A Dolphins Dream

by Carlos Eyles

  “Bonaire is a must for wall dives,” insisted the effervescent blond American wife of the rail thin husband, who nodded agreeably.

  “The Bahamas still have the most sharks and everybody knows it,” she concluded, reaching for the breadbasket to punctuate her authority on the subject.

  “Well then, everyone hasn’t been to Dangerous Reef in South Australia,” said the overweight bearded American with the redheaded wife, who was just about as perfect as a plastic surgeon make a woman in her late forties.

  The Brits were a handsome couple who, in their inbred politeness, began to rise when Compton appeared but he, with a wave of the hand, seated them in mid-rise, not missing a beat in the discussion. “Anyway, Dangerous Reef is history, an old story,” continued the Beard, correcting himself. “Everyone’s going to Cape Town for the Great Whites these days. My God, they jump clear out of the water down there, chasing sea lions in the summertime.“

  Rail Thin nodded in agreement. “We’ve been thinking about going there next year.”

  “First class expedition. The Boers know how to treat a fellow diver. As long as they’re white, of course,” this to mild laughter as the Fijian cook, black as a work boot, brought in the fish bouillon, the table going conspicuously silent.

  In the awkward hush, Allison introduced Compton. “This is Michael Compton from America, who I understand is an architect.”

  Nods all around.

  “What part of the States are you from?” asked the Blonde, whose name was Jennifer.

  Compton smiled and answered in a voice he scarcely recognized. “All over, southern Florida, and California, mostly.”

  “Is that Southern California?” asked the Beard, introducing himself again as Bernard, as if announcing a Grand Duke.

  “Yes… well, no. I live along the Central Coast, actually. San Luis Obispo, Morro Bay, that area.”

  “My God,” said the redhead, whose name was Vanessa. “That was where Kevin Munsen was based. He practically built the entire town of Morro Bay. I think it was Seaside Development, wasn’t it dear?”

  Bernard nodded in bored agreement.

  “Did you know him?”

  Compton was unclear if she was addressing him until, wide-eyed, she stared him into a response.

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Seaside Development, Kevin Munsen,” she said, looking at her husband, Bernard, as if whatever was miscommunicated did not generate from her, and who assured her by way of a noncommittal smile that the fault indeed did not lie with her.

  “No, never heard of him, uh, it,” Compton finally replied.

  “He was probably there before you arrived,” Vanessa said to round out the logic of what had become an abstract discussion with which she was decidedly uncomfortable. She quickly dove into her soup. The rest followed suit and commented appropriately on its delicate flavor, which Allison attributed to the Fijian flair for fish soups. Compton hid in his soup as well, avoiding eye contact with what he concluded to be a rather motley group of divers.

  However Bernard, bored as he was, sought entertainment of some form and asked, “So what kind of buildings do you design?”

  Compton lifted hesitantly from his soup, looked at Bernard, took a breath and, in its release, his countenance appeared to change almost entirely, his eyes narrowing and mutating into something between mischievous and menacing. His now smiling face held a charm and wit that heretofore was unrevealed. “Actually, I‘m on my way to Australia to oversee a design of mine for a state funded Shakespearean theater. I like to do different designs, sports arenas, office buildings. Theaters are always fun, you can stretch yourself a bit there. I keep busy.”

  All but Bernard were genuinely impressed. “I rather imagine you make a decent living?”

  “I do all right, thanks,” replied Compton, cheery as you please, ignoring the deliberate intrusion into his privacy.

  Vanessa tugged at Bernard’s arm and pulled it to her silicone breast, smiling secretly. “It’s the indecent living that costs so much.”

  Bernard broke into laughing agreement and allowed his arm to linger on the polymerized appurtenance.

  “I’ve always admired the great architects of the world,” said Jennifer. “Imagine creating something that will last forever.”

  “Nothing lasts forever,” interjected Bernard.

  That’s true,” agreed Compton. “But it will last well beyond our lives. And I suspect that in some realities, that would be forever.”

  All laughed, except Bernard, who fully understood the implication of the comment and nodded in recognition of a clearly drawn line.

  Bernard exuded a darkness that seeped from his eyes and seemed to conjure a shadow that descended over the table as the Fijian cook cleared the soup and brought the entrée of lamb loins with sweet yams and cabbage. Cordiality finally resumed with rave comments as to the meal’s presentation and then its flavors, as all dug in and carried on their previous conversation of the preferred dive sites of the world.

  In the spirit of inclusion, Billy asked, “Been doing much diving lately, Mike? Or is it Michael?”

  Compton looked up from his lamb. “Michael is fine, and no, not much diving in a while. I am looking forward to getting back into the water.”

  “Do we have a novice here?” asked Bernard, washing his question down with a gulp of wine.

  Compton smiled away the implication and to his lamb replied, ”Hardly,” in an awkward attempt to shift the focus elsewhere.

  Bernard gazed at him as a predator might, sizing up a late night snack. The Brits, reading the remarks with the empathy of only those whose persecution is unremitting, very nearly spoke in unison, but Jason, the short haired blond with platinum highlights, beat Ian to the mark. “We’ve just been diving for a few years ourselves and are so looking forward to the Fijian experience.”

  “Really?” said Bernard, barely managing to keep his sarcasm within bounds. Turning again to Compton, “So enlighten us, Mike, where has the diving taken you?”

  Compton’s eyes narrowed again, his smile disappearing. “Far and deep.“

  “That sounds more like a sex dream than a dive site. Come on, fill us in. Have you dove in places that would call for some experience, some courage? Give us your story,” begged Billy.

  Compton glanced around the table, all faces expectant. “The Andrea Doria. I made a couple dives on her.”

  Billy whistled, “Whoa that’s the primo jump, man, the most dangerous of all wreck dives. Jesus, over two hundred feet! You using air or mixed gases? Tell us the story. Whoa! The Andrea Doria.”

  Bernard acknowledged the feat with a nod. “Yes, by all means tell us.”

  “I’d be happy to.” Compton sat higher in his seat and in so doing took full command of the table. “Well, the wreck is an Italian luxury liner, 700 feet long and 11 stories high, and lays in 240 feet of North Atlantic water. In 1956, she was broadsided by a Swedish ship 65 miles off Nantucket. Next to the Titanic, it’s the most seductive wreck in the world to dive, and the most dangerous. Bone chilling water, currents so strong they can rip your facemask off, silt that can wipe out all visibility in an instant. Her corridors are choked with electrical wiring and debris and her exterior is spider-webbed with acres of monofilament fishing nets. The wreck is a nightmare.”

  “Haven’t a bunch a people died diving the Doria?” asked Billy, thoroughly enthralled.

  “Yeah, I’m not sure how many but at least a dozen. They generally get lost or disoriented in the labyrinth below decks and run out of air before they can find their way out.”

  “God, what a horrible way to die! Why would anybody take that kind of risk?” asked Jennifer.

  “For the same reason they climb Everest -- because it’s there. And for artifacts worth great sums of money. One guy recovered a couple of ceramic friezes worth several hundred thousand dollars apiece. There are more down there, something like 16 safes with jewels, gold-rimmed Doria tableware, the list goes on and on. “

&
nbsp; “So what was the dive like?” asked Bernard, mildly intrigued.

  “Spooky, very spooky, and cold to the point of mind numbing. Fortunately e wasn’t a current running the day we dropped in. We were using mixed gas, exotic helium-based mixes and computer generated ascent schedules. The safety factors are quite rigorous. I went with an experienced diver and just stayed close to him. But the first sighting of the wreck in those dark waters, well it looked like what you might imagine a ghost would look like. Sort of half-eaten away, dark and foreboding, ominous, like this creature lying in wait. A nightmare, like I said. It was all I could do to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest. Once you penetrate the hull, it gets a hundred times worse. You are inside the nightmare. Creepy hoses and wires hanging everywhere, grabbing at you in the dark, trying to entangle you. Except where your light falls, the interior is as black as a coal mine. We had backups of everything, but I was always worried my light would go out and I wouldn’t be able to find my way out. In some places it really silted up and reduced visibility down to a couple of feet. Frankly, it was all I could do to hold it together. I had a ton of confidence in my partner. He’d made fourteen dives on the wreck. Still I couldn’t wait to get out. I picked up a small saucer that some other diver had found and dropped on his way out, so I was happy just to have a souvenir. When we finally exited the wreck we had to be careful because all that fish netting draped everywhere was just waiting to snarl you up. They had cut holes in it, but still, if you came out the wrong way and were low on air, you’d have to cut your way out. It was like death waited for you at every turn. One mistake was all that wreck needed to do you in. Deco was a drag too. So long and so cold, with nothing to do but wait, hoping the current wouldn’t pick up and rip you off the line or the seas wouldn’t blow the boat off its hook.”

  “Jesus,” was all Billy said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, it was quite an experience.”

  “What about the second time”, asked Bernard.

  “Pretty much the same as the first. I penetrated deeper into the ship, was a bit more relaxed. Recovered some silverware that polished up nice. But as they say, the most important thing you bring back from the Doria is yourself. One guy lost about 60 minutes of decompression when his guideline broke and was swept off the wreck in the heavy current. He had to swim hard to recover his position and used up a lot of his air. In the confusion, he didn’t deploy the reel and lift bag he was carrying. He ascended without a line and completed his 50-foot stop, but ran out of air and had to surface. He was hit pretty hard with decompression sickness; puking, dizziness. They choppered him out and he spent 40 hours in the chamber. Got out with a bit of a gimp in his right leg. He was lucky.”

  “Looks like we got a real pro diving with us,” announced Billy. “The Andria Doria is big time diving, brother. Big time!”

  Jennifer turned to John Scott, the host, who was a quiet, internal man, craggy faced with a deep sea tan, in his mid-forties, thinning hair turned platinum from long days in the sun. He possessed the old, wizened eyes of a mariner who had his share of beatings by the sea and has thus made few errors in navigating the man-made shoals of daily life. “Are there any shipwrecks around these waters, Captain Scott?”

  Scott brought the napkin to his mouth and hammered at its corners. “Not really. There’s an odd skiff and fishing boat that went down, but nothing of real interest.”

  “God, I’d love to dive a big wreck,” she said wistfully as if referring to something other than diving.

  “You can dive my big wreck anytime you like,” Billy lustfully replied, eliciting laughter all around.

  Bernard remained conspicuously quiet but caught Compton’s eye and observed a deception in its shift.

  Allison was still smiling when she stood. “I should think we’d probably better end the evening right there. Morning starts early here. Breakfast at sevenn.”

  Everyone rose and as Compton passed John Scott he pulled him aside as the table emptied. “Are you all set for the dive tomorrow morning?”

  Compton nodded confidently. “Yes, I am, thanks.”

  “Just checking. This will be your first dive with us and I wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”

  “I appreciate it. I’m all set and looking forward to it.”

  Bernard overheard the exchange and stopped, preventing the rest of the party from leaving. “You sound pretty confident. You don’t think there’s any risk in diving tomorrow?”

  Compton was clearly taken aback and instinctively became defensive. “I didn’t say that.” He then regained himself. ”In this sort of diving you just need to pay attention to one simple thing.”

  “And what,” asked Bernard, finishing off his wine, “would that be?”

  Compton cheerfully responded. “Look at your computer every now and again. What could be easier than that?”

  Bernard had small eyes, black and dead as a reptile. Compton wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before. “Well, I know that someone with your vast diving experience would realize that when things go smoothly you are, of course, correct. It is only when things begin to go sour that one must be,” he paused for effect, ”more than casually prepared.”

  John Scott, seeing where this discussion was headed, made an attempt to move the guests along, but Compton, with arm raised to deflect the interruption, responded. “I can only assume you must be speaking of your own ineptness. If you need some assistance in the water, I’ll be more than happy to help.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all,” said Bernard, shaking his head in bemused disbelief. But before he could elaborate, Compton brushed by him and was out the door.

  Compton did not meander about the compound with the others, but went directly to his bure where, after closing the door and releasing a deep sigh, he shook his head in perplexed disbelief. What possessed me to do that? Why must I create those damn stories? Stories, Michael? Out and out lies for God’s sake. That asshole Bernard, I let him bully me into it. People just can’t leave well enough alone. I wasn’t bothering anybody. Christ, what bullshit! He began to chuckle at the wildness of his story. He was always amazed when these elaborate deceptions would just spew out of him. Where did they come from? I’ve been doing it ever since I was a kid, he thought. My clever ways got me out of some serious jams. I never got caught and if they came close I would cover it with another, more outrageous story. I should have been a writer. Put this stuff to some positive use. I detest that part of me. It’s such a weakness.

  His self-loathing turned him to the window where he stared into the last of a smoky sunset. I strive towards the truth in myself, he thought, and wind up telling lies. I want the truth. I admire honesty in others, but can’t find it in myself. Now all this shame. It always ends this way. I know the outcome before I start and yet I go right on, caught up in the moment of center stage. It’s self-destructive. I can’t go among these people, face them in the morning. Them believing I’m this mix-gas wreck diver who goes to 250 feet. Christ, what was I thinking?

  Visions of the white beaches of Australia circled his mind like mosquitoes on a sunburned tourist. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said aloud to the remnant sunset and began to absently repack his gear bag. I’ll leave on the first plane tomorrow. Tell everybody I’m recovering from chemotherapy treatments, doctor’s orders, shouldn’t have thought about diving in the first place. He shook his head, bewildered at this thing in his brain that would just take off like that and fabricate something other than the truth. The fact was, he silently mused, he couldn’t stand up to the truth. Never could when the stakes got over his head. It always had to be bigger and beer than the next guy. The realization was sobering. He longed for the truth in himself, but it seemed distant and unavailable. He always ran or lied, usually both. And he would run again and he loathed himself for these self-destructive flaws.

  The decision to leave mortared itself into reality while he gazed sightlessly across a panorama of golden rays of an already sunk
en sun mirrored on the table-flat sea.

  Across the pane of sea a single dolphin jumped.

  It was a moment that shattered the endless chatter that filled his mind, leaving it as stilled as the water. The slick dolphin, plated in gold, suspended at the apex of its jump. The moment held, altered in time, as if to make eye contact somehow possible. Then slowly, the dolphin arched its body downward and reentered the water like freshly smelted gold pouring into a sea of platinum. He continued to stare out to sea watching the ripples where the dolphin had vanished, looking for it to break water again but it never reappeared.

  Michael Compton did not believe in omens. He did not believe in astrology or palmistry or channeling, UFO’s or psychics. He had little use for symbols of any kind unless they were found on a set of blueprints. Yet he stood stunned, not so much at the obvious symbolism but at the absolute clarity of the message. Unable as the shoe in his left hand to conjure up a thought, he tried unsuccessfully to throw the shoe into his gear bag. It fell short and hit the floor. When finally his eyes left the sea, he collapsed on the bed, knowing at once he could not leave but not knowing why. The reasonless decision dropped him to his knees, which had suddenly gone weak. Perhaps he had glimpsed the truth and could no longer deny it. Perhaps he had no lies left in him. Perhaps it was here in this obscure place in the middle of the South Pacific that he had to finally make a stand. Maybe he was just tired of running from himself. Those thoughts did not enter his mind, could not enter. He only knew he could not leave, not just yet. The depth with which he knew this could not be fathomed or wrenched away from the reality of the moment. He only knew that he would not leave, could not resist the power of the idea, and certainly could not put a name to its source.