Gilles comes by and starts fiddling with one of the winches. He must be about to drop anchor. “Are we there?” Gilles looks up, startled, then shakes his head. “No, no. We have much farther to go.” Instantly I know it’s going to be bad. I’m going to suffer and it’s going to be bad.
“But we’re not leaving the lagoon? I thought we were diving just at the entrance.”
“Yes, but not this entrance. Another entrance.” He heads back to the cockpit, and the boat alters course. We’re heading straight for the gap.
I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be very, very sick. The first ocean swell meets the bow of the boat at this precise moment, and she lifts, gracefully rising, faster, faster, nose to the sky. The nose hangs for a moment and my stomach hangs with it. Then down we go, smooth and fast, down into the trough with a dizzying rush, an arc of white spray flying up either side of the bow. Yes, I am going to be sick. Very sick. There will be sickness, suffering and pain. I look behind me, to land, lovely, firm, dry, solid, friendly land, so far away. I think about swimming it but I know I’d never make it. I consider going back and begging Gilles to turn the boat around but I can’t do it.
I make for the railing of the boat. I grip the railing in both hands and I fix my gaze on the horizon. If I stay like this, staring at the horizon, without moving, without blinking, I might manage it. I’ve done it before. I might just fight it off. Either way, if we were cruising for a week, it’d be fine. It’s just those first three days.
We’re right in the gap now, the reef rolling by on either side. The rollers are huge. The bow rises and falls. I watch the horizon.
Now that we’re through the pass the boat swings parallel to the reef. We’re taking the swells on the starboard quarter so that we pitch and yaw at the same time in a complicated corkscrewing motion. First we yaw to the left, then pitch as the bow comes up, then we yaw to the right as the bow continues to rise and then once we’re yawing again to the left the bow drops and the stern comes up. It’s indescribable. There is no question now. I’m sick. It comes in waves, washing hot and cold from my scalp to my toes.
“Dolphin!” someone shouts and there’s a stampede to the side, but I don’t care. I don’t care about fish, scenery, diving or any other damn thing. I’m already at the third stage of seasickness: bitterness. The first stage is denial, the second is crushing realization. The fourth stage is irrational desperation. By the time we arrive at the dive site I’ve reached stage four. I’m now fighting off retching impulses, and I know from previous witness accounts that I am the color of an unwashed bedsheet. People are looking at me strangely and all I can think about is getting into the water. If I can get into the water, I can get below the swell. If I can get below the swell I won’t be bobbing up and down.
Gilles drops the anchor and starts the briefing. I head for the gear, but I can’t put it on. If I look down long enough to get ahold of all that stuff, I’ll throw up.
Gilles has finished the briefing. “All right, everyone,” he says, “pick a buddy.”
“Hey,” says Russell, slapping my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever, help me with this thing.”
He hoists the tank onto my back, buckles the BCD, checks tank pressure, turns on the air, checks the regulator. “Okay, buddy, now you do . . .”
I’m already in the water.
The thing about scuba diving is it’s very noisy. Every time you breathe in, you sound like Darth Vader, and every time you breathe out you sound like a roomful of electric jugs on the boil. Apart from that it’s very peaceful. If the visibility is good, which it is today, it’s a lot like flying. Everything is in shades of blue. Right now, for example, I’m hanging above a blue valley. On the valley floor are blue corals, blue anemones, blue rocks and blue sand. Hanging below me, about halfway down, is a big school of silver-blue fish, looking something like a fleet of moored zeppelins. They’re doing nothing, of course. This is the way of it, for fish. I’ve never once seen a fish that seemed to be doing anything.
But today we’re not interested in fish. Today we’re interested in getting below the swell. I fumble for the button on my inflatable vest, let out some air and begin to sink. The pressure builds on my eardrums until I pinch my nose and blow to equalize. Using the anchor cable as a guide I lose altitude, pausing to repressurize a few times. I still feel sick, and the swell is still pulling me around. Every time a swell goes by there’s a big surge, tugging me out sideways from the anchor line like a fluttering pennant. I grip the line, equalize, descend, descend, equalize. Looking up I can see the other divers. The Irish Brothers, gleaming like a couple of sardines, Russell, all knees and knobs, a sea cow in his shorty wet suit, Gilles a cruising shark.
The group assembles about ten meters down on a mushroom-shaped coral plateau. Russell is eyeing me suspiciously through his faceplate. He gives me an interrogative gesture with his hand, and I give him an “okay” back. In actual fact, nothing has changed. I still feel sick, and I can still feel the swell, ten meters down. Another surge tugs at my legs, spinning me around, and we all grab for the nearest projection to stabilize. I’m going to be sick. If I throw up down here, what happens? I’ve never thrown up underwater before. I’ve thrown up in planes, cars, boats, trucks, trains, fairground rides, waterbeds, you name it, but never underwater. A lacing of panic adds itself to the turmoil in my stomach. It can’t be good. It can’t. Maybe I could die. I’ll throw up, clog my mouthpiece and die.
Gilles signals and we begin to move off across the coral plateau, pausing to grip the bottom with each swell. I try to remember to watch out for stonefish, moray eels, lion fish, Conus geographus, surgeon fish, sea snakes and sharks—except, honestly, I no longer care. I no longer care about the coral. I no longer care about the fish. I no longer care about wrecked ships. All I care about is my stomach.
Next my air supply starts to trouble me. It seems unreasonably hard to pull it in, my mouth is getting so dry it hurts, and no matter what I do I can’t seem to get enough air. There’s a panicked feeling building in my lungs, a craving for air, like the feeling you get when your older brother stuffs you wrong way around into a sleeping bag and sits on your head. You know that feeling. Right?
The second rule of diving is don’t look up. The first rule of diving is never hold your breath. If you hold your breath and you happen to be moving up at the same time, you can rupture your lungs without even noticing—until it’s too late and you’re dying, that is. But the second rule is, don’t look up. When tightrope walking, don’t look down. When diving, don’t look up. If you look up, you’ll notice how far away the surface is, and once you notice that you’ll start thinking about how long it would take to get there and all of a sudden you’ll realize that what you are doing is crazy and mad and foolish and you are sure to die.
I look up.
The surface is a billowing, translucent ceiling of light. It’s so far away. The boat, the huge, solid, dry, boat, is a tiny toy, a bullet-shaped shadow no bigger than my thumb. I am surrounded not by air but by water. It’s everywhere, pressing on my ears, my faceplate, trying to get in.
This is mad.
I’m going to be sick in my regulator and die. I’m going to choke on my own vomit then drown trying to return to the impossibly distant surface.
I know what’s going on. In the small detached part of my mind that is calm and clear and always aware of everything, I know perfectly well that the only thing that is really wrong is that I am about to panic, in clear violation of the third rule of diving, which is don’t panic. I’m not confused about it at all. Everything is perfectly clear. I know that if I don’t panic I’ll probably be fine. I know that if I do panic, I probably won’t. But there’s nothing I can actually do about it. It’s a bit like watching TV. I’m watching it all happen but there’s nothing I can do to influence events. We have now swum across the reef. We are approaching the edge. The bottom drops away suddenly, getting bluer and bluer as it goes, and then it vanishes
. About two kilometers down, that way, is the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
Gilles begins to swim along the edge of the drop-off, then he stops. He turns back to the group, makes a fin-shape on his forehead with the palm of his hand, and points. This is the diver’s symbol for shark. It comes up, out of the blue, gliding toward us. It’s a black tip or else a gray, I can’t tell which. It cruises by without altering course, neither afraid nor interested. I can’t say I’m particularly interested either. The shark having swum on by, Gilles gestures to us to continue. We’re now following the line of the drop-off, and after cresting a small rise we see it: a vague blue shape, massive and angular. As we approach, the outlines of the superstructure gradually reveal themselves.
She’s enormous. Even in this clear water you can’t see more than half of the ship’s length at any one time. There are clouds of fish everywhere, mainly one cloud of yellow, another iridescent blue. It’s amazingly beautiful and mysterious, and I couldn’t care less.
I think of Melissa and Matt. It’s hard to imagine that somewhere, far above the thousands of tons of water pressing down on my unprotected body, far away in a land of air and sunlight, of trilling birds and flowing champagne, Melissa is up there. With Matt Chalmers. And Sophie. My child. They’re all up there. My fate is being decided. Wheels are turning. What am I doing down here?
There’s a tap on my shoulder. Russell wants to take my photo next to the ship. I check my gauge. Thank God. My air’s running out. I have to signal to Gilles, who will signal to me to go back to the boat. Where is Gilles? They all look the same down here. Rubber-clad bodies, masks, air hoses. I think he had yellow fins. But then, everyone’s got yellow fins. I swim forward. That’s an Irish Brother, so’s that. The noses are a dead giveaway. That must be Gilles. He’s only five meters away, but he’s swimming away from me, along the wreck, and no matter how fast I fin, I can’t catch up. Again I look at my gauge. I’ve only got five minutes left.
Okay.
Now, I’m really going to panic. Here I go. One, two, three . . .
There’s a tap on my tank. I turn. It’s Gilles. He looks at my gauge, looks at me, and jerks his thumb up, toward the light.
“Wasn’t that great?”
“Amazing!”
“Incredible.”
Everyone is enthusing, and looking forward to lunch. Except me. Out of consideration for their feelings I’m out of sight on the swimming platform at the stern, crouched over, feeding the fish. Literally, as it happens. Beautiful violet-colored ones with yellow fins, flocking and wheeling like pigeons as I empty my stomach into the pure Pacific.
The trip back is a blank. Exhausted, I remain draped across the railing at the back of the boat, too weak to move, too weak to think, until by sheer force of will I manage to achieve a self-induced coma. Russell half carries me off the boat, drags me up the beach and dumps me under a palm tree. I’m too weak even to crawl.
“Frederick?”
It’s Tamintha. I manage to sit up, though the world continues to swim and there’s a dull ache in my stomach. I run a tongue around my mouth. One of my teeth feels funny. Slightly numb.
It’s a postprandial scene in Central Square. Ella and Russell are on recliners: Ella’s reading one of Melissa’s crime novels and Russell is fast asleep. Brian is on a blanket in the shade playing with blocks. He’s got three in already and he’s working on a fourth. The bathing drinkers are drinking and bathing, the sky is blue.
“You’re feeling sick, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Russell said you didn’t take your pills.”
“I thought we were staying in the lagoon.”
I squint up at her. She’s looking down with mild sympathy. “You better lie down again. You’re green as grass.” I lie down again. She’s right. She sits next to me. “I’ve decided to forgive you, by the way.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked that, because there is actually. First, I was talking to Melissa, and I realized she’s a really, really nice young person. If rather too young and attractive. She’s bright and friendly and nice and . . . you, you’re a nice person too, if a little flaky. And life is short. But then, what really clinched it, I was watching the two of you, this morning, walking across to breakfast and there was just something about the way you reached over and held her hand and the way she looked at you and I just thought, come on, these two are in love, you know? And I thought when two people obviously care about one another that way . . . how can I resent it? Human happiness is such a frail and beautiful thing. And then I thought about you, and about how amazing you’ve been about this whole thing with Sophie. You’ve been so open and unselfish and generous, and I felt ashamed.”
“Thanks, Tamintha. I really appreciate it.”
“Have you thought about that job?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“I actually think I need a whole career change.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’d quite like to work with animals.”
“Hm.”
“But if you’re looking for someone to replace me, I know a really good reader. Top-notch. A born reader.”
“Send him along. I’ll give him a tryout.”
“It’s a her.” I drag myself to my knees. “She’s looking for a career change too. You know her. It’s Melissa.”
“I thought she was going to be a nuclear physicist.”
“There’s a glut on the market. Besides, she’s really a people person.” I struggle from my knees to my feet. My stomach is knotted up like a rubber band on a toy airplane. “You haven’t seen her, have you? By the way?”
“I think she went snorkeling with Matt.”
“I think I’ll stretch my legs. A walk will do me good.”
A walk is doing me no good at all. I trudge along the talcum-fine beach, sweat trickling into my eyes, down my back, my sides, my legs, the soles of my feet. I have to say, this whole tropical island thing is a bit of a have. It photographs well but that’s about it. You get there, it’s gritty, it’s hot, it’s sweaty, it’s too bright, it’s dangerous, and there’s nowhere really comfortable to lie down. All that reclining with a cocktail and a sunset stuff, it’s all rubbish. Those plastic beach recliners are an absolute rip-off. The fact is, these desert islands are deserted for a reason. Give me a skiing holiday any day.
I stop and look around. The day is getting even hotter. The sky is a strangely flat, dull, cyanotic blue, and it’s suffocatingly hot and still and I continue to stream with sweat just standing here. Even the parrots in the trees sound breathless and cross. I still feel queasy and my stomach aches and that numb tooth is getting number. There’s a haze gathering on the horizon.
Ahead is a rocky headland, cutting off the sand like a wall, and jutting out into the sea. I climb it. Below is the small secluded cove. It is, indeed, beautiful. Cradled in two rocky arms, one at each end of a tiny, ten-meter stretch of perfect sand. The rocky outcrops continue well out into the water, then curve around slightly, creating a sheltered little inlet like a natural tidal swimming pool.
Melissa is lying on the sand in the shade of a convenient palm, with one of my romantic comedies. There’s no sign of Matt. I clamber down and go over. She looks up and sees me. “Oh, hi. Hey, this one’s not bad at all. There’s this couple, and they divorce for tax reasons but continue to see each other in secret.”
“Where’s Matt?”
“Oh, he’s gone.”
“What happened? Mission accomplished?”
“Yes, and no.”
“What happened?”
“I tell you one thing, the guy’s more screwed up than you are.”
“Surely you don’t allow that possibility?”
“Well.” She puts down the script. She crosses her legs. “It’s like this. Everything starts out fine. Sophie stays in her tent, we go snorkeling. You’ve got to see it, by the way, there’s all this amazing
coral. It’s like swimming over a forest of blue reindeer horns . . .”
“Yes, yes. Matt. What happened?”
“So we do some snorkeling.”
“Yes.”
“Then we do some sunbathing.”
“Yes?”
“Not a soul around. I spread out the towels, I lie down.”
“Yes.”
“I take off my top.”
“Yes.”
“I ask him to put some tanning lotion on my back.”
“Yes?”
“So he does my back. And I roll over, and I ask him to do my front. He does my front. And then he stops. He just kind of stands there, looking at me.”
“Carry on.”
“So I say, ‘My, let me help you with that . . .’”
“Very original.”
“Incidentally, the guy is hung like a horse, I mean, I’ve seen a few and let me tell you . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“You know?”
“The world knows. Get on with the story.”
“So everything’s going fine . . . and then he stops me.”
“He stops you?”
“He says, ‘No, stop, stop.’”
“What did you do?”
“What do you think? I stopped, of course.”
“What was it? A rough filling?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Like what then?”
“Like, he begs me to consider the sanctity of the marriage vow. He pleads with me. He says I’m about to marry a wonderful man. He says, and I quote, ‘Frederick is a great guy. He deserves better than this.’”
“Good God.”
“He says he’s made many mistakes in his own life and I should try to learn from them. He was quite eloquent.”
“This is slightly ironic.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“And what did he say?”
The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life Page 26