Gold Sharks

by Albert Able

  Oscar’s mind suddenly went back to Marion; hanging around here for a while had quite a lot of appeal. He smiled smugly.

  “Why don’t we try Moby Dick with a proposition to go gold diving with us. Say we start on a bum location and see if his pals turn up again; or is that being too simplistic and giving away too much to start with?” Oscar wondered aloud and picked up his glass.

  “I don’t think we should be taking any risks. There’s far too much at stake here. My gut feeling is that we should let things settle down for a couple of days.” Greg sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I’ll sniff about a bit more while you go and flirt with the neighbours. Good idea?” Greg was openly grinning; he’d noticed the stars in Oscar’s eyes.

  Mildly embarrassed that his infatuation was so obvious, Oscar smiled gently and bowed his head at his understanding friend.

  “I’ll have you know young man that it’s extremely flattering for me to think that this old body still has some appeal and yes, I think chatting up the neighbour is a tremendous idea!” He squared his shoulders and moved to the bedroom.

  “Time to shower and change I think, don’t you?”

  The following morning, Greg strolled down to the boatyard. The boat was tied up in its usual place by the quay; a man in blue overalls was rubbing down the damaged wheelhouse. There was no sign of Dick. Greg felt a bit silly standing on the quay holding the pot plant he’d bought for Dick’s woman.

  “Good morning,” he addressed the glass fibre worker, “have you seen Dick about this morning?”

  “Could be in the office having a cup of tea?” Was the cheery reply.

  “Mind if I leave this on board for his wife?” Greg asked, making to go onto the boat.

  “I’ll take it,” the man replied quickly as he reached across and took the plant. “Not his wife though - his sister in law, part owner of the boat. Very nice eh? The boat I mean,” the man winked.

  Greg walked across to the boatyard and found Dick in the office, sitting in front of a cup of tea just as the man had said - but the tea was cold and untouched. Dick was numb. The telephone conversation had been brief but clear. Now he fully understood why he’d been given the boat for almost nothing.

  “My God how could I have thought that there wasn’t a catch?” he muttered as his mind raced, trying to come to terms with the reality of having been so incredibly naive. He hadn’t noticed Greg standing respectfully a couple of metres from the door.

  Greg coughed politely, Dick looked up surprised. “Sorry to disturb you. Is it a bad time?” Greg apologised.

  “No, no, come and sit down. You can share a few moments with a bloody fool,” he said dejectedly.

  “What’s the problem?” Greg asked with sincerity.

  “I’ll tell you what the problem is. I’ve got my balls in a sling trying to protect my family on the one hand and by being greedy and fucking stupid on the other - that’s what's wrong.”

  Dick looked pale and drawn.

  “I think it will be better if we don’t go fishing today. I have so many problems to sort out. I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking into Greg’s face.

  “That’s OK old friend,” Greg agreed. “Perhaps another day OK?” He turned to go. “Listen if you’ve got a problem, Oscar’s a great man to talk to. He has lots contacts for finance or especially other difficulties,” he intimated, emphasising other difficulties and tapping his nose. “You know where we are. So pop in if you want, OK?”

  “Thanks - but this is something I have to sort out myself. See you,” he replied lethargically, waving goodbye with an equally modest gesture.

  f

  The diving operation at the oilrig was going well; the damaged manifold had been successfully pulled back into position and repairs to the buckled valve were almost complete.

  “One more day should do it,” Big J declared to John. “I’ll be pleased to go ashore for a bit of recreation after this lot.”

  He ran a strictly dry ship.

  “Diving disciplines and alcohol do not mix,” Big J frequently lectured his team. “There’ll be plenty of fun, once the job is done,” was his oft-fulfilled promise.

  The men in the decompression chamber suffered considerably for the first twenty-four hours. The painful effects of the bends, caused when nitrogen in the blood is compressed and trapped, especially in the body’s joints, is excruciating and occasionally fatal. It also causes a severe dent in a diver’s pride, providing a fundamental lesson that they must never forget.

  Almost all-commercial diving now involves the use of a variety of gases, which provide for safer deep diving and help to prevent the bends.

  Eager to experience the latest technology and the space age equipment being made available to them, the other Chinese divers had integrated well with Big J’s team. Especially during the long hours of rest time when traditionally all divers talk endlessly about their various experiences. The Chinese were no exception; their endless stories of Japanese treasure hidden aboard the hundreds of ships sunk towards the end of World War Two had Big J’s team listening to every word with obvious excitement.

  “Of course we haven’t actually found any treasure ourselves yet, but with the benefit of our advanced training we will be starting our own ‘Treasure Diving’ business,” the leader of the Chinese team announced confidently. “We know many sites, especially in the Philippines, so if any of you boys want to come along, I could maybe arrange it!”

  “Who’s going to finance this great venture eh?” one of the Australian divers asked. “Do you have any idea just how much a project could cost to set up?”

  “Don’t you worry - we’ll find the money alright,” came the easy reply - and so it would go on, each of them wallowing in their own individual fantasy of sunken treasure and a life of luxury.

  The crew knew that repairs to the wellhead would be completed in the next few hours so there was an undercurrent of excitement in anticipation of being allowed ashore in Hong Kong for the promised seven days “Rest and Recreation”. That also allowed the seven days for three Chinese divers to be trained to operate the underwater vehicles within the safe confines of the harbour as well as being taught to teach basic training to other new divers.

  The enthusiastic young Chinese divers knew that they would have to work hard to convince Big J if they were to be awarded with an instructor’s certification.

  Late the following afternoon, the last giant clamp was tightened and the valves were eased open. The remote camera hovered above the repaired manifold, sending its pictures up to the control room on the tug above. Big J, John and the technicians watched in silence for two minutes. The new joints were examined from every angle. They showed no sign of movement under the immense pressure - nor were there any signs of a leak.

  “I’d say that’s a good one boys. Well done everybody!” Big J finally declared.

  The men watching the screens all cheered and patted each other enthusiastically.

  “Thank God for that lads - Hong Kong here we come!” one of them called. The news spread around the ship within seconds. Men lined the rail looking into the sea; the underwater workshop and diving chamber was already being winched to the surface.

  They sailed at first light the following morning. Three hours later, they picked up a pilot and entered the busy Hong Kong harbour. While Big J was accustomed to the teaming traffic of the Far East ports, he was quite startled when the pilot took the wheel and simply barged straight through the mêlée of sampans and junks plying back and forth apparently regardless of the “rule of the road”. There were frequent near misses but the pilot maintained his course regardless; he did however give endless blasts on the horn shouting. “They know! They know!” was the only comment he made; his deadpan expression never changed. Eventually the tug pulled into a large empty basin in an apparently derelict part of the old docks and moored to the crumbling quay.

  “This area is soon to be developed and has been cleared for your training exercises OK? You always moor this side of
the basin - easier for your crew to go ashore, yes?” The expression didn’t change. They thanked him and he went ashore.

  Big J spoke to the crew, “Well lads we’re here but I can’t let anyone ashore yet. We have to meet with their customs and harbour officials first.”

  There was a groan.

  “How long will all that take?”

  “I honestly don’t know but don’t forget we also have to finish the contract and to set up this bloody training programme. That means no heavy boozing or you’ll be off the dive schedule. That means no pay - clear?”

  The crew drifted away; they knew the routine but there was always something special about going ashore after a long spell at sea. They were impatient but their disappointment was easily managed. Three hours later, the Customs and the harbour launches appeared in flotilla and pulled alongside the tug. Three uniformed customs officers and two harbour officials climbed aboard.

  “Looks like a takeover,” someone commented as they watched the uniformed officials climb up to the bridge.

  Big J had changed from his usual jeans and sweatshirt into a pair of neatly creased tan slacks and a shirt with Captain’s epaulettes; he was not wearing his regulation hat but it was positioned strategically near the helm.

  “It’s my bridge, so I don’t need to wear the cap. That way I don’t have to salute anybody,” he winked to John who was also standing neatly attired in his First Mate’s uniform. “They like lots of documents and paperwork. That’ll be your job OK?” Big J stepped to the entrance to the bridge. “I’ll handle the talking and social stuff - here they come.”

  The officials climbed the steep steps to the wing bridge and crowded into the wheelhouse. Big J welcomed them aboard and introduced them to John.

  “My first officer, John Lawrence. He has the crew manifests together with any other paperwork you may need,” Big J said, addressing the customs officers. “If I leave him with you gentlemen?” he said smoothly and looked towards the harbour officials, indicating the door to the rear of the wheelhouse. “Perhaps we can go into the saloon to sort out the other matters?”

  They nodded agreement and followed Big J.

  “I may be the Captain but everyone calls me Big J, OK?” he smiled cheerfully.

  “I’m Martin Ho. My colleague Manuel Pestana.”

  They all shook hands again and then Big J invited them to sit at the table.

  “Now gentlemen - a little refreshment perhaps?” Big J looked at them expectantly.

  “Well it’s almost noon,” Martin peered at his wristwatch. “How about one of those old colonial traditions: Gin and Tonic I believe?” Martin Ho the taller of the two replied, smiling in innocent anticipation.

  Manuel nodded his approval.

  “Make that two please,” he confirmed.

  Big J prepared the drinks in 250ml. glass tankards; the ice and lemon danced in the sparkling liquid. He placed the drinks on the mat in front of each of his expectant guests.

  “Well gentlemen, here’s to your good health.” Big J raised his own drink and took a substantial draught. The others followed suit. “Now I’d say that’s something the old order had right, wouldn’t you?” he concluded with relish and relaxed in his chair.

  “That’s not all they had right,” Martin whispered, looking anxiously towards the bridge, not wishing to be overheard by the customs officers still talking with John.

  Big J noted the gesture and nodded understanding.

  “So to business?” He looked at the pad in front of him. “According to our contract, we are supposed to train about a dozen of your people in the use of your underwater vehicles and re-commission your de-compression facility. Yes?” He looked up, raising his eyebrows. “What went wrong with it?”

  “You need to understand the bureaucracy here. Because agreements with the multinational oil companies were not properly honoured, they in turn refuse to carry out any support services. Our people think that you can simply jump into an underwater research vehicle and drive it away.” He looked across the harbour in despair. “When the wellhead was damaged and we were unable to fix it, by some miracle the decision was made to subcontract you to complete the repairs, which in turn allows them to save face of course.” He looked towards the other man. “Manuel here has lost seven divers in the last twelve months, mainly because he has been forced by those stupid idiots to dive in unsuitable conditions; they are ignorant of the dangers associated with diving and don’t seem to want to understand. Most men have been lost either through our poor deep diving techniques or more importantly because of the lack of the skills to operate the equipment.”

  “Yes,” Manuel took up the story. “We have plenty of strong willing men. Good practical divers but they desperately need training to cope with the new equipment and the deeper environment it leads them into.”

  “Well I understood most of that when we negotiated the contract but we can only do so much in two weeks,” Big J shrugged his shoulders. “Add to that, we have to do all the training within the confines of the harbour!”

  “Security!” Martin exclaimed. “It’s because of security. You’ll see what I mean when you get started. I tell you, this place is paranoid about security. Who could possibly want anything we have here?” he added sounding despondent.

  Manuel came from the Portuguese colony of Macao but had married a young Chinese girl in Hong Kong. They’d decided in their youth that the new order would be good for them. Now they lived in a small but economic high-rise apartment in the north of the City. The elevators broke down regularly and the public areas were filthy. No one seemed to care any more.

  Martin was in charge of the harbour diving team. They were perfectly well equipped and trained to service the underwater facilities and work on ships in the harbour but not on the growing number of offshore oil and gas wells. The political and higher authority, he felt, didn’t seem to understand the difference.

  “We have divers don’t we?” Martin had been told. “We don’t need these bloated imperialists, when we can send in our own men!”

  In fact their military facilities were more than capable of making the repair but they had been specifically ordered, “not to become involved in commercial activities”. “Security reasons” was always the official excuse.

  Manuel had therefore been obliged to send some of his own crew to attempt a repair on a gas well in sixty-five metres of water. They’d applied all their standard knowledge to the work but more and more men suffered with decompression sickness - the bends - and worst of all the dreaded narcosis.

  The decompression chambers available to them were old and inadequate. The seals were worn and it became more and more difficult to control the recompression pressures.

  “Seven men have died over the last twelve months through political pigheadedness,” Martin admitted, angrily ignoring the possibility of being overheard now. “More than anything we need our chamber sorting out and we need the divers trained to use the new gas mixtures and, finally, we must be able to handle our two underwater vehicles. They’ve been sitting on the quay turning into bits of rusty old iron since the oil company left them to us.”

  The two men had hardly touched their drinks.

  “OK fellers, so let’s see if we can cut through the red tape. I’ll get my people to start by examining those ‘bits of rusty old iron’ as you describe them and we sort your decompression chamber at the same time. The three surviving divers we had with us last week have proved to be eager to learn and are very good team members. They have learned quite a lot of practical stuff in the time. The other two cocky buggers spent almost all of their time in our decompression chamber. I just hope the stupid bastards have learned a lesson that they’ll never forget! Incidentally, do all your other divers speak good English like those guys?”

  “Some better than others but I expect they all understand it pretty well,” Manuel replied.

  “Good, so we’ll start with getting your guys into the basics of the gas mixes and the new gear. Then w
e launch the two vehicles, if they’re still seaworthy. I think we should aim to have everything underway by tomorrow morning. OK with you?”

  “Sounds good to me and wonderfully refreshing to hear someone making instant decisions for a change.” Martin looked at Manuel. “OK with you?”

  “You bet! The boys have been waiting for this moment like expectant fathers; there’ll be no complaints there,” he smiled with confidence.

  “I don’t know what your plans are for this evening but Hong Kong still has some excellent eating places, if you’d care to join us?” Martin asked hesitantly.

  “That’s a great idea. The boys will be tasting the spirit of Hong Kong I’m sure, so why not the captain as well?”

  They rose and made their way back to the bridge. John had completed the formalities and escorted the officers to the Customs Cutter and was climbing back up to the bridge.

  “The customs boys happy?” Big J asked.

  “No bother. As soon as I showed them the Chinese government dive contract summary, they simply signed the clearance and left. You’re right - they do love lots of bits of official paper; it’s called passing the buck!” John grinned, satisfied with himself.

  “This is Martin from the HK Harbour Authority and this is Manuel. He’s in charge of their divers,” Big J introduced the two men.

  John shook hands first with Martin. “Good to meet you both. So we’re going to be working together then?” John turned to Manuel, shaking his hand in turn.

  “Yes the Captain has already outlined the programme. It’s all going to be very exciting. I’m looking forward to it all,” Manuel confirmed enthusiastically.