Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  “Hello.” Moeava is ponderously soft-spoken, a grazer. He coils a line with no twists. A waterman can coil in the dark, but he’s coiling a bow line when the stern isn’t even tied off. But he remembers Ravi, the guy who bagged Mom last night. Moeava is big and casts a bigger shadow. He’s hardly twenty-five. Certainly not forty.

  “Your mother is a character.” Moeava recoils. “A lovely woman,” Ravi leads the way through pleasantries to the clearing just yonder where mutual benefits await a dive boat and a dive instructor.

  “Do you love her?”

  Acutely familiar with sudden challenge, he pauses to think and act, not react. “We just… I mean, I think she… She’s… certainly…”

  “She’s not my mother.”

  “Oh… I thought she said…” Maybe he’s adopted, or she raised him as a hanai parent, a common practice in tropical latitudes. At least we’re past the brambles. Now we move gently; don’t force it.

  “She tells people she’s my mother. But she’s not. She wants you to think she’s younger.” Moeava drops the coils to begin again.

  “You can’t blame her for taking credit. It’s not easy raising a son.”

  “I told you, I’m not her son. She’s my nana—my grandmother. I’m her grandson. It’s different.”

  “Ah… Yes…”

  “What is it that you want?”

  “I want a job.” Moeava looks puzzled. “I’m a dive instructor.”

  “You have no job?”

  “No. I arrived yesterday. I want to work.”

  “I think you work fast, no?”

  Ravi shrugs off the pussy he scored on night one from the potential employer’s grandmother. Best focus on the task at hand: “Fast, slow; it doesn’t matter. Sometimes you go fast—like now, with squalls pressing in.” He looks up to the clouds as if Moeava doesn’t see them. “They’re closing slow, so you won’t notice. They don’t want to look hungry. They’ll move out or pounce. What can you do?” He feels good, showing his stuff, yet he doubts this lump will see much.

  Moeava breathes through his mouth, over a heavy lip, and looks dim. “What I got to do?”

  Ravi shrugs. “You got a boatload of divers, you want them in the water, so the cash register can sing. Cha-ching cha-ching.” Moeava gets it: the money song. “Blue sky, flat seas, some big tippers, you go slow. The important thing, fast or slow, is safety with attention to detail. You want to make money fast without losing more money faster.”

  The big head nods. “I think you have experience in this area. I saw you, with your attention to detail. I wish my nana well, but you are her concern. My concern is for what is mine. Cosima is mine. Mine to have. Not for you. Do you see this as you see what serves you?”

  So the meshugana putain with the little parsley patch blocks a livelihood. The big man can shove his boat up his ass, or Ravi can give peace a chance. “I’m not interested in what you think is yours. I want a job on a boat. Is your operation sound?”

  “You’re too old for her.”

  “You’re too fat for her.”

  Moeava steps up. “I am not fat. Not too fat.”

  “Then why don’t you swim the bay?”

  “I will swim the bay.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help.”

  “I’ll still help you. I’ll give you a week to swim the bay. I won’t even try. If you can’t swim in a week, I’ll do it—backstroke. Okay?”

  “What is it that you want?”

  “A job.”

  Moeava hangs his head. “You can’t help me swim. I have to swim.”

  “Why haven’t you done it?”

  “I will do it.”

  “You haven’t done it because you can’t because you’re not a good swimmer. Or you’re afraid. That’s what your… nana said. I heard it.”

  “I am not afraid!” Moeava yells at his fear and the fellow before him. He grasps the bow line like he knows what to do.

  “Tell me, Moi… Moiv…”

  “Moeava.”

  “Tell me, Moeava: Who lives in this bay?”

  Moeava feels the crux of the situation. “Fish.”

  “Shark?”

  Moeava nods.

  “Big shark?”

  The nod gains gravity.

  “Tiger?”

  Moeava pumps again.

  “Mano is my guide.”

  “Mano?”

  “Shark.”

  “Ah. Ma’o.”

  “Yeah, her.”

  “What you mean, guide?”

  “Ma’o is scary. But… don’t worry…”

  “You no worry.” Moeava looks worried.

  “I worry, Moeava, when I have no faith. That’s the hard part. You get scared, and Ma’o smells you. You no scared, Ma’o leave you be.”

  The clouds pile on. “You no scared?”

  “I was. I used it up. Not too long ago. Mano—Ma’o—was there. You must not doubt, or you’ll do it wrong again.”

  “If you was scared, why he no get you?”

  “I don’t know. But you run shark dives. You make money on Ma’o. Ma’o takes care of you. Why should you be scared?”

  “Blacktip on shark dive. I no scared.”

  “It’s the same spirit.” Moeava’s face skews to the clouds. Ravi doubts that esoteric banter on fear and parsley will help job prospects. But cats’ feet scurry, and a water witch rises on the bay, whipping froth like an eggbeater a thousand feet tall, coming this way.

  In the melee Moeava yells in French or Tahitian that needs no translation. The boat bucks on sudden gusts and pulls the line between his hands. He should have tied to a cleat ten minutes ago, before the rocky banks on either side became a threat. Ravi fends off the stern to soften impact, as Moeava loses the line. The bow swings free. The stern rounds again, and a wave breaks on board to swamp the deck. So Ravi jumps aboard, sloshes to the console and turns the key. “Aargh!”

  With deck, batteries, and ankles submerged, the complete circuit sends twelve volts up both legs. Moeava yells to stand on the seat, and the engine starts. Heavy torque dips the stern to near sinking but moves the boat. The waterspout collapses. Clouds cleave. The sun slides through every fissure, and Cook’s Bay lies down flat.

  The job application ends with Ravi at the helm in a victory lap to drain the deck through the scuppers. Coming around lighter, he throttles down twenty yards out, finds neutral, jumps to the bow for the line and eases on in to kiss the bumpers, toss the line and tie off the stern with a half hitch. Moeava ties off too and lumbers in for a hug but slumps when a dorsal slices the surface. At about ten inches, the fin suggests a young adult in the seven-foot range. “Là-bas. Your friend.” The fish lolls in a lazy circle.

  “This is contact. Aumakua, brother. On the day of our reckoning.”

  “You want to swim with that guy?” They see it’s only the dorsal tip above the surface.

  “Bigger than I thought. Maybe fifteen feet to the tip of the tail.”

  Moeava steps back. “Three, four times every week he comes by.”

  The shark rolls to show her bottom. “I’ve never had it this close. Look at her skin. She’s perfect.”

  “Why you say ‘she?’”

  “No nuts. A male tiger that big would have nuts to his knees. Hey. Tell me you don’t feel it.”

  “Oh. I feel him.”

  “Hey, this shark isn’t as scary as imagining her and not seeing her.”

  “Yeah. This not scary. We standing on a dock. Hey, your own self. Why you no swim with your good friend?”

  Ravi laughs. “I think we will.”

  “You crazy.”

  “I heard that before.”

  “Why you wait?”

  “I hope she likes me, but I want to be sure. You know how it is with a female. If I’m wrong, I won’t get the job.” The big shark cruises south. “See her rocking. She’s not hungry. She’s enjoying life. Everyone should. You believe that, don’t you?”


  Moeava seems sanguine at last. “Okay. You get one job.”

  “Thank you. You mean dive leader?”

  “Yeah. And you be captain too.”

  “But I thought…”

  “No. I just learning. You show me what to do.”

  “Hereata said this is the best boat around.”

  “Ah, oui. What can she say? She is my mother in all things.”

  So they agree to begin tomorrow if the hotel books passengers. Today, Ravi can get his gear and have time to rest after long travels and longer vigils on the island of his dreams. If the hotel—Hereata—finds no divers on such short notice, they’ll practice because those who would run together want to see the other’s comfort and air consumption.

  Moeava must know how to run a boat. But then why… But squalls are rare. But any waterdog knows that shit happens, or he hasn’t been wet for too long. Will he know what to do with Ravi below on a six-pack in a squall or a current or both? If Ravi brings them up in big seas, and they’re invisible in the troughs…

  Well, fuck it. This was your idea.

  But why would a guy get a boat and a prime spot with a dock and a shack if he doesn’t know squat? Niggling questions and gnats buzz under the ceiling fan. Ravi dozes on a dream of workaday worry. Won’t it be great in a year or two, looking back on these tiny maninis in the bigger picture?

  Workaday, and then Tomorrow

  Hermit crab is a messy eater—good for anemone riding on top, who snags debris and provides camouflage and may attract small fish. Hermit/anemone friendship is based on mutual benefit.

  Moray and jack cruise in joint venture to find a burrow and stake out the entrance and exit. Prey exits from one or the other, and chance will balance the catch.

  Surgeonfish pluck algae from turtle’s back, as turtle gets cleaned and soothed by the gentle touch.

  Cleaner shrimps snack blithely in moray’s maw on tidbits, and moray gets a dental cleaning.

  Ravi and Moeava share means and know-how. Tolerant and flexible, they give and take with tact and difficulty. A new operation needs time to get the word out. And a free day will ease the veteran back into routine. A trial dive seems best because Moeava is likable, which counts for nothing or worse at depth, where things can change. The morning schedule further defers to need, with Hereata at the dock first thing, wrapped in a pareo to accentuate her best and soften the other. She is no contender in Cosima’s league but can still throw the knockout punch on lips and nipples, fluffed and highlighted. With six for tomorrow, the boys are optimistic, kind of. Moeava is a certified diver, but so are a million nimrods flashing C cards, kicking heads, blowing off tanks in a few minutes, grabbing octopuses, or glomming some narcosis and going deep.

  Moeava might be sound and should be trainable. They head out to a pass, but anchorage and tide are hard to read. Ravi follows the chart plotter to fifty feet, to keep things simple. In mild current on sandy bottom, they set the hook and go over. They check the anchor, signal okay and meander into the current. It picks up, bringing groupers and lemon sharks with a few Galapagos sharks in the mix. A few more sharks fade in and out of visibility. When the current gains to a knot, they work another hundred yards then drift back, until Ravi clears his mask and spews blood. It could be congestion from bad diet or liquor, but then comes the headache.

  Rising slow as he dares, he skips the safety stop because it was hardly sixty feet, and time may be short. At the surface, a hock and a snuk gush with bloody snot. He feels it coming and rolls onto his back to avoid drowning, as delirium takes over—as he flops intermittently to face up and now down.

  A test has been failed, as other tests arise. Moeava can’t move too well or cross-chest carry another diver in gear or tow Ravi by the scruff and make progress against the current. He could ditch the gear but fears the loss. He squeezes Ravi into place, as if to prevent the rollover. Ravi gurgles, so he heads for the boat. Finally, awkwardly aboard, he ditches his rig, cranks the engine, shags the anchor and motors over to drag Ravi onto the swim step. Ravi convulses and pukes blood.

  Moeava blows blood too, and carbon monoxide is the easy call. Ravi moans on the ride back—he cannot work with anyone so dangerously dim. Moeava ties off as he’s learned to do, as Ravi shuffles to the compressor. It’s not so old and chugs along, pumping tanks to three grand. Welded exhaust extensions get the smoke twenty feet from the fresh-air intake to avoid monoxide poisoning, but somebody wrapped each weld with resin. It slumps, thick on the bottom, thin on top, crazed from sunlight, letting pinhole jets of exhaust into the mix near the compressor. He glares. Moeava sees. “Shit happens. You know that. From what I hear, you’re an expert.”

  Like siblings they swat and insult through the basics of clean air compression, no carbon monoxide allowed. Details of ultimate consequence are reviewed as welds are cut and ground clean, re-welded and covered with fiberglass roving, matt, and more roving, with epoxy in three light coats between layers, then duct-taped against sunlight. On groans, curses, and admonitions, the lesson sinks in as their lovely life together takes another step.

  •

  Moeava cops to the mistake. Shit does happen, but it shouldn’t always happen. He pledges care and picks up the slack on prep, driving, docking, anchoring, fueling, servicing, and cleaning the boat. He sees the potential and need at hand. He does not own the boat but would like to. He leases from an old friend of his nana. Ravi can’t trust his work without review: engine oil, hull plugs, the outdrive leg, lines, knots, thimbles, shackles, seizing, anchor, spare anchor—the minutiae a dive leader depends on.

  Ravi is clear on Hereata’s recruitment campaign. He doesn’t mind. Tit for tat is fair play. In the catbird seat all along, he got a job made to order, or it could be, and the money should pick up. The two-tank fare times six, times three hundred would be great, and it’s a full boat the next day.

  Distraction continues with the meatball and bad intention. Hereata struts alongside, trussed again to advantage for the good of mankind, with the heels, the lift and spread a man can admire. Bound for glory, she virtually demands that we all just get along. “You will have a wonderful dive experience.”

  Moeava steps up to grab the thick fellow’s dive bag. “Get on. We go already.”

  Ravi stows and begins the briefing. Moeava translates on depth, bottom time, buddies, hand signs, what might be seen or expected. Long ago regarded for local knowledge, no casualties and the seal of approval from the Crusty one, this drill is perfunctory and French. He skips the details and for laughs eats a banana and drops the peel, pretending not to see it, so he can step on it and barely avoid breaking his neck because the French love slapstick. But a man picks up the peel and flings it overboard, and they laugh like hyenas. This might take a while. Ravi plays it straight, looking overboard for his banana peel. They watch.

  Then it’s off to the pass. He only dove the first half, but snaggle-tooth lemons should come in for a sniff; hammerheads will cruise around the corner, and Galapagos may dart in on a dare.

  The current is stronger on the surface and sweeps to another current, heading out. Currents this strong can’t be resisted, except by fools. Tourists assume that the crew knows conditions, so they wonder why he’s taking so long, like he’s stumped or worried. “Spring tide. Everybody comfortable with current?” Moeava puts it in neutral and translates. Ravi tells him: “No anchor, drift and watch the bubbles. Sixty feet. Fifty minutes, and we come up with the boat right there. Okay?” He watches Moeava till the big man turns away. Donning more like a cat burglar than a Degas dancer, he sits on the rail. “Backflip. Okay?”

  Moeava helps with fins, air valves, and regulators; it’s like checking for mittens, lunch money, and nametags but worse. Ravi emphasized the back roll into the water all at once so they can stay together. They stare until Moeava says three words, and they nod. Once in the water—dans l’eau—they will descend quickly. Holding his mask and reg in place, he rolls back. They follow with a few kicks to heads and regroup
at the stern, where they share the okay sign and descend. Ravi eases into the drift, signaling to follow close. He can’t hear the engine, and the current is gaining. He can’t slow down and can only hope Moeava will keep up. Above all, he stays calm.

  The little troupe speeds along, with nobody hanging onto a passing rock or trying to go back. A hammerhead cruises past, which counts for a highlight only a few minutes in. They wend along the bottom from sixty feet to seventy, going outside the dive plan but in less current. Eighty feet on a sixty-foot plan is iffy and ninety is what Crusty would call fucking with the phantom. But ninety gets them under the current, and a gang of mantas approach in single file. A female leads twelve males in the manta love chain. They swoop within inches, securing all fares on drama. Tips should also peg the meter, and word-of-mouth will add value in the birth of a reputation. Should I tell them about my perfect day, with four hours of work and a round of golf?

  Less secure is the rest of the dive, off plan, improv, and maybe out to sea. Fifteen feet for three minutes might be a dicey safety stop, given goofballs, meatballs, and current. Local knowledge would be valuable, if he knew someone who had it because Moeava is local without the knowledge. Let’s take this one step at a time.

  He signals slow ascent and at thirty feet sees the anchor coming down at a slant because Moeava is feeding the rode slowly over while steering and peering over the side. Give the boy some credit. The anchor hangs behind the boat at fifteen feet. Or is he trolling? The divers gather as instructed, but air expansion in six buoyancy compensators ascending from ninety feet to fifteen hurries the rise because every diver dumps on the way up, unless he doesn’t. A waterman wishes he’d gone into sales or construction or anything. He won’t get bent if he can stay down. Something feels, wrong, or is that just part of a pattern?

  He scurries among them, seeking dump strings. But each releases a trickle, and they rise—until he sees the meatball grin or wince, hard to tell. The fleshy man is pressing his inflator in short bursts to offset each dump and keep the group ascending until the dive leader cures the problem. A meatball might tussle on a pool-deck stage, but underwater he’s flotsam.