“Albatross.” Walter smiled. “The bird that made the breeze to blow. A good omen.”
Ah, the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Again. I'd almost learned it by heart. Mariner’s ship gets lost, albatross appears in the fog and leads the ship to safety and fair weather, mariner in boredom kills the bird, bringing a curse upon the ship. I scanned the sky until I found the black-footed bird gliding on giant wings, wingspan a good seven feet across. It was, after all, just a bird, but I wouldn’t say no to good omens.
The bird crossed behind the boat and Captain Keasling came into my line of sight, surveying the scene from her raised platform. She eyed the albatross, wearing a ferocious frown. I thought of the ancient mariner with his crossbow.
She turned her frown down to the water.
I followed her look.
The surface of the sea was thick with feathers and birds on the attack and it took me some time to filter out the birds and pay heed to the fish. Small silvery arrows feebly schooling, bigger duller fish in blues and greens, strange fish with blunt heads and big jaws and slim bodies. All of them just hanging out. They didn’t dive deep to hide. They seemed dazed, and I guessed I’d be dazed too under such ferocious attack. But yet, they didn’t follow that primal instinct to escape, survive. They appeared, I thought, depressed. How crazy was this?
And then someone yelped and now the sea came alive from the depths. Huge maroon tube-bodied things shot upward all around our boat, opening their red arms to engulf the dazed fishes, extending their tentacles to hook onto their prey and pull it down to parrot beaks. They struck anything and everything. They snagged small birds. They went after larger birds, which screamed and rose into the sky. They went after birds that were going after them. When a nervy seagull circled back in, a squid swiped its tentacles into the sky and pulled down the gull.
I thought, so that’s what they look like.
Tolliver, at the rail outside the wheelhouse, looked my way and nodded.
A hush fell over the boat.
Captain Keasling broke the quiet. “All right, folks,” she boomed, “just squid feeding. Usually come up at night, but...” Her voice trailed off. She regained it. “Must be the banquet. They’re called Humboldt squid. Jumbo size! Devils of the deep! What a show! Don’t forget that when it comes time to tip.”
Okay, I thought, but what caused the banquet?
I left my spot and went over to join Lanny. The deckhand was glued to the rail, watching the show like everybody else. I moved beside him and asked, “What happened to the fish?”
He turned. Broke into a big smile. “You feel good now?”
“Yes. Thank you. Really.” I nodded at the sea. “But what about them?”
He frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Seasick like me?” I smiled.
“Fish don’t get seasick.”
“Good point.”
“If Jock was alive, he’d know.”
“Who’s Jock?”
“Jock Cousteau.” Lanny touched his beanie. “He took care of the ocean.”
Ah. Jacques Cousteau. I’d seen his films in high school bio class—undersea explorer, early champion of the ocean, had something to do with inventing scuba diving, wore a red beanie. I said, “I’m sure there are people now who take care of the ocean.”
“Not like Jock.”
***
Doug Tolliver instructed Captain Keasling to bring the Sea Spray in closer to the rock.
Birdshit Rock was well-named, a wave-scoured mesa just poking above the water, a bleak outpost. Right now it was blanketed with birds and sea grass.
Hard to ascertain the geology of the rock through the fog and the birds. Sandstone, most likely. Not out of the question that it included iron oxides, but that would have lent it a reddish tint. This rock looked whitish. Could be due to all that birdshit. In any case, I wondered how a boat would get close enough to scrape against it without getting more seriously damaged. The Sea Spray certainly wasn’t going to be able to get close enough for us to hack off a sample. Indeed, Walter was taking a picture with his telephoto lens, which should at the least allow us to distinguish the rock type.
And then Walter whispered, “Oh dear.”
“What?” I said. “What?”
Before he could answer I heard Captain Keasling mutter “what the fuck?” and then she cleared her throat and muttered “sorry folks, slip of the tongue,” and when I looked at her she was frowning more ferociously than ever. She turned her back to stare at the rock.
Walter passed me the camera at the same time that the boat drifted closer and then I didn’t need the telephoto to see what was going on.
Everybody saw.
Again, a hush fell over the boat.
I could now see the upper slope of the rock rising from the sea, and what I’d taken at foggier distance to be some sort of sea grass I now identified as something else entirely. It was a mass of moving bodies. It was a mass of reddish crabs creeping up the flank and the word that came to my mind was escape. They were escaping the sea. Unlike the dazed and dying fish that littered the water, these creatures were able to climb out.
And the birds made a banquet yet again.
CHAPTER 5
The Sea Spray left the strange zone and headed “back to the barn,” as Captain Keasling put it.
She rebuffed all questions about the ailing sea creatures, about the frenzied crabs. “Go ask a biologist,” she said, and retreated into the wheelhouse.
There were none aboard.
There were only a couple of uneasy jokes. Should’ve brought a net, scoop up dinner. If I were a crab I’d get the hell out of there, too.
And then silence, thick as the fog.
Sometime later, someone shouted “Whale!”
I’d had my fill of sea creatures but I roused myself to turn and look. And I thought no, it’s not a whale, it’s something else. It was black and shiny, just breaking the surface, off in the near distance.
Doug Tolliver went to the rail and stared, and then he dashed to the wheelhouse and spoke to Captain Keasling, and then the Sea Spray abruptly turned course and headed straight for the thing that wasn’t a whale.
And then motored down.
Surprises upon surprises.
A scuba diver floated belly-up out here in the middle of nowhere, no other boat in sight.
A buzz ran through the passengers. Shock. Thrill.
The diver was in full gear. His buoyancy compensator was keeping him afloat, so he must have inflated the air bladder on the BC at some point. And then, it appeared, passed out. The regulator had fallen out of his mouth. He made no movements.
And then the captain and the boatman were in motion. Keasling shouted “get the horseshoe” and Lanny went running and Keasling backed the square end of the boat up to the diver, precise as a surgeon, and then Lanny reappeared wearing a life vest, carrying a harness, and he opened the gate that let onto the ladder and started down.
We ganged the rails to watch.
Lanny was already on the little dive platform just above the water line. He clipped himself to the ladder with a safety line and got on his knees and looped the horseshoe harness over the diver. And then Keasling was there at the gate. Lanny tossed her a coiled yellow rope that attached to the harness. She played out the rope, bellowing, “I need big strong men on the line,” and bird watchers and whale watchers alike scrambled and hauled. Lanny came up first, guiding the rope, bumping the diver aboard.
They stripped him of his BC and tank and laid him out on a bench.
The heavyset man, my neighbor who’d scorned pelicans, pushed his way forward—“I’m a doctor, I’m a doctor”—and he bent over the body.
Captain Keasling and Doug Tolliver herded the rest of us back.
The diver groaned and muttered words I did not understand.
And now the doctor was stripping the remainder of the diver’s gear. Mask, hood, weight belt, dive bag went onto the deck and Lanny edged in and shelved the equipment on the b
ench, out of the way. The doctor checked the diver’s vitals, flinging words. Alive. Shock. Hypothermia. And then he called Captain Keasling in close and asked her, “Is that from a jellyfish?”
I angled for a view and saw a wicked red blistering welt across the diver’s face.
“That jelly we saw earlier?” somebody said. “With the purple racing stripes?”
The talk on the boat turned to the ghostly jellyfish, although who knew where that had been in relation to where we were now. In any case, surely there was more than one jellyfish in this ocean.
Captain Keasling studied the diver. “Purple-stripe gives a hellacious sting. Not usually lethal.”
Well that was reassuring.
Walter moved close to me. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
I nodded. The missing fisherman, the damaged boats, the strange zone, and now the diver. All in the same patch of ocean. And yet, it’s a big ocean. If we looked in the right places we’d find a dozen calamities, a dozen inexplicable zones. Or more. Or less. I really had no idea because I found this ocean more mysterious than the center of the earth. Still, I did know my carbon-oxygen cycle—I knew that half the breaths I take come courtesy of the sea. And I was growing a little protective of it.
My attention caught on Lanny. He had hold of the diver’s mesh bag, strangling it by the neck, twisting the mesh around something reddish inside, and I wouldn’t have paid it much heed but for the stricken look on Lanny’s face.
I saw Captain Keasling take notice as well, wearing that frown of hers.
I wondered if the boatman was somehow mishandling the diver’s gear. I drifted over to Keasling with the intention of asking if Lanny was okay, putting in a good word for him, in appreciation for the fennel and the poem. I said, “He did a great job. Pulling in the diver.” I added, “You both did.”
She gave a brusque nod. “We train.”
“Ah.”
“My boatman’s a little slow.” She tapped her head.
“I realize that.”
She turned to me now. “Doesn’t mean he needs a special friend.”
CHAPTER 6
Sandy Keasling stood on the dock, frowning.
There was a time, she recalled, when she’d sung out the tides. High, low, spring tide, slack tide, higher-high water and lower-low water. Neap tide, her favorite, because that’s when the tidal range varied least and low water was not so low and a skipper was less likely to run her boat aground.
There was a time when she’d sung out loud in the wheelhouse.
Now she stood on the dock without a song.
The ambulance was here and the paramedics worked on the diver.
Doug Tolliver and the geologist, Walter-something, were examining the dive gear to see if anything else went wrong with the diver. Doug was a diver himself and so he’d know what he was doing, checking the tank and the hoses. She wondered if Walter-something thought he was going to find some sea soil caught in the crevices. She wondered about his eyesight. He looked old, with his thinning hair and weathered skin. Looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors. Still at it, so she guessed he knew what he was doing.
The other geologist, Cassie-something, was working at the spots on the Sea Spray. Young—well, maybe into her thirties. The looks-with-brains type. All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed but those cool gray eyes watching, watching. Sandy wondered if Cassie-something was going to find out how the spots got there.
Eh, she remembered their names well enough. Walter Shaws and Cassie Oldfield. She just didn’t want to know them.
The one she wanted to know was the injured diver.
Lanny was gawking at the diver and she needed to see what he saw.
But she couldn’t shake the damn bird-watching doctor. Badgering her for a refund. He thought he deserved a free trip since he’d done all that doctoring on board. She nodded, looking for her chance with the diver. When the doctor wouldn’t shut up she told him to go to the office and tell them Captain Keasling said give him a refund and two free tickets for another trip. Hell, give him a lifetime pass.
Satisfied, he left.
Doug Tolliver stood up and she caught his eye and nodded at the dive gear and he made the okay sign.
She looked back to the diver. He sure wasn’t okay. Looked unconscious.
She wasn’t the only one watching. Half the passengers crowded around, like this was part of the show. Whales and birds and squid and whacked-out crabs—and a goddamn rescue as a grand finale—wasn’t that enough? Nah, let’s stick around and see if the victim’s gonna croak.
And Lanny was beside himself. Hands clapped over his mouth. The way he looked when he’d done something wrong.
What had he done? She sighed. Had to be something. It was always something. And he was going to get himself in trouble. If he wasn’t there already.
There was a time, Sandy thought, when she knew control, when things went her way, just as easy as putting her hands on the wheel.
But that was over five years ago, before The Shitstorm.
Now, she was drifting sideways toward the rocks.
The paramedics lifted the diver onto a gurney, jacked it up, and rolled it into the back of the ambulance.
She headed over, racking her brain for a way to get a minute alone with the diver. She’d read his name on his tank, written in black marker—John Silva. He’d been babbling in Portuguese when the paramedics offloaded him. The Portuguese for John was Joao. She knew that; read it somewhere. So he’d anglicized the name. So maybe he spoke some English. If she ever got the chance to talk to him.
Lanny saw her coming. He did his herky-jerky thing, arms and legs starting to move before he knew where he wanted to move to. He sure didn’t want to move Sandy’s way, that was clear. Now he decided. Up the dock to shore. He wore his duffel with the sling across his chest and the bag snugged against his hip.
The ambulance door slammed shut.
She broke into a jog and cut Lanny off.
He gave her the big smile.
She gave him her glare and it wiped the smile off his face. Always so easy. Sometimes, that made her heart turn over. Sometimes, that pissed her off. Now, pissed, she said, “Where are you going?”
He looked at the ground. “I don’t know.”
“We’ve got the afternoon trip. You don’t have time to go wandering.”
He nodded.
“Your sandwich is in the office.”
He nodded.
“You know who that diver is?”
He looked up. Wide eyes. “No.”
“You sure you haven’t worked with him? In your dive job.”
“I didn’t dive since two weeks ago.”
“I’m not asking when you last had a dive job, I’m asking if you ever worked with the diver we pulled on board.”
“I never did.”
“Then why did you take something out of his dive bag?”
He pressed his lips together, tight as a seam.
“Lanny.” She waited. “Lanny.”
“I didn’t!” It burst from him.
She was stunned. He never lied to her—never. But she’d seen with her own eyes, him with his hand in the dive bag, something red in there, and then passengers blocked her view, and then when she could see him again he was stuffing something in his duffel bag. And then Cassie-something interrupted and then Lanny got real busy coiling the Lifesling rope. And Sandy hadn’t had a moment alone with him all the way back to the dock. She’d been on the radio calling the ambulance. She’d been steering the boat. She’d been dealing with Doug Tolliver. She’d been dealing with the damn doctor. And now, finally, she was face to face with Lanny. Sandy clenched her hands. She’d never in her life been afraid to face hard facts, even facts she hated. She hated the facts that were now in her face. Lanny stole something, and lied about it. She pointed to his duffel. “Empty it.”
He saw that she was calling his bluff. Tears started in his eyes.
She said, steely, “Show me what’s in your duf
fel.”
He hugged the bag tighter against his hip. He was breathing hard, snorting through his nose. He unsealed his lips and said, “I have to go to the bathroom,” and turned and skedaddled up the dock.
There were bathrooms in the café at the end of the dock. True.
But he could have used the head on board the Sea Spray.
She set off after him. Not running. Trudging, heart heavy as an anchor.
Lanny reached the end of the dock, looked back at her, then dodged into the café.
“Whassup, Sandy?”
She jumped. She’d been so focused on Lanny that she hadn’t noticed Jake coming up on her right. Jake like a crab, always coming at her sideways. She turned to face him full-on. “What?”
“What?” Jake threw up his hands. “That’s what I came over to ask you, Sandy.” He jerked a thumb at the ambulance, the crowd. “You finally gaff one of your paying passengers?”
She gave Jake her glare. Never worked on him, he just threw a shit-eating grin right back at her. She said, “Don’t you have a business to run?”
“Near runs itself,” he said.
She looked past him, at the next dock over, at the racks of kayaks, at the couple and their two kids all puffed up in life vests. Waiting.
He said, “I only have one tandem on dock. Other’s due in soon. If I had the ready cash I’d invest in more boats. Alas.” He lifted his palms.
She stared at Jake, his ridiculous green hair. He’d showed up one morning last month and told everybody on the docks that he was going green. Captain Kayak, eco-friendly boats for rent. And damned if business didn’t pick up. But he didn’t fool her, she knew the only green he cared about was the kind in his wallet.
She said, “Don’t cry to me. I’m out ten thou thanks to you and Robbie Donie.”
“Ah,” he said, “that’s another matter.”
She waited, wondering if he was going to say anything more on that matter.
He didn’t. “So,” he said, “what happened between you and Lucky Lanny?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing sure took off like his butt’s on fire.”
“He had to pee.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Gee, let’s count. First, we’ve got one victim carried off the Sea Spray. Wearing dive gear, which is curious because I swear you took off this morning with a load of lookie-loos, not divers. Second, we’ve got one freaked-out Lanny. Third, we’ve got one upset Captain Keasling.”
Skeleton Sea Page 3