The Helldivers' Rodeo: A Deadly, X-Treme, Scuba-Diving, Spearfishing, Adventure Amid the Off Shore Oil Platforms in the Murky Waters of the Gulf of Mexico

by Humberto Fontova

  "You shyster bastard!" Paul snapped while looking in his bag, then around at us with a mock frown. "I thought this felt a little light."

  "I hate salami!" Gene shrieked. He tried to stand up-but too fast, and staggered back against the tent, which gave. A stake pulled out of the sand and Gene fell backwards, the tent collapsing around him as we exploded in mirth.

  "Earthquake!"

  "Aw, shit, man!" Gene bellowed from his resting spot. "Salami sucks! I hate freakin' salami, know that?" He was trying to change the subject and that made it worse. We cackled louder, forcing it now.

  He was motionless, just lying on the tent, most of his drink splashed across his chest. "Wee!" He threw the cup towards us. "Drink up you buncha wussies! Yeah, I hate that salami-freakin' dago food! I hate dagos. They're oily and stupid. But they sure got nice asses. I like to use 'em for a pillow."

  "Heeere we go," Chris sighed. (His wife's maiden name was Di Giovanni. Her first name Gina-ves, the same Gina. These inbred friendships have their drawbacks, too. No hiding the wild and wooly past.) Chris wasn't smiling. "Here comes Mr. Under Control," he sighed. His face was creased with a bitter smile. "The beast is emerging."

  "What?" Gene jerked his head up. "The beast is emerging?" he looked straight at Chris, then around at us. "The beast is emerging? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He finally rolled over on his side, then jerked himself to a sitting position with a massive groan. "Hunh? What's that beast is emerging bullshit? Hunh? You see, Chris, that's the problem with you, buddy. Nobody ever knows what the hell you're talking about. The beast is emerging ... the beast is emerging ... see this?" He suddenly grabbed a spear gun point from his pocket and held it in the air, "See this?" he said, with a stupid look on his face. "This is THIS! This is THIS! What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

  To paraphrase Maxwell Smart: "Ah yes, the old Deerhunter routine." Gene's favorite movie. We all saw it together the first time, then he went back three more times. Hunters ourselves, longtime friends ourselves, quite fond of removing our clothing and sprinting down the street stark naked during lengthy wedding receptions ourselves, the movie struck a chord. Actually, we were more prone to streaking at parties. God knows our wedding receptions were wild enough, and every bit as long as the one in Deerhunter. But, hell, there were family and "grown-ups" at wedding receptions. No, we'd wait for our parties or picnics for the streaking bit. Gina, a psychology major at LSU, always tried to read something into it: "latent homosexuality." All kinds of bullshit.

  Anyway, we always cackled at that scene with Cazale and De Niro-"This is THIS! This is THIS!" Gene had Cazale's monologue down perfect, even the very facial expressions. He was getting into it now, big-time. Strange, Gene seemed halfway coherent now. He seemed to sober up a bit. Always seems to happen during a psychic crisis. Like when you see those flashing red lights in the rear-view.

  "See, Mikey," Gene continued. "Nobody ever knows what the hell you're talking about. This is THIS! This is THIS!" Then he held up the spear gun point just like De Niro shook the bullet. "One shot! One shot!"

  Then his face hardened. "Mau!" Gene was on his feet now, squinting. "MAU!" Geez, I thought. He's going into the full routine. The russian Roulette scene and everything. "MAU!" He lumbered over to where Chris was sitting on the ice-chest and bent down to get, in his face.

  We were helpless with laughter, but Chris's smile was bent. He looked around, sighing, nodding, trying to smile. "Gene, you crazy fuck."

  "MAU!" Gene yelled, inches from his face. "MAU!" And he pointed in front of him just like the Viet Cong pointed at the revolver in the movie.

  "Mau!" Chris replied. "Heh-heh." But he wasn't smiling. He looked tense, beet red.

  "MAU!" Gene screamed.

  "MAU! MAU! MAU!" We all joined the chorus, Pelayo standing, looking around, waving his arms, getting everyone involved, trying to inject some levity into the scene. It was getting too tense.

  Chris looked around at us, snickering, nodding, pointing at Gene. But Gene was having none of it. He kept at it, right in Chris' face. "MAU!"

  "MAU! MAU!" Chris finally replied.

  Then, SMACK! Gene whacked him across the head, knocking his cap into the fire.

  Chris jumped up-Gene had his chin high, inches in front of Chris's face.

  "Awl-right guys." Tom, not knowing the history or chemistry involved here, tried to intervene.

  "Gu-ii vs!" Naturally the gals were upset. "Come on, guys. None of that stuff now ... come on ... be nice ... y'all came out here to have fun."

  The scene around the campfire reminded me of how I first met Chris. It was in the sixth grade. We were both new to St. Christopher's School that year and were the last ones picked for the football games during recess. We were picked for opposite teams and Chris ended up covering me as I went out for a pass. We were going all out, too, zealous rookies, anxious to prove our worth to the schoolvard veterans. He was on me like white on rice and batted down the ball just as I clutched it.

  I was furious and smacked him. He smacked me back, and in seconds we were tumbling through the grass in double choke holds. A crowd gathered. The prefects showed up, the assistant principals arrived, and we were hauled off by our ears.

  First day in a new school and we're already in Principal Fontaine's office. But this was 1967. Fighting in the schoolyard was considered normal for boys. No need for sedation or therapy. This principal had a novel way of handling fights. He ordered us to report back to his office after school. And so we did, already colleagues of sorts. The principal walked us over to the gym, gave us boxing gloves and said to go at it. We laughed and batted at each other for a few minutes.

  Shirley and I were recently called to our son's school for a grave and solemn talking to by the principal over an almost identical issue. When I suggested Mr. Fontaine's approach I was regarded like Benito Mussolini.

  The Saturday after our introduction, Chris came over to the house, and along with Pelayo (who was over every weekend) we went popping rabbits and robins with our pellet guns. We've been at it ever since. Bonding, as males always have, first by fighting, then by killing things together.

  Chris and Pelayo "The Prof" Pelaez went on to room together the first year at LSU. That was enough for the Prof-and that's how he got his nickname. He didn't really take to academia. We all worked offshore for oilfield service companies those mid-'70s summers, making a bundle. Pelayo was mechanically inclined and got himself promoted to where he'd be making more in those three months than most of the people we knew who'd actually graduated from college.

  Chris and I went on to earn those invaluable Liberal Arts degrees while Pelayo became a certified electrician. Years later we all got our scuba certifications together, as usual. Here was another excuse to get together on a weeknight without the ole ladies and party afterwards. Well, Pelayo-the only one without a college degree-was the only one who could figure out the decompression tables. Thank God, too. We all copied from his paper.

  The point is, however, that Chris was no chump. We'd all seen him tangle with bouncers in his day, the ones who look like the Rock. He had a great routine. He'd always catch the disco babes as they emerged (in groups of course) from the ladies' room. "See that person over there?" he'd say with a straight face while pointing to either Pelayo or me. "He's not a Puerto Rican girl. He's a Cuban guy. But he's still dvvvv-viiin' to meet-choo!"

  If (amazingly) this failed to charm their metalflake stockings off, Pelayo and I pressed home the attack. And using the same album. We wore "Some Girls" out that summer of '78. We'd totter over, medallions flashing, bell-bottoms billowing, and block their path. "You pritty-pritty-prittti; pritty pritty, prim girl-pritty, pritty sucha pritty pritty, prittv,girl ... come on babe PLEEEASE make love to me... "

  A blocked windpipe cut it short one day. Two bouncers, alerted by their friends, burst upon the scene. The gorilla actually lilted me by my neck. Another had Pelavo's arm twisted behind his back like a pretzel. These guys didn't mess around. This was
a classy disco, 4141, an uptown hot-spot, full of "uptown girls." We looked more like Billy Joel, "backstreet guys."

  That Studio 54 bit about some bullfruit standing at the door and picking who could enter caught on in New Orleans, too. And we didn't have a prayer. So we snuck in through the kitchen. A friend who worked there helped with the caper. We were making a late-night delivery, you see, dressed in official Budweiser uniforms, courtesy of another chum who worked at a Bud distributor. We were "commandos." The boxes on our dollies didn't contain beer. They contained our disco clothes, in all their glory. Once inside, we scurried into a storeroom and changed. Then we emerged-TA-DA! The blast from a thousand trumpets wouldn't do justice.

  Pelayo "El Guapo" Pelaez appeared in his magenta metalflake shirt and tangerine angel-flights that buttoned at the sternum and flopped in magnificent billows below. Mine were fire-apple red, to match the jewel in my medallion. Chris's were lime green, with an orange starburst shirt featuring silver lighting bolts. The whole package tottering on four in heels. We were a sight, wild and crazy guys. Dan Akroyd and Steve Martin had nothing on us, except maybe better taste in clothes. To think that two weekends in a row the doormen had somehow passed over such magni f icoes.

  We lasted about an hour. Then the fracas. In medieval history class I'd just been learning about the garrotte. Now I knew what it felt like. No air through my windpipe for about ten seconds. Frantic gasping and wheezing, arms flailing around helplessly like some rag doll. Then WHACK! and he dropped me, because he'd been smacked. Chris had blindsided the brute with a roundhouse right to the neck that staggered him. He dropped me and I landed on my knees, choking-almost puking. Since I was knee level as he turned around, I tackled him.

  Brilliant move. He collapsed on me. Now I was pinned under his musclebound bulk. And now his partner started on my face with his jackhammer fists. I couldn't duck or dodge or move or anything. Ah, a night to remember. I mostly remember us wheezing and rasping at each other for about a week. That wasn't the worst of it. Pelayo started calling me "goldfish." You know, the ones in the aquariums at Chinese restaurants? Those huge black swollen eyes? That was me for about three days.

  Tonight, on Breton Island, the more experienced, more mature Chris restrained himself. "That's nine bucks pal," he snapped, while rubbing the sting of Gene's blow from his head. "That's no chickenshit cap," he said, plucking it from the flames. "This damn cap's from the Polo Club in Jamaica. Some classy shit."

  He picked it up, and avoided looking at Gene. "Well?" He looked around at us, perched in our chairs and atop the icechests. Nobody was laughing now. "Well, we going floundering or what? Who's going floundering? Don? Where's the gigs? And the lantern? No, Pelayo, not your lantern ..."

  The man was a pro-a true gentleman. No more ugliness; He didn't want to further screw up the trip with old squabbles. He was melting the tension with a jab at a hilarious incident from a little earlier:

  Pelayo's Coleman lantern had already been blazing brightly from a pole. It's an antique. It illuminated the pages of Playboy magazines during our junior high-era campouts. Under its guttering glare we skinned rabbits popped neatly between their shinning eyes with pellet guns. We took turns shooting the rabbits and holding the flashlight in mid-night forays away from the campfire and those Playboys we'd snatched from under Chris's big brother's bed.

  The lantern used liquid fuel and came with a little funnel to facilitate the pouring process. The little funnel was long gone, probably from about the time "Woolly Bully" was in the Top 40. We'd sing it while fleeing cops. "Whachit, now, WATCHIT! Here he come-here he COME!"

  Yeah, some old lady always called the cops about some little punks shooting rabbits in her pea-patch at night. They'd show up and chase us, all right-all of about thirty feet. We'd scurry into the briars and be as safe as any rabbit. But rabbits don't taunt their pursuers. While the cops played their flashlight beams over the brambles and bellowed through their bullhorns, we'd switch to another favorite song at the time. I remember the day Chris bought the 45: Dave Clark Five's "Catch Us if You Can." But Dave Clark didn't add: "You fat assholes!" "You lazy blimps!" or "Come on fatso!" We wouldn't let up. Hey, after tangling with Castro's milicianos, these guys were a cinch.

  Anyway, it took a steady hand to fill Pelayo's funnel-less lantern-not a hand attached to a body that was doing the Bump with a tent pole while David Bowie's "Fame" thundered from a boom-box ten feet away. Fuel had splashed everywhere. "FA- aame! Boomp-boomp." Some fuel seemed to make it into the lantern. Then he had to pump the thing with a little handle, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And finally, the match-WHOOM!

  The fireball had probably illuminated Bourbon Street. Pelayo finally extinguished his mustache and eyebrows. But the smell of singed hair had hovered over us all night long.

  The storm clobbered us an hour later, it hit fast and hit hard. The wind started, the sand started stung us. Then the icy rain, deafening thunder, and deluge. Aluminum chairs flying around, tarps flapping, making that popping sound, ready to shred. The thing clobbered us, man-no warning. Or maybe it had been warning and our campsite scuffle had distracted us. Whatever, not enough time for Missy and Nicole to make it back to their houseboat. No choice but to scurry into our tents.

  "Y'all come in here," Chris said, waving from the front of his tent, which was the biggest, the main barrack, and the closest to where they'd been sitting with Paul. But they were scurrying alongside Paul, who was holding a towel over them. They made it to his small two-man tent and slithered inside. Chris pointed, "Lookit at that greedy sucker, with both of them. On-the-Ball, all right."

  Five minutes later, a gust blew down the poles holding up the wires from the generators, and total darkness set in. And I mean total. A moonless night. The lightning was the only light at times, but not enough to let us see inside Paul's tent. Speculation ran rampant. Chris had the sense to bring in his bottle, and the details became more vivid and aphrodisiacal with each rum and Coke.

  At six the next muggy morning I was thigh-deep along the back bay, casting a green beetle amongst the schools of mullet creasing the surface, and digging the terns, the pelicans, the occasional trout smacking my sparkling beetle-four were on my stringer-and especially the solitude, when a boat I didn't recognize entered the cove. Two people were on board, one of them waving frantically. The waver was female.

  "Who in the hell?" I'm thinking. I couldn't place them until they got about one hundred yards out. Ah, yes, of course. Buzz and Jenny. I couldn't believe they'd made it. I wished they hadn't. I'd told them about this trip only because I'd bumped into them at Academy Sporting Goods. Never thought they'd show up. One of those "yeah sure, let's do lunch" type of things.

  And there they go and show up. Friends of friends, actually, and the last among our crowd to get married-and only three years ago. They were always weird, God knows-raving eccentrics with family fortunes to dip into. Buzzy's new money and Jenny's uptown old. Happens that way in New Orleans a lot. Make that bundle in the suburbs, then start shmoozing for the social cachet in the city.

  Old Man McKee, Buzzy's grandad, started an oilfield service company right after World War II, and sold it to a major during the last oil "slump." Buzzy had stayed on for a while as some kind of "manager" or "facilitator," then a "consultant," then left altogether. I'm not sure what he's into these days, but he sure isn't hurting for money. Jenny went to Tulane for about eleven years, if I recall. Finally ended up with some kind of degree-social work, poli-sci, communications, something utterly uselessunless she wants to sell. And she isn't about to soil herself in that racket.

  Last time most of us saw them was at their bar shower. What a freak show. It was uptown, at some mansion belonging to a friend of Jenny's family. The place was crammed with dizzy, giggling, anorexic "debutantes." Or so they used to call them. Their eyes were uniformly glazed. Half the nostrils were inflamed. These weren't "southern belles." Remember, this is New Orleans. There are no "southern belles" in the usual sense of
the term here. These are "uptown chicks." A breed peculiar to New Orleans old money. Two parts Valley girl, three parts Euro-trash and a dash of whoever sang "I'm with the DJ."

  That was bad enough. Then our crew of drunkards wheeled in from the suburbs. Uptowners and Bogalees makes for a volatile brew. The place was awash in wine, scotch, tequila, rum, champagne, and God knows what else. Jenny and her friend Babs were the hit of the hot-tub, which was next to the indoor pool. They were the hit with some males, that is.

  We heard their hands had roamed feverishly under all those bubbles. Their palms were soft, their fingers nimble, their aim expert-or so I heard. God knows those hands had never done any housework, or yard work. They were nimble nonetheless-so we heard. Rumors-never confirmed-of rampant fellatio also made the rounds. Quite a night and early morning.

  In Modern Manners P.J. O'Rourke's rules for a "really good" party say that "no friendship or romantic relationship should survive a really good party." This one qualified with two dozen bells on. Towards midnight, married couples raved at each other at the slightest provocation. "This beer's hot, you stupid bitch!"

  SMACK! "Eat shit, butthead! Then get your own fucking beer!"

  "I would, but I wanted to see you take your tongue outta Al's mouth for two minutes."

  "Oh yeah? And I suppose Babs really had to sit on your lap. That couch's only six feet long! Her tits make a hell of a chin rest, hunh?"

  Utter shamelessness ... rampant groping, co-ed bathrooms, mooning, flashing, sporadic skinny-dipping-and my favoritewomen on our shoulders for the water volleyball, which despite our goading only featured occasional-rather than-total, toplessness. The feeling was that here-for some reason-we could get away with it.