A Dolphins Dream

by Carlos Eyles

  * * *

  The breakfast call came at 7 AM sharp. In contrast to last night, Compton was the first to arrive and seated down to a freshly set table with cold papaya, scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon and Kona coffee, which the Fijian cook, Esther, poured from a fine ceramic pitcher. The others straggled in and said their “good mornings” in the polite and affected way of those who meant nothing of the kind. All were excited about the dive save for Bernard who continued to stare at Michael Compton with his reptilian eyes.

  “All this must seen very small time to you,” remarked Billy to Compton. “What with the Andrea Doria, and all.”

  Michael looked up from his eggs feigning mild surprise, then shifted into a bout of false modesty. “No, actually I find these dives equally exciting, though less anxiety filled,” he replied, feeling the awkwardness of the lie creep into his voice, wishing above all else that the Andrea Doria would simply go away, at the same time knowing that it wouldn’t. Now, he realized, he would have to live with the lie in some form of purgatory for as long as he resided here at the resort.

  “Well, I would love to buddy up with you,” continued Billy. “I’m sure I could learn a few things about deep dives, but the wife and I pretty much stick together. You probably don’t want a buddy, anyway. I know a lot of experienced divers prefer to dive solo.”

  “I suppose that depends on the dive,” said Compton, attempting to finish off the conversation.

  “No, actually it depends on the diver,” chirped in Bernard, sneering out the remark as he sat down to his breakfast.

  Compton, in almost a reflex response, pushed his plate of ha-eaten eggs away, grabbed his coffee and excused himself from the table. Bernard received castigating looks from Billy and the gay couple, Ian and Jason, to which he grinned in response.

  The unease with which Compton now found himself with these guests was very nearly unbearable. He strolled the grounds finishing off his coffee, taking in the sights of early morning Taveuni, which were spectacular, his mind unable to let go of the realization that he had to leave this self-imposed torture chamber. He could not discern how or why the breaching dolphin might, in any way, have altered that simple fact. Sleep had, as it usually does, softened and nearly obliterated the impact of the dolphin’s appearance and now he was at a loss as to its influence at all. It became abundantly clear he would leave the island or, at the very least, change resorts upon his return from the dives this afternoon.

  The call came to load up. Compton, along with the guests, gathered his dive gear and all were ferried by truck down to a small inlet five miles from the resort that served as a harbor, of sorts, as well as a safe port for the hurricanes that blew through these islands on a regular basis.

  The boat was open for the most part and its forty-foot length easily accommodated the eight divers, who sat on aluminum benches as it skipped over the water pushed by twin Honda Nineties. Compton sat next to Ian who had become nervous and was twittering away in his anxiety. Seeking reassurances from Jason that although he would jump first, he would not leave him and they would descend down the anchor line together. Bernard and his wife sat across from Compton and were sharing a private joke that he believed was directed at him, for they both shot furtive glances through their giggles.

  The boat ran for nearly half an hour and as it began to slow, John Scott stood and spoke. “We’re diving the Flower Garden this morning, spectacular white sea anemone filling an entire deep wall. Have you all had some wall diving experience?” He looked for responses and everyone nodded except Compton who felt no need to extend his lies further into this fine morning. Scott’s eyes flicked over the group and came to rest on Compton, but he said nothing and Scott continued.

  “This is the deep dive of the day, down to one hundred and twenty feet. Do we have anyone here who has a tendency to get narced at that depth?” Everyone but Compton shook his head. “Okay then,” continued Scott, “everybody check their gear and prepare their computers. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Compton had already hooked up his regulator and buoyancy compensator to the tank. The regulator had been serviced before he left the States and was working fine. However, the BC had apparently corroded somewhat and though it filled easily under pressure, did not discharge the air in single burps, instead seeping out slowly in a telltale whistle. Its high pitched squeak caught the attention of Ian and Jason, forcing him to abandon his tinkering with the air release valve to sustain his deception of the all-knowing superior diver.

  The boat slowed and an Indian girl, Emily, the only crew member and a creature of singular beauty with large brown eyes, a full sensuous mouth and blue-black hair braided into a single strand that ran the length of her back, dropped anchor off the bow.

  The divers slipped into their rigs and while last minute adjustments took place, Compton once again tried to release the remainder of air out of the partially inflated BC. But as the air trickled out and the valve began to whistle and draw stares, he turned his attention to putting on his mask and fins. Now the divers were standing and inching their way to the stern and jumping in under Scott’s instruction. “Swim to the anchor line. There’s a light current running. Drop down the line and we’ll meet on the anchor at the edge of the wall.”

  Compton passed a box of weights and grabbed two of unknown poundage, placing them in his C pocket to compensate for the inflation, then jumped into the water and swam to the anchor line. He figured he could pull himself down until he hit neutral buoyancy and then the partially inflated BC would no longer be a factor. Also, at depth the additional pressure would discharge the remaining air and he could then dump the extra weight. He reached the anchor line with no difficulty and, along with everyone else, began to descend. The inflated BC was working directly against his descent. While others glided down with easy kicks, he was forced to pull himself down the line hand-over-hand. Halfway down to the forty-foot bottom he attempted to release the air from the still inflated BC, but it continued to dribble out in a slow stream of bubbles. The diver above, one of the Germans on her way to the anchor, passed him, giving a strange look, which seemed to fall somewhere between disbelief and disapproval. Compton held onto the line to keep from rising and with his free hand attempted to work the BC, his movements beginning to slide into the frantic, jerky, gestures of the grossly incompetent. On the bottom, divers were pointing off over the edge of the wall where, swimming in the mid-water column, was a lone dolphin – silver gray, large bodied, with an ever-present smile. It seemed to hang in the water, casually eyeing the divers and their kaleidoscopic bevy of bubbles that rose to the surface, capturing the hidden light of the sea, dancing their way to oblivion.

  Compton’s preoccupation prevented him from catching early sight of the dolphin, but when he finally saw it, he felt strangely attracted and was overtaken with a desire that was unfamiliar in its fervor. In his excitement, he released the anchor line to swim down for a closer look. In that moment, he realized his mistake, but rather than try and reclaim his hold on the line, he elected to power down to the dolphin with forceful kicks. The kicks, as mighty as they were, could not overcome the buoyancy of his BC and he began to rise. Seized by frustration and fueled by a resolute longing of unknown origins, he ripped at the BC, attempting to discharge the air by way of disembowelment, frantically pulling on the connector hose as he continued to rise to the surface. Finally, he managed to separate the connector hose from the BC and in a mini-explosion of air, the BC filled itself with water and aborted his ascent. Gleefully liberated, he immediately began to sink towards the near motionless dolphin below. Swimming furiously down and over the edge of the drop-off, he did not veer from the dolphin. It was deeper than it appeared and as he began to close the distance, the dolphin appeared to slip away as if it were a mirage. Then, as if called, the dolphin turned and swam off into the cobalt abyss, disappearing altogether. Out in this deep water with no bottom as a point of reference, Compton had no sense of his depth or if he was suspended or, in fact,
sinking. He instinctively began to kick and look around. Far above, the other divers winked in silhouette at the edge of the wall. Slowly, in a semi-trance state, he realized that he had been sinking all the while and began to kick in earnest. Despite hard thrusts from his fins he continued to sink and panic began to ooze its way into his body. Though he felt restriction in his breath and his legs flailed against the thick atmosphere of water, he had the presence of mind to check his computer, discovering himself to be down over a hundred and sixty feet and still falling. Recognizing the severity of his predicament, he began a last ditch kick that did nothing but consume what little was left of his energy. The deep breaths of panic and exertion placed a demand on his regulator that it was unable to meet. Short of air, a building constriction in his chest released him from what was left of his senses and placed him in full panic. He knew he was going to die here, and as that thought took firm and undeniable root, John Scott was at his side, attempting to inflate the wreck of the ation and tching the last of a few trapped bubbles coursing their way past a gaping hole in its bladder. Scott pulled the quick release harness and handed over his spare regulator to Compton, who exchanged it for his own as Scott pulled the over-weighted scuba rig off Compton and let it fall away. Now they were rising with Scott’s hand under Compton’s arm, lifting him slowly to the surface. In the safety of Scott’s hands, his breath came under control and he was able to relax into the ascent. They rose to the edge of the wall where the other divers awaited, no doubt perplexed by the events that had unfolded before them. Compton saw them not as divers but as diners seated around tonight’s dinner table.

  Scott assisted Compton aboard the boat and tore off his mask, his face swollen and veined with anger. “What the hell happened down there?”

  Compton’s first impulse was to run, to hide, to fabricate a story, “equipment failure’ would have done nicely, would have satisfied all inquires. All evidence to the contrary was lying down in several hundred feet of water, and even if it was retrieved, nothing could be proved. These options ran through Compton’s mind in a millisecond and he saw them as a witness, detached and separate from their source. “I screwed up,” he said, removing his facemask. “My BC wasn’t working properly and I shouldn’t have made the jump. I tried to fix it, and things got out of hand.” He heard himself say the words as if it were someone else. There was a release in the truth, a lack of burden that seemed to free him from his terrible act. He sat on the bench and looked down at the floor. “I panicked.”

  Scott, taken aback by the directness of the admission, let his breath go in an audible sigh and shook his head. “Well, that was a close one. We were pretty deep.” Then, in a whisper to himself, “Close to one eighty. I can’t make another dive today. Emily will do the guide by herself, she’ll be fine.” Then back to Compton. “You feel okay? Any sickness or dizziness?”

  “No,” said Compton, running his hand through his hair, subconsciously monitoring his vital signs, “I’m okay, I feel fine. Thanks, John. I owe you one.”

  Scott was taking off his gear, his anger falling away with each article. “You don’t owe me anything, all in a day’s work.” He paused and watched Compton as he put his head in his hands and stared at the floor. “You never dove the Andrea Doria did you?”

  Compton did not look up from the floor, could not meet the eyes of his savior, and slowly shook his head.

  Later, when the other divers began to trickle back on board, the boat was an odd mix of joyous tourists back from the wonders of the deep and a dark foreboding that cast a pall that was all but suffocating.

  Billy was the first to come over to Compton. “Man, I saw it all. I was looking up and saw the BC go, just exploded in your face. ”

  Compton nodded, couldn’t bring himself to a full confession. He knew that if he said nothing, made no explanations, people have a tendency to fill in the blanks.

  “I guess you wanted to take a closer look at the dolphin. Emily says they are rare out here.”

  “You saw it, you saw the dolphin, too?” Compton’s voice was animated and Billy took a step back unsure of its purpose.

  “Well, yeah we all saw it. It was pretty deep though. I figured you knew what you were doing.”

  Compton hadn’t really been sure about the dolphin. The whole episode had been dreamlike. He smiled without realizing it. “Yeah,” was all he said. This explanation seemed to satisfy Billy and he returned to his seat to further explain the real truth of the event to his wife who waited anxiously for news from the source.

  Ian and Jason were sympathetic and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder and inquired as to his wellbeing. Compton nodded and said he was okay, all the while looking at Bernard who sat acrs from him, sucking on a bottle of water. His small eyes tracked the group, taking it all in, like some trial lawyer who was patiently waiting for the proper moment to reveal the true culprit and have the whole case thrown out of court. Humiliation lingered in the waiting and there was nothing Compton could do to forestall it. He sat in the knowledge that he would not lie and suffer any further degradations. Particularly in light of the fact that Scott was within hearing distance and he would not compromise the truth of his confession for Bernard or anyone else, no matter what prevailed.

  Bernard waited until the boat had slowed as it neared the dock, then stood and strolled casually over to Compton, who hadn’t moved from his place. Looking down at him in the pathetic way of an adult about to reprimand a child, he took a pull on his water. “Looks like you had a little trouble back there, Mike.”

  Compton looked up at him, annoyed, but said nothing. No sense in prolonging the punishment.

  All on the boat had stopped talking and were fixed on the moment, not unlike the silence that precedes the dropping of the cyanide in an execution. In a voice filled with mock sympathy, Bernard crooned, “Well, the simple approach to diving seems to have its drawbacks.” He then leaned down and came close to Compton’s ear. “I’ll bet you’re not even an architect. I’m not going to waste my time on you.” He turned, took another hit of water and strolled back to his seat.

  Compton kept to himself throughout the remainder of the afternoon and did not attend dinner. As the sun was setting he gazed out of the window, looking down at the pale water, its surface like marble slate, looking at the sea, looking for a dolphin, looking at himself. I’m on a bad roll, he thought. Too many things have turned sour these last few years. What the hell is going on? Really what is going on? That thing today, if I hadn’t lied it wouldn’t have been so bad. Hell, it wouldn’t have been bad at all really. Jesus, in a way I orchestrated the whole thing. Why do I do that, why do I try to be something I’m not?

  The question fell to the core of him like an electric shock. It weakened him and he gripped the shutter for support. When was I last the true me, he silently wondered. When I was a kid I guess. That was pretty much right. I liked the world then because everything seemed, I don’t know, balanced, peaceful. Until my brothers started to show up. After each one came, Mom got a little crazier and then Andrew put her over the top. He realized for the first time that, as the oldest of four brothers, he had became mother to his brothers. Jesus, where was Dad? Yeah, it really went down hill from there. But not entirely. I had Elizabeth and she was cool, with the volleyball scholarship and Student Body president thing. Some of it was fun, like the volleyball. Well, really it was afterwards. The bar with the peanut shells on the floor and you bought a steak and a salad for five bucks and grilled it yourself, pitchers of beer with the guys. How did Donavon get all those girls? They would flock to him, even pretty ones. He was chubby and he stammered when he got excited. Go figure. Those days were maybe the best of my life. I loved those guys, Mike, Dennis, Bob, and I didn’t even know it. Love is such a killer, each time it takes another piece of your heart. Who sang that song? I want to say Bette Midler, but that can’t be right. Heather looked like Bette, a little bit, same kind of pouty mouth. She was loud like Bette. I never should have married her, what w
as I thinking? I should never have gotten married at all, to anyone. Janice was okay. At least she didn’t try to kill me. Well, near the end, taking that money and all. But Denise was just plain evil. Jesus, full of sex, but man she never owned a kind thought. Which is okay, you just don’t want any kids with an evil person. Bradley, what did I do to you? What did I do to me? The pain of thinking about his only son short-crcuited his ruminations and froze his mind in anguish.

  When the circuit breaker of random thoughts broke him loose again, he could not remember why he was going over his past or what he was searching for. It was important, that much he remembered, but it was lost in the jumbled wiring of roof brain chatter. What was important, of primary concern, was leaving the resort as soon as possible. In light of today’s disaster, he had not the resolve to spend another night here and face these people from across the table. He was through fabricating stories, but he would have to begin elsewhere, at some other resort. It was no longer possible to be here, having laid out a groundwork of deceit that could not be overcome in a lifetime of truth telling.

  He ventured out of his bure and hoped he would not encounter anyone, making his way to the office of John Scott. He knocked on the open door and Scott turned from his desk, motioning him to take a seat. “How are you feeling?” he said with the detached concern of a doctor inquiring as to the health of his patient.

  “I’m fine. Again, I appreciate your help today. Thanks.”

  “No worries, mate.”

  “Listen, I’m thinking of moving on, but I’ve got no regulator or BC. Got any ideas?”

  Scott shook his head. “I’ve got a couple of back ups but can’t let you take them with you. Stick around. There’s plenty of diving to do. You’ll be all right. You can buddy up with me.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m taking the next flight out. I’ll head for New Zealand, spend a little time there before moving on to Australia.”