Dead Bait 4

by Weston Ochse

  “Oh, this is it.” A sharp intake of breath told you the contraction was a big one. “Are you sure this is safe?”

  Squeezing her hand again, you took her in your arms and balanced her at the surface.

  Naomi screamed. A giant shape rose behind you, water falling from majestic wings, tail stirring the tide, but you dared not look. You calmly, with much composure, talked her through the birth, breathing with her, consoling her, soothing as she screamed and the great beast continued to loom.

  When her final push came and your baby girl was born unto the Sea, you smiled down upon your beloved and kissed her once before your gig pierced her heart four times and she settled to the sand.

  ***

  “We have these rules for a reason, sweetheart.”

  “Why, Daddy?”

  “Because we do. We have to follow them or Mommy won’t let us have fish anymore.”

  “Ohhh.” Her beatific face squinches as she navigates the possibilities before settling on, “Then we’d have to eat mainlander food?”

  “We would, sweetheart.”

  “Gross.”

  You laugh and she giggles, slipping her tiny hand into yours. The two of you wade out to the moon, gigs lazy, lanterns blazing at a field of flounder before you.

  She never asks about Naomi and only knows that her Mother, your Mother, will always provide.

  She is sixteen when the Sea finally calls you back to Her bosom. Unlike the man who raised you, you step willingly into the wings of the great stingaree, savoring the pierce of release as Her venom floods your abdominal cavity, Her syrupy embrace pulling you silently down, carrying you home.

  The Most Painful Companion

  Meghan Arcuri

  Do you really think a woman your age should be wearing a skirt like that?

  I don’t know how your husband puts up with all that nagging you do.

  You probably shouldn’t have said that to your son. He’s so fragile, you know.

  These are the words my mother says to me.

  Okay. They’re not the only words she says. And not all the time.

  But it feels like that, even after thirty-five years.

  I’m supposed to be over this stuff by now, too distracted by my own life to care. But parental guilt’s not like that, is it? It burrows into your consciousness, spreads its seeds and grows, grows, grows.

  Not that she did an entirely bad job. I’m still here, right? I did well in school, have good friends, a good family. The job? Well … I gave up my career in finance to be a stay-at-home mom. But people say raising kids is a full-time job and I’ve gotta say, I don’t know if they’re giving me a line of bullshit, but I totally agree.

  So I don’t have a medical degree like my perfect brother and his beautiful wife, as my mother always points out. But I do have my master’s. Doesn’t that count for something?

  Not when you’ve relinquished that master’s for diapers and doodling all day.

  Maybe she’s right.

  Whatever.

  “You’re going on another vacation?”

  Treading in the aquamarine water, I strap on my mask, last week’s conversation with my mother echoing in my mind. The bright sun rises in the clear sky.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Didn’t you just get back from Florida?”

  I strap on my flippers. The treading just got easier.

  “If five months ago qualifies as ‘just getting back,’ then yes.”

  “Why do you have to get so defensive?”

  I put the snorkel’s mouthpiece in and bite down just a little too hard.

  “I’m not getting defensive.”

  “It’s in your tone … anyway, where are you going?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Hawaii.”

  “Hawaii?? Again? Must be nice.”

  I dive into the cool, refreshing water.

  Yes. It’s really nice.

  I go down.

  Down.

  Down.

  Down.

  The water caresses my body, soothes it, hugs it like a second skin. Whatever’s happened to me in my life, whatever issues I’ve dealt with, the water has always given me peace. I feel at home here. Almost more at home than I do anywhere else.

  Whose fault is that?

  Jesus.

  At first I see nothing but lava rock covered in coral. After I move a little closer—and shake off my mother’s words—the fish come into focus.

  Mostly parrotfish at first, then one of my favorites swims by: humuhumunukunukuapua’a.

  It’s Hawaiian for “trigger fish with a blunt snout like a pig’s.”

  It’s a fairly accurate description and, honestly, if it were anywhere else in the world, I’d probably find it ugly. But this is Maui; everything’s beautiful in Maui.

  That’s if you’re lucky enough to be asked to go to Maui.

  I grunt and shake my head. Why can I not escape her words? Snorkeling or a quick swim usually does the trick.

  I come up for air.

  Makena Landing is not far behind me, but what’s in front of me takes my breath away every time I see it: West Maui rises to my right; the island of Lana’i is in front of me, distant and cloud-capped; and the red-spotted island of Kaho’olawe is to my left. All against the backdrop of the clear, blue sky. The sun hovers above, the palm trees and flora in my periphery dance in the wind. It is tribal, ancient-feeling. This vista transports me to the past, making me long for the time of outrigger canoes, grass skirts, and fresh lava from Haleakala.

  I’ve never seen a volcano.

  I inhale and submerge myself, heading toward my ultimate destination, Five Caves, with all of its colorful fish and green sea turtles.

  The locals don’t recommend snorkeling here, as it’s a little too deep for the average snorkeler. I’ve been doing this for a while, though, so I’m not worried.

  I swim through a school of yellow tang, the yellow almost too bright to be found in nature.

  As I approach the first cave, something moves below me.

  Was that a shimmer?

  I swim toward it, but I only see water, cut by a ray of sunlight.

  Pretty.

  … for those of us that are lucky enough to see it. Don’t you think I might like to snorkel in Hawaii? See that rainbow of fish you always talk about? Share that experience with my grandson and my daughter and her husband? I don’t move around as well as I used to, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to try. But you’ve already dismissed me as too old, too weak, too useless. I did everything for you. And this is how I’m thanked for all those meals I made and practices I drove you to? I thought my daughter would treat me better, but I guess I was wrong. You would think we would spend more time together what with you being a stay-at-home-mother. What is it, exactly, you do with all of your time, anyway?

  The water pushes me down, heavy on my limbs. My heart throbs. My lungs burn.

  An amorphous, purple cloud floats beneath me, the purple so dark it’s almost black. It swirls around and around and around. It’s haunting, hypnotic. Is it moving toward me?

  I kick, kick, kick.

  Up.

  Up.

  Up.

  I rip off the mask and gasp for air. I inhale some water and cough. When my throat clears, I float on my back and take a few deep breaths.

  What the hell just happened?

  Was that her voice? Mine? Sometimes I can’t tell where her thoughts end and mine begin.

  I put the mask over my eyes and stick my face back in: no dark cloud.

  What was that thing? It looked like octopus ink. I’ve heard people talk about the octopuses around here, but I’ve never seen one.

  Before I can figure it out, a head pops out of the water, about a foot away from mine.

  A greenish-brownish head, with sweet black eyes and a wrinkly mouth.

  A turtle. A huge one.

  I don’t know why I’m so surprised. This area is affectionately referred to as Turtle Town.<
br />
  I fumble to put my mask back on as the majestic creature disappears under the surface.

  I get my gear set and put my face in the water. Fortunately, the turtle is still close to me. I still see no sign of that inky patch, though. Or an octopus.

  I follow the big guy for a while. He moves with a leisurely grace, so at ease and content in the water. And it is a he: male turtles have bigger tails. Apparently size does matter.

  When he swims deeper, I try to follow him, but my lungs are too tired from my earlier episode.

  I come up for air again.

  “Hi, Mommy!!”

  The voice is distant, but familiar.

  I smile as my husband and son paddle over to me on their kayak.

  Well, my husband is paddling. My son isn’t even holding his paddle, smiling and waving at me instead.

  I wave back.

  “Hey, Zach! Hey, Derek.”

  “Did you see any turtles, Mommy?” Zach says.

  “I just saw one.”

  His eyes grow wide. He starts to bounce. “Where? Where?”

  I point to the spot where I was just swimming. “He was right over there a minute ago.”

  Zach leans over the side of the kayak, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “Where??”

  The kayak rocks a bit.

  “Careful, kiddo,” Derek says, grabbing the sides.

  “But I wanna see the turtle.”

  “He dove down pretty deep before I came up, buddy,” I say.

  A small whine.

  “Did he go into one of the caves?” he says.

  “Probably.”

  “Did you go into one of the caves?”

  “I didn’t make it this time.”

  Another whine. He likes to hear about my exploits. But not go on them himself.

  “Really?” my husband says. “Everything okay, Kate?”

  We discovered Five Caves the last time we were here. He knows how much I like it. How I like to challenge myself by trying to swim to each cave.

  I hesitate but say nothing about the episode. My husband would be annoyed to know that one of my mother’s guilt trips ruined a swim for me.

  “Everything’s great. You want to swim for a little bit with me, Zach?”

  My son scans the water again, a worried look on his face.

  “No.”

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  His face drops.

  Okay. A two syllable—sometimes two-lettered—word. So small, so simple. But the tone can make it so powerful.

  I could have ended it on an up, letting him know everything was all right. But I ended on the down, letting my disappointment—with a side of guilt—seep into it.

  Why do I do this? Why don’t I let it go? This is the small stuff, and I’m sweating it. Giving him guilt over a short swim in the ocean, just because I’m worried he doesn’t like the water as much as I do. Just because he isn’t a strong swimmer, and I don’t want him to feel badly when he’s with other kids who can do neat tricks. Why do I always have to turn everything into a teaching moment? Because it always seems like the only thing I’m succeeding at is making him feel bad.

  I’m such a jerk.

  “I’m sorry, Mommy.” His eyes are big, his face is sad.

  I grab his leg and squeeze. I give him the warmest smile I can muster. “No worries, buddy. Maybe I can hop a ride with you guys.”

  His face brightens. “You can sit here!”

  He moves from the front seat to the spot in the middle that’s not quite a seat, but is perfect for a six-year-old heinie.

  “Thanks, baby.”

  I climb onto the kayak and put my gear in a net bag.

  “Here, Mommy.” He hands me the paddle.

  I kiss his sweet face. “Thanks, bud.”

  We paddle back to shore.

  ***

  The next morning, I return to Five Caves. Before I reach the caves, I dive down a few times to see who else is awake. Maybe I’ll see that octopus.

  The sunny skies give the water a sparkling clarity. The coral is lumpy and bumpy and dotted with red, spiky sea urchins. I don’t know what they’re called—something to do with a pencil.

  The fish nibble at their breakfast, different types sticking together but often intermingling with other breeds.

  Their movement is simple but enchanting. Effortless. As we are not too far from shore, the tide pulls us back and forth, back and forth. This never seems to bother the fish. As they nibble, the tide pulls them away from their food, then pushes them back, pulls and pushes, over and over. Eventually they’re attracted to a new spot, a new nibble, all the while the water pushing and pulling. And the fish go with it. They don’t struggle. They don’t care about the interruption. They simply accept their fate, moving with the water instead of against it.

  I wish I could be more like that.

  But for now, I enjoy watching them.

  Of course, it’d be more fun if my son would come with me.

  Maybe if he wasn’t so afraid of the water, he would.

  I dismiss her words and come up for air, Five Caves a few yards away.

  My mask is fogging up, so I take it off and spit in it, spreading the saliva around with my finger. Derek was so grossed out the first time I did that, but in the absence of dishwashing soap, saliva helps keep the fogginess away.

  I put the mask back on and dive toward the caves.

  I dolphin kick my way down.

  Down.

  Down.

  Down.

  One of the mouths of the caves is in front of me. I wonder if any turtles are hiding in here today.

  Another shimmer beneath me.

  I assume it’s a ray of sun, like yesterday, but as I swim toward it, a bead of my saliva drips down the inside of my mask. Gross. But I’m not going back up to rinse it. I want to see the turtles.

  It’d be nice if Zach could swim well enough to see the turtles. Maybe you should spend more time with him, teaching him how to swim, making him less afraid. He says you always disappear when Derek is home. Getting some of that precious me time, I guess. Don’t you think your husband and son might like it when you’re all together? If you got a real job, you’d probably appreciate your family more. You’d value your time with Zach. Because if you haven’t noticed, he loves being with you. Playing and reading with you. He even sings with you because he knows it makes you happy. He just wants to make you happy, but every time I’m there, you always seem to be yelling and criticizing.

  My limbs are leaden; my muscles ache. Her words—my words?—weigh heavily on me. The water weighs heavily on me. My heart pounds, my lungs beg for air. But I do not move.

  Once again, a cloud swirls underneath me, thicker and darker than before. Closer to me than last time. I try to find the octopus, but I see nothing but the dark fog. A smoky arm extends toward me.

  Then a turtle swims through the cloud, and it dissipates. As he glides in front of me, I snap out of my trance. He swims to the surface. I follow him.

  Up.

  Up.

  Up.

  I reach the top, shoving the mask to my forehead. Tears mix with the water streaming down my cheeks. I struggle to keep my face above the surface, my jagged breaths tempting the water to enter my open mouth. I flutter kick, harder and harder, relieved my limbs have returned to normal.

  I’ve swum competitively since I was six. I’ve been snorkeling since I was ten. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before: the inky cloud, the voices … none of it.

  Is it the water?

  Is it me? Am I going crazy?

  My foot nudges something. I jerk back.

  God, I hope it’s not an octopus.

  A turtle pokes its head out for a quick breath then submerges again.

  I don’t even feel like following it this time.

  I feel like having a mai tai.

  ***

  The waiter places mai tais in front of Derek and me, and a virgin lava flow in front of Zach.

>   I waste no time in taking a sip, the tangy sweetness cascading down my throat.

  “Been a long morning already, eh?” the waiter says.

  His deep, sun-tanned skin, dark, dark hair, and tribal tattoos running up and down his arms make him seem like a native Hawaiian. That and his accent: lilting and easy, it sounds like a variant of California surfer dude.

  “My mommy likes snorkeling.”

  “What’s up, little cousin?” He holds his fist out to my son, who immediately bumps it. To me, the waiter says, “Where’d you go?”

  “Five Caves.”

  “Oh, yah.” He nods his head slowly, his expression more serious. “Five Graves.”

  Wait. Did he just say graves, with a G?

  “I thought it was caves, with a C, as in Charlie,” I say.

  “Oh, sure. It is. But it’s also called Five Graves, with a G, as in don’t go there.”

  Is he serious? First of all “Don’t go there” technically starts with a D. Second of all … graves? Don’t go?

  “Really?” Derek says, his expression half smile, half is this guy for real?

  The waiter laughs.

  “I’m just kiddin’, brah. You can totally go there.”

  “But is it really called Five Graves?” I say.

  “Yah. But that’s just because there are, literally, five graves on the way to the water. Haven’t you seen them?”

  “No. I usually swim out from a little beach near Makena Landing. Are they near there?”

  “Yeah. But if you’re swimming out from the beach, you might miss them.”

  “Who’s buried there?” my husband says.

  “Not sure. Just some ancients, I think. Local legend says they sometimes haunt the caves. Prey on people’s weaknesses, or something,”

  “Haunted?” Zach says. “Like ghosts?” His eyes are huge.

  “Oh, no worries, my man,” the waiter says, smiling and ruffling Zach’s hair. “People say stuff like that to mess with the tourists. There’s no such thing as ghosts. And even if there were, the honu—the turtles—are big and tough. They’d keep them away.”

  “But there aren’t any ghosts, right?”

  “No ghosts, buddy.”

  “Phew!” Zach relaxes into his seat and takes a big sip of his lava flow.