  "Awesome," I said, smiling at her enthusiasm.

  "Do you ever get tired of that?" she asked.

  "No," I answered. "I'll spend four to six hours a day in the water. At least most days when I'm at anchor."

  "I just don't do it enough," she sighed as she settled onto the cockpit bench and donned her Prada sunglasses. "Lived here my whole life, and I can probably count the times I've been on the water on both hands."

  "Ugh," I grunted before handing her a plate. The meat was bursting through the lobster tail from the cut I made along the top. A square of soft butter melted over the bright red shell.

  "Wow," she said. "You should be cooking more often."

  "Don't let it fool you," I confessed. "Lobster is easy. The rule is just don't overcook it."

  "So is this really what your life is like out here?"

  I shrugged. "Some. Usually, I don't have a schedule. I'll find an island with a nice protected cove and drop anchor for days. Sometimes weeks. There's a lot of time in the water followed by long naps in the afternoon."

  "Does it get lonely?" she asked.

  "I get a lot of alone time," I said, "but there are often lots of other boats around."

  "Lots of girls in bikinis?" Her eyes flashed green with jealousy.

  "Not that it matters," I stated, "but most of the girls in bikinis are with significant others. Not a lot of single women sailing alone. Sadly."

  She rolled her eyes.

  I watched her swallow a bite of lobster. Her eyes closed as she savored the morsel. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail, but four or five strands still fluttered around her face.

  "Of course," I commented, "the offer still stands if you want to come along. We could do a month or two. Just to see if you like it."

  "Who'd run the Tilly?" she questioned.

  "Hire a general manager. Take on a partner. It's not like it's impossible."

  She stared across the water, lost in thought for a moment. Finally, she breathed, "It would be nice."

  "I can't promise lobster at every meal, but during bug season, I usually get one or two a day."

  She leaned back as if she was considering the offer. "Why do you think your friend saved these coordinates?" she asked, veering the subject back to Tristan.

  "It's a wild goose chase," I admitted. "He might have just found a couple of good fishing holes. The worst case is I spend a couple of days with you on the boat in paradise."

  "That's your worst-case?" she asked in jest.

  "Yep, my life is pretty good."

  "You still want to check the other spot?"

  I nodded. "Might as well. It's only a few hours' sail south. We can, at the very least, squeeze in some time in the water."

  Her pupils peeped over her glasses as she offered a salacious smile.

  With Carina's holding secure, we zipped around for a few hours in the dinghy. Missy enjoyed exploring a couple of the wrecks, that over the years, had begun teeming with life. The coup d'etat was the Mandalay, a steel-hulled schooner that operated in the early 60's as a luxury cruise liner. The sailing vessel ran aground on New Year's Day in 1966.

  "This is so cool," she gasped through her snorkel after a moray eel wriggled past us.

  Missy was enthralled in the sea life among the rotting hulks of wood and metal.

  "Come on," I urged her. "We need to get back."

  Her eyes seemed to deflate. Seeing someone fall in love with the sea is an awe-inspiring thing. I grew up pretty far inland in Arkansas. The best we had around there was the Barnes River and a few lakes in the Ozarks. I was intent on finding my way to the salt and sand from the first day my feet were in the surf. I was maybe eight or nine. My dreams were cast as I watched crabs scamper toward the receding waves.

  Putting my hand against her tight rear, I pushed her up into the dinghy. She rolled onto her back, and I heard her laughing. I pulled myself over the gunwale and onto the boat's deck.

  "How soon do we have to set sail?" she asked.

  "It should take us about three hours or so to get there. We'll have plenty of time before dark."

  She glanced around and rasped, "We're all alone here."

  I grinned at her giddiness before she pushed me back onto the deck of the dinghy and pulled her top off.

  The dinghy seemed to buck and sway on anchor as Missy rocked back and forth. The waves bashed against the hull, drowning out her moans. When she rolled off me and onto her back, we were both staring at the white cloud wisps swirling overhead.

  "That was something," she said with a giggle.

  "Mmm-hmm," I agreed.

  "This isn't comfortable," she stated.

  The stringer of the boat was running up my back, but I wasn't about to agree with her or complain about it. A lesson I never had to learn was that if a woman was willing to have sex with you, never criticize or complain about any of it. Just go along and be happy because somewhere out there are millions of men not getting laid at that moment.

  She pulled herself up and immediately fell back down beside me.

  "There's someone there," she mumbled.

  I lifted my head and peeked over the side of the dinghy. A 25-foot sailboat had dropped anchor about 50 feet from us. Two kids, probably teenagers, were flaking the mainsail. The girl was tan and blond with a lithe body that she was flaunting for the mop-headed boy, whose freckles I could see from even this distance. A visible giggle came out of the girl as she glanced our way. She made a comment to her friend, who shared her amusement.

  I laid back down. "Yep, we got company."

  "This is embarrassing," Missy muttered.

  I rolled onto my elbow. "Why?" I asked her. "You are a gorgeous lady. That little girl is jealous as shit. She should be worried that her little boyfriend will be thinking about you later because I promise you the kid is wishing he was me right now."

  Her face swept in and kissed me hard. "You do know the right things to say," she said. "Now hand me my bathing suit and get me out of here."

  I kissed her back and stood up, naked, and waved at the kids. Both of them looked away quickly, and I pulled up the anchor, started the motor, and drove toward Carina.

  "Are you trying to give the kid a complex?" Missy joked as she sat up and found her bathing suit.

  "You know," I said, "there's no need to get dressed. We'll be on the boat alone for a few hours. Might as well get rid of all the tan lines."

  "Nice try," she retorted as she slipped her feet back into the thong.

  "Darn it," I muttered with feigned disappointment.

  Transferring the snorkel gear to Carina took only a
few minutes. I hoisted the dinghy up on the davits and secured it.

  Before I pulled up the anchor, Missy leaned over and kissed me. "Thank you for bringing me along."

  I smiled up at her.

  "This might have been the best day I've had in years."

  "Glad I could be a part of that," I responded.

  The boat vibrated as the motor on the anchor windlass whirred, and the stainless steel chain sounded like it was grinding through the gears as it automatically stowed itself in the chain locker.

  Wrapping the main halyard around the winch next to me, I pulled the rope hand over hand, using the winch as a pulley to hoist the mainsail. The wind was ready to fill the sail. We were facing the wind so that when the main was fully raised, we wouldn't start racing along. I steered the helm until the boom swung to the port, and the bow pushed through the waves.

  "Hand me that halyard," I told Missy. She gave me a blank look, and I pointed to the rope next to her.

  She handed it to me. "Why don't you just call it a rope?" she asked.

  "I don't know," I replied as I repeated the process I did when I raised the mainsail. This time I was unfurling the genoa sail on the bow of the boat. As the canvas caught the wind, the sail came unrolled in a flash. I cinched it tight on the winch and used the winch handle to flatten the sail.

  I continued to explain when I had finished setting the sail. "When you're on a boat, they don't call them ropes. They're considered lines. The ones that raise the sails are called halyards. If you want to control the direction of the sails, they are called sheets. Don't ask me what genius decided to come up with the various names."

  "That's a lot to remember," she said.

  I shrugged. "I call things by the wrong name all the time."

  With both sails up and the wind from the east, Carina rode the wind, clipping along at about 12 knots. The boat was heeling on its side, and I noticed Missy silently grip the side. The sensation of a sailboat riding on a tilt is somewhat disconcerting the first few times. I made some adjustments to the helm and sails, and the vessel righted itself, giving Missy a little comfort.

  "Dolphins!" Missy exclaimed several minutes later. She pointed off the starboard side where two dolphins were swimming about 50 yards off. She smiled and leaned back on the bench, soaking in the ride around her.