Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  The rebreather will also expel no bubbles and make no noise, rendering the diver non-threatening, so fish will approach socially, with no fear. The rebreather will come in time for its rightful phase on the wheel of marine life photography, the phase of the big ocean animals.

  Meanwhile, the larger format printer doesn’t swell Ravid’s head but reminds him of the work ahead. The new printer sits on a folding banquet table in the little room shared with Little Dog, and is covered against dust, salt air and dog hair with a soft, thick blanket, which makes lint, so the printer is covered with a sheet of plastic, with the cotton blanket over all. But plastic can capture condensation — not to worry, once a damp-chaser is plugged into the wall beneath the printer, so its ripple of heat will chase the dampness before it collects, perfecting the dust and dampness defense system.

  So the future ferments at last to find a dive instructor focused on a fish or two, getting it right and righter still. Make that egregiously focused to the point of distraction. Bored to tears, Little Dog hangs out in the yard to play with others less fortunate than himself.

  The gallery — as the little room is called — fills. Following Moorish Mama and Baby Idol comes a study in reef shrimp; the banded coral variety are common as sand fleas and taken for granted by Moeava and a few divers who agree that the red and white banded critters are fun to watch but hardly represent a rare or unique sighting. Ravid’s wry smile reflects harsh wisdom on what is rare and what is gone — on the future and its destructive needs, as demonstrated in Hawaii.

  Like the great American buffalo or the Carolina parakeet or the Hawaiian monk seal or the hawksbill turtle — or the giant Pacific leatherback, a turtle growing to nine feet and generating its own gravity field, cruising like a small submarine with an entourage of remora, sharks and other scaly socialites angling among the sunbeams at hardly forty feet. All gone or going away with longing and regret for the spreading plague of human needs...

  Stop.

  The banded coral reef shrimp and scarlet cleaner shrimp are as plentiful on Moorea’s reefs as they once were in Hawaii, before they got slurped by the aquarium catchers and died in transit, or amused their keepers briefly before dying in captivity. The banded shrimp dazzles with alternating red and white bands that cross-section a body that grows to an inch or two and extends another two inches to the tiny pincers. Also known as the candy cane shrimp, they feed mostly at night. The scarlet cleaners are golden hued with a scarlet stripe down the back, two white stripes to either side and an accessible nature: they feed in the day.

  With the most accurate foresight, that based on hindsight, Ravid shoots these angular critters from every angle. The shrimps raise claws in greeting, tipping their hats or stroking their chin whiskers, their color, detail and dramatic lighting underscored in extreme macro. Yes, he splurged on the flat port after spending hundreds on the dome that would suit any wide angle lens forever — except for the hundred five millimeter macro, which takes a flat port, but it was only eight hundred — each, for the lens and flat port — and this is art, which calls for whatever it takes, not a budget.

  Besides, with each tiny spike showing tinier barbs and hairs in monstrous detail, the shrimp visage goes from mechanical wonder to yet another otherworldly personality. This miniature universe emotes moods, fears, appetites and comforts in line with a social order, which is conducive to full-range portraiture for the shrimp clan, too.

  The more adventurous of the crusty little beasts are pursued to their place of work. That is, these shrimp clean, which is not to say they do floors, but they do teeth — long, pointy teeth — many teeth slanted back for better ripping and tearing, in some cases growing across the roof of the mouth of the predator, who opens wide so the little dental technicians can get in deep, to pluck the most stubborn and succulent snags.

  The standard cleaner shrimp shot is not original but rather common among dive leaders seeking tips. The dive leader takes the regulator from his gob, and opens wide. The shrimp is placed inside the mouth hole, where it begins cleaning, with likely less fervor than usual, since Spam and eggs are generally not on the marine menu. Then again, anything goes for these ultimate scavengers.

  But a shrimp or any animal in unnatural contact with a human is not art, according to the rules to create by, as established by Ravid Rockulz, who can nonetheless allow a shrimp or two to take the bait he has pressed between thumb and forefinger. Then they take the ride to the nearest eel and walk on in.

  Many eels open wide for many shrimps to clean their choppers. The show is compelling, with spectacular teeth of ghastly potential and color in death defying array. The dragon eels effuse drama, with their stripes, long nostrils and snaggle teeth, as the fragile shrimp work with immunity and deliberation. This violent potential and fearful ambience is more akin to Vicious Killers of the Deep than to art. Then comes the teleconverter for twice the magnification, for closing in on eel fangs as big as icy stalactites, with otherworldly shrimp working the crevasses, in detail so demanding that human eyes are not easily stopped from watching. This intrusive proximity is another mystery, one that makes a man wonder why the eels tolerate a lens within two inches of the gob, but only briefly, till focus is found and the shutter snaps.

  Ravid favors a gaping whitemouth moray, with its needle teeth in a snow white mouth perfectly framing the banded shrimp, who reaches up for a nibble and down for a nosh in a rare stretch between upper and lower bridges that blends the eel’s white mouth with the shrimp’s white bands while contrasting both with the shrimp’s red bands. And we have a winner! The shot is further perfected through the software magic of lens vignetting and chromatic aberration.

  Monique enhances the magic. She’s never been called upon to help an ailing fish but finds herself pondering gill-breathers these days. She informs Ravid that her little animal hospital qualifies as a nonprofit on several American websites offering software for the cause at a fraction of retail. So an aspiring artist gets the Photoshop ensemble for a hundred fifty instead of eighteen hundred and soars again to the summit of rendering.

  Working and saving every franc to the given amount required for the next purchase — make that investment, in art and life — Ravid soon feels the pull away from macro and into seascape, which can be tricky, since water will compress suspended particulates, hazing what appears to be clear. Never mind; this too is an act of faith. The new lens is a wildlife special number that would be available as an off-brand duplicate at significant savings to those of limited resources and commitment, but is not viable to a purist seeking perfection. How long does it take a dive leader to save fifteen hundred dollars for a lens and then another few hundred for port extensions and gear rings to support it? One day is all, and then the next, till it’s done.

  One solution to the problem of haze compression is to shoot only in blue water over rocky bottom — or no bottom, in the water column at, say, a hundred feet on a six hundred foot bottom. It’s a better chance for no particulates here, only the annual migrations, first of the hammerheads in extra large to huge, cruising in great schools with no known motivation — known by humans, that is. These sharks know something, or feel it, though they’re indifferent to the marine mammal among them, the odd one with the camera squirming for an angle in a three-knot current, then rolling like a seal to silhouette the massive forms a few feet overhead against the faint shimmer and mottled surface a hundred feet up.

  Then come the rays, spotted eagle rays in the hundreds and thousands with a few stingrays in the mix, and a lovely integration of hammerheads with a few odd apex predators too, big jacks and a few barracuda. It’s a flotilla of sea power a human navy could envy, except that the fishy armada has no destructive potential as a means to victory, to stabilize the region and secure a nation’s future. Don’t get a rowdy man started.

  All the island groups but the Marquesas are old enough for surrounding atolls — peripheral reefs with lagoons inside. Tidal flow through the passes can thicken with migratory species.
All atolls have passes, but Rangiroa is famous for its nominal development of human habitat. The lagoon is mostly eighty feet deep across its fifty by seventy miles. The atoll rises barely above sea level on a nine-mile stretch of this perimeter, and seems saved from the curse of development by the prospect for imminent flooding. It seems a good fit for a diver/artist enamored of natural anarchy in the offing, but he still needs a secure place for his dive and camera gear.

  Monique first suggests Tiputa Pass at Rangiroa as a new approach, a departure for a while, from the up close and personal profiles of community fish and to encounters with the game fish who run fast, run deep and traffic the pass in November.

  November already? God, time flies. Well, that’s not for two and a half months yet, leaving time enough to save the money.

  Monique has heard for years about the show in Rangiroa and fantasized seeing it but never will, because she can’t dive, or at least never has. It is impossible, with so much stuff to know and tend to. Ravid shows his own pout and lets it go, because she’s right. But he might be wrong. Why shouldn’t a fantasy come true for one so helpful to so many, including him?

  Does she want to try it shallow? No, because it’s impossible, and she’s too young to drown. He promises to keep her from drowning. She juts her lower lip and puffs. Fine, forget it, though he’s seen worse prospects go to thirty-five feet. She trembles, indicating the possible.

  She’s paler and thinner at the water’s edge — her blue vein network constricted under the goose bump horde clambering on her translucent skin. A small wetsuit is baggy, so he tells her she has room in there to entertain. She’s in no mood for jokes, especially his. He says he’ll get her a child’s wetsuit for the next dive, and that will keep her all the warmer. She says that won’t be necessary, meaning both a different wetsuit and a second dive.

  Hereata watches from higher up, later remarking on the poor girl’s stick figure and frailty. Though not generous, Hereata’s critique is only physical, because Monique poses no threat, not even on glimpsing the giant moray lurking in her man’s skivvies. Monique shows up in her clothing and changes into her wetsuit on the spot. Hereata’s knowing smile is meant to remind her man of his bounty.

  Ravid can plainly see yes, muskmelons are bigger than kumquats. Still, he’s taken by Monique’s determination. She doesn’t want to do this but is resigned to getting one more delusion off her list, so she can get on with things.

  Like most beginners, she does all right. Her awkward uncertainty goes away in the water, as she breathes through her regulator, deflates her BC and feels the phenomenon of breathing under water. Though hardly a waterdog, she can hold her own with supervision and likely survive without. So he gives her the book and says they’ll dive a few more times to get through the skills, and then he’ll test her on the book.

  But she declines; it is impossible. The passes are different.

  That may well be, but she should continue till impossibility is proven.

  So she warms up on a few more dives and a better wetsuit and soon eases into the prospect of diving the pass at Rangiroa. He emphasizes the tricky nature and constant hazard of currents, assuring her that any drift dive is a push for a beginner, unless she has her own private dive instructor, so she must stay very near, but out of his camera shots.

  Though stoic by nature and inured to a world that abuses its dogs and cats on a daily basis, Monique jumps for joy. Here is an adventure at last, an outing with wild animals. Could it get any better?

  She pledges to be useful as a translator and to arrange a dirt-cheap bungalow run by her friends at Rangiroa. And so they go, bonding in a way unanticipated, not sexually but as friends, beyond sex or sexual needs, which is not to say asexual or sexless, since he does consent to sexual intercourse on request. She is clinical but heartfelt. She hasn’t been with a man in many years and doesn’t think she’s missed it but wants to see — and maybe she’s curious to ride the giant moray of the Speedo depths, though this last is Ravid’s vanity or Hereata’s idea or something he wants free of but isn’t quite sure how to ditch.

  She asks for this personal favor on the airplane, on the ninety-minute flight to Rangiroa, neither taking his hand nor seeking eye contact but rather presenting a need for closure on a tired subject — not another delusion but an angst. She doesn’t want to satisfy a curiosity and certainly has no itch to scratch. Coolly indifferent to intimacy on a physical level, she turns to him, awaiting his response. “It is okay if you want to say no.”

  He asks why she would compromise her integrity and reveal her most personal self just to be with a man. She assures him that neither he nor his merguez has any bearing on her integrity, and she doesn’t want to be with him or any man — not the whole man at any rate. She only wants to feel the fat sausage move about between her legs, to be sure she isn’t missing something. She doesn’t think she is but would hate to find out later that all the fuss is actually warranted.

  “But you’ve done it before. You know how it feels.”

  “I told you, years ago. He was a mean little boy. Too rough, too fast, spiteful and vindictive. Besides, we change, maybe.”

  Besides, she doesn’t see Ravid as any man.

  He strikes the humble countenance and waits for praise. It comes faintly, when she describes his emotion-free life and focused application of love — on his dog and his fish, which she admires, making him the perfect candidate for her experiment.

  “You mean that I’m loveless.”

  “Au contraire!”

  “What if you like it?”

  She shrugs. “Then we’ll do it again — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I meant that we could do it again if you like it too.”

  “What if I like it and you don’t?”

  She grants him the negative look a woman might give to a naughty idiot.

  He jokes lamely that the sausage isn’t so fat. She agrees; she’s seen much bigger. He doesn’t ask where, so she says anytime, at the butcher — tout à l’heure, à la charcuterie...

  He doubts it, unless she means the bratwurst, but the frogs don’t eat bratwurst. So he lets it go. He doubts she’ll follow through but doesn’t mind if she does; she’s so good to the little animals. She deserves it. Will the little Colonel stand at attention for Monique? He feels confident, and he does miss the old variety, and this is far from home.

  He has a better idea of who she is and what she needs after going in-out for three minutes while she stares in medium discomfort verging on disbelief, till she says, “Wait!”

  She rolls over to be on top, where she moves excruciatingly slowly in painful disbelief, unless that’s unbelievable pain. He pulls her gently down to kiss her cold, dry lips and tongue her kumquats. She trembles. Hardly an orgasmic prelude, her slight fibrillation is enough to give a grown man regrets. Squeezing her eyes shut through a few semaphores, whimpers and denials, she finally holds her head in both hands as if to endure. Their mutual embarrassment winds down when he says, “I hope you’ll excuse me,” and fires away.

  “Oh, mais oui.” She smiles halfway and winces the other half, promising that this won’t happen again and apologizing for exploitation of his weakness, but she had to see and didn’t think he’d mind.

  “You didn’t like it.”

  She puffs her lip and raises both eyebrows as if to assess objectively. “It is different. No, I do not like it, but that is not you. I like you. It is not fair that men can achieve climax with anybody.”

  He wants to tell her that he will always value the honor of dropping his load into her, but thinks discretion the better part of valor.

  That’s late afternoon. The awkwardness lingers to early evening and dinner at another lean-to serving family fare, where she reaches across the table for his hand and asks that he please keep their little experiment a secret, especially with Hereata, a special friend who she wouldn’t hurt for the world. Then, either methodically or spontaneously, she checks out the waitress as he might have done. She doesn’t sugg
est a joint campaign, but her tastes are clear — legs, ass and tits. Her taste is like his or an apex predator’s. He asks if she can achieve climax with any woman.

  “No, of course not. We’re different that way. It has to be right.”

  Well, sexual appetite is hardly adequate table talk, so they let it sink under two excellent wines that ease them into the logistics and objectives of the dive tomorrow morning.

  During that dive she follows well, holding on when she can, hovering nearby when he moves fast or rolls over to catch an angle. She checks her depth and time when he does — until they drift like flotsam. She watches him less fearfully, gaining comfort.

  The shots capture the pass and passing minions in sweeping displays of a food chain in moving meditation. Here is the flow of life as it takes a reprieve from life and death to repose in grace and contentment. This is not the lion lying with the lamb but the shark cruising with the ray. Without hunger, fear or spawning drive, thousands of predators come to the shrine of their pilgrimage, which is a feeling and a place. The process is framed in the unique perspective of that unique marine photographer Ravid Rockulz. Have you heard of him?

  In the little world of his making, realization of self and of artistic potential merge at last.

  Ravid isn’t fond of scene splicing, but finding himself in a rare panorama that’s moving slowly enough for him to capture three frames if he hurries, he fires three in a row a few dozen times, to bag many beasts lolling and swaying from near to far.

  A hammerhead fills the nearest frame, with windows on the soul so far apart they span the foreground. A close-up on one end of the head is not cyclopean but curiously benign, composed and unconcerned. The eagle rays circle, nose to tail, giving presence to the wheel of life.

  Monique whimpers over the flourish and joy reflected in the raw files on his laptop and whimpers again over the finished prints at home. This is different. She congratulates his success; one day she will say she knew him back when he had nothing, but was already a great artist.