“Don’t want you guys drownin’ or somethin’ while America watches in horror,” he cracked. Of course, he had showered the boys with every piece of equipment to which a Capt. Kenny’s Dive Shop, Bridgeport logo could be affixed. “A little publicity couldn’t hoit,” he reassured.
So here they were, riding the swells and anxiously awaiting their moment of truth at the bottom of the harbor.
The test would be comprised of three basic tasks, all performed with their Divemaster, Capt. Kenny:
First, each student had to make his way to the bottom using a guide rope from the boat—roughly 25 feet—and await the Divemaster.
Upon his arrival, the trainee would have to remove his mask completely, then replace it and clear it; trade mouthpieces with the Divemaster to share their air tanks; and use a wristwatch/compass to orient himself and swim along the bottom to and back from a buoy anchor some 50 feet away.
After they’d anchored the boat, Capt. Kenny told the trainees to suit up and do a perfunctory equipment check. It was at this point that a rather attractive Asian woman, who had been the ace of the classroom sessions, declared that she couldn’t possibly go through with the final part. The Captain, standing with legs spread for balance as the boat rocked, merely shrugged his blocky shoulders and said, “Your choice, ma’am. You’re paid up and I shure don’t wanna make you do somethin’ you don’t wanna do. Don’t want you drownin’ the both of us down there.”
Slowly, the boys and their classmates pulled on their funky smelling rubber wetsuits and checked the pressure in their air tanks. T.J. tested his mouthpiece, which at first had made him gag, then spat into his facemask, spread the saliva around with his fingers, and gave it a rinse over the side. He hoped the gasoline in the water surrounding the dive boat wouldn’t seep into his breathing equipment below, because the churning ocean had brought him to the edge of nausea and left him dangling.
“Okay, so who’s the foist victim?” said Capt. Kenny mischievously.
“Me. I’ll go first,” said Bortnicker, standing wobbly on the pitching vessel. “If I don’t do it now, I never will.”
“Good man! Well, over the side wit’ you, Bortnicker!”
T.J. watched with admiration as his friend inched his way to the stern, swung his flippered feet onto the dive platform that jutted out over the foaming waves, adjusted his mask, gave him a tentative thumbs up, and then goose-stepped into the harbor’s ominous waters.
Capt. Kenny gave him a couple minutes to hopefully find the guide rope and make his way to the bottom. “Hasn’t popped right back up,” he announced finally. “Well, that’s a good sign. I’ll stay down there to wait for the rest of youse. Just follow the rope till you reach the bottom. I’ll find you down there.” With that, he assumed a sitting position on the inside of the gunwale then nonchalantly flipped backward into the water, leaving the remaining candidates alone with their thoughts.
Minutes passed on the rocking boat. Another diver threw up over the side, and T.J. closed his eyes, wondering how Bortnicker was doing. Then, realizing he was working himself into a panicked state, he forced his mind to go elsewhere. He thought of LouAnne and palm trees.
After an interminable wait, Bortnicker bobbed to the surface near the platform, gave a small wave, and was pulled aboard by his classmates, who eagerly awaited his report. He removed his mask, spat out the mouthpiece, and grandly announced, “Piece of cake, guys.”
“I’ll go next,” volunteered T.J. Bortnicker escorted him to the platform with a smile, but at the last second pulled him close and whispered, “Watch it. It’s dark down there.” With a quick nod, T.J. stepped off.
The water wasn’t as cold as he’d imagined it to be; maybe it was the sweat he’d generated, imprisoned in his wetsuit, that was keeping him warm. He found the anchor rope and started following it down, equalizing his ears every ten feet or so, telling himself, “If Bortnicker can do it, so can I.” What he didn’t learn until later was that, as soon as he’d gone beneath the surface, Bortnicker had quickly excused himself from the group and gone below where, locking himself in the head, he’d firmly grasped the sink with both hands until he was able to stop himself from shaking.
At the last moment, T.J. felt the sandy bottom come up to meet him. He couldn’t believe, in all this inky blackness, that he was only 25 feet below the surface. Letting go of the rope, he brought himself to a standing position, looking around for Capt. Kenny. “He’s just testing me,” he wuffed into his mouthpiece. When Kenny tapped him on the shoulder, it was all he could manage to keep from collapsing in fright.
But Capt. Kenny was a pro who’d seen it all. He quickly calmed the teen, who much appreciated the small light attached to the top of Divemaster’s mask. Then, through a series of gestures, he initiated the test exercises.
All three of the tasks were difficult for T.J., but none held as much terror as when Kenny snapped off his headlight, lifted off his student’s mask, and handed it back to him. Biting back the bile rising in his throat, T.J. shakily repositioned and cleared the mask, relief washing over him when he made out Capt. Kenny giving him a thumbs up. He gained a bit more confidence with the switching of breathing apparatus exercise and then powered his way through the orienteering maneuver. It was on the swim back from the buoy anchor that he thought, Of course I can do this. I stared down a Confederate cavalryman on the field of battle and didn’t run. He returned to where Capt. Kenny awaited by the anchor rope, received an emphatic “OK” sign and a pat on the shoulder, and then ascended to where Bortnicker and his classmates anxiously anticipated his return.
“Were you scared?” asked Bortnicker, pulling him on board after taking his flippers.
T.J. gave him a wry smile. “Not any more than you.” They burst into laughter and smacked a high five.
An hour later, Capt. Kenny’s mate hauled up the anchor and they headed back to Bridgeport Harbor. Only one trainee had panicked and thus failed his test, not counting the woman who’d bailed at the beginning. Overall, Capt. Kenny was pleased.
As they pulled into the boat slip T.J. could see his father, Thomas Jackson, Sr., and Bortnicker’s mom, Pippa, waving from the observation deck of the Fisherman’s Rest seafood shack, which boasted the best lobster roll sandwich around. Bortnicker shot them a “thumbs up” to signify they’d passed their exam, and then the boys began gathering their belongings, including a change of clothes for dinner upstairs.
They were about to exit the boat when Capt. Kenny told them to sit down. “Listen, youse two,” he said seriously, “ya done real good down there, barely a hitch, so it’s my pleasure to issue the both of you your own gen-u-ine PADI card. But that don’t mean you’re some kinda experts. In fact, in da big picture, you don’t know squat. That’s why I got my doubts about you divin’ on some wreck in Bermuda, even if it is in fairly shallow water.
“A’course, if you could dive in this crap,” he flung a hand out toward the harbor’s churning waters, “youse can dive in anything. In Bermuda there’s probably gonna be like unlimited visibility, and in June, the water temp is like your bathtub.” Both boys broke into broad grins at the prospect.
“But you gotta promise me that, no matter what, you don’t take any stoopid chances down there, and whatever else you do, never dive alone. Somethin’ goes wrong down there, you need a buddy. Understood?”
“We gotcha,” said T.J., extending his hand. “Thanks for everything, Capt. Kenny.”
“Yeah, right,” the old seadog replied, engulfing the boys’ hands in his huge paw. “Just make sure you flash my shop’s logo on camera whenever possible. That would be nice.”
“I bet we can even get you a ‘special thanks’ in the closing credits!” chirped Bortnicker.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Now youse two clowns get outta here and let me wash down this tub.”
Chapter Four
“Lobster roll’s a little too mushy—they should’ve eased up on the mayo,” said Bortnicker, dipping a French fry into his l
ittle paper cup of ketchup.
“Well, maybe if you’d actually chewed it you’d have enjoyed it more,” quipped T.J. “I can’t believe you got your appetite back so quick after being seasick.” He had only nibbled at his own sandwich and had avoided the greasy fries completely.
“What can I say?” grunted Bortnicker through a mouthful of food. “Now that I’m back on land I need nourishment!”
The sun had broken through, and the day had actually become quite pleasant. They had found a vacant picnic table with an umbrella on the deck of Fisherman’s Rest, which was becoming crowded with boat people and other harbor visitors passing the late spring afternoon. The wind had died down a bit, and the harbor’s waters looked less threatening than a couple hours before, when Capt. Kenny’s 36’ dive boat NeverEnuf had ferried the boys out to the mouth of Bridgeport Harbor for their SCUBA certification dive test. A slightly overweight waitress dressed in faux pirate gear dropped off a second round of iced teas.
Pippa Bortnicker, who earned a good living as a feng shui interior decorator to the well-heeled of Connecticut’s “Gold Coast,” smiled warmly at her son as she plucked a cherry tomato from her garden salad. “He’s become quite the food critic,” she commented with a wink. “I’m getting a complex about my cooking.” With her 70s style peasant blouse and long, frizzy hair tied back with a pink bow, she looked like a rather attractive middle-aged refugee from Woodstock. Her son could have countered that Pippa’s strict vegan diet severely cramped her creations, but he chose to let it go. The day was going too well.
“I, for one, think it’s great that he’s picked up a hobby that’s useful,” said Thomas Jackson, Sr., who was decked out in his standard uniform of golf shirt and khakis. “Some girl is going to be very lucky.”
“And model railroading isn’t useful?” countered Bortnicker, referring to his first love.
“Oh surrre,” said T.J., rolling his eyes for effect. “Girls really dig it.”
Pippa delicately wiped her mouth with her napkin and placed it on the table. “All right, gentlemen,” she began, “now that the diving exam is over, could you tell me again how this whole excursion is going to work?”
The three males looked at each other, hoping someone would take the lead. Tom Sr. ran a hand through his stylish salt-and-pepper hair and spoke first. “I’ve been in touch with The Adventure Channel people, as well as Mike Weinstein, the host of Gonzo Ghost Chasers. They have arranged for us to occupy four efficiency units at the Jobson’s Cove Apartments Hotel on the South Shore. Mike and I will have our own units, the boys will share one, and T.J.’s cousin LouAnne will have the fourth. This has all been cleared with my brother-in-law, Mike Darcy.”
“I really appreciate this, Tom,” said Mrs. Bortnicker. “It will allow me to attend the Feng Shui workshop in New York City during that week. I signed up for it ages ago—”
“We know, Mom,” interrupted Bortnicker, obviously hoping to derail a long monologue on the benefits of Feng Shui living that had become Pippa’s trademark.
“Anyway,” continued Tom Sr., “the boys will be allowed to take their freshman finals a week early and we’ll hop a plane to Bermuda that first Friday in June. Mike Weinstein is supposed to be there already, and he’s bringing all the equipment. LouAnne will be a couple days behind us because she has finals and a big track meet to close out her spring season that she refuses to skip. So, she’ll fly out of Philadelphia, and we’ll pick her up at the airport.
“After that we’re on Mike Weinstein’s schedule. Make no mistake—although Bermuda is the ultimate vacation destination, the kids are going to have to put in a lot of hard work to finish up in their allotted time of under two weeks.”
“Such as?” queried Pippa.
“Well, for starters, Mike will have to verse them on the usage of the various ghost hunting gadgets used on the show—the electronic voice phenomena stuff and whatnot. Remember, there’s no film crew on site. The team does its own filming as it conducts the investigation. Mike’s involvement on site will be minimal—that’s the whole idea of this Junior Gonzo show or whatever they’re going to call it.”
Mrs. Bortnicker frowned and furrowed her eyebrows. “And you really believe in this stuff, Tom?”
The elder Jackson chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing that the boys’ eyes were upon him. “Pippa,” he said evenly, “if you’d asked me this a year ago I’d have told you that Gonzo Ghost Chasers was just another schlocky paranormal show and that the idea of spirits and ghosts moving among us is a bunch of baloney.
“But last year, something happened to those kids down in Gettysburg that they all swear to. And what’s more, so does my brother-in-law, whom I’d trust with my life. So, to answer your question: yes, there are a lot of ridiculous, exploitive ghost shows on TV, and Gonzo Ghost Chasers can be as over-the-top as any of them. But if there is a pirate’s ghost in Bermuda, these kids are as qualified as anyone to prove it.”
T.J. felt his chest puff out with pride at his father’s words, and Bortnicker lightly kicked him under the table in agreement.
“But where does the SCUBA diving come in?” she asked worriedly. “Why is it so necessary?”
“Apparently, this William Tarver had a sloop called The Steadfast that may or may not have been discovered off the reefs near where he established an estate, no doubt financed by the spoils of his pirate adventures. It sits in only 25 or so feet of water. So, The Adventure Channel wants them to check it out for any clues as to its age or use.”
“And they’re qualified to do this?”
“Of course not!” laughed Tom Sr. “But remember, it’s a ghost hunting show, not some treasure quest.”
“Of course, Mom,” broke in Bortnicker sweetly, “if we do find jewels and stuff, you’ll get your cut.”
“Very funny. I’m just worried about sharks and such.”
“Well,” said Tom Sr., “if it makes you feel any better, the dive shop owner who found the wreck, Jasper Goodwin, will be the guy running us out there on his boat, for which The Adventure Channel’s paying him some serious money. He’s supposed to be one of the top diving guys in Bermuda, and since it’s he who discovered the wreck, he has exclusive rights to dive on it for a period of time. I’m sure he’ll keep a close watch on the kids. And I’ll be there, too, whenever I can.”
“I still can’t believe how you worked this out, Tom,” smiled Pippa, sipping her tea. “Such fortuitous circumstances!”
“It’s pretty simple, actually. Bermuda is one of my favorite places on earth, and I’ve been just about everywhere. While most guys were going down to Daytona Beach or Ft. Lauderdale for Spring Break, my college buddies and I preferred Bermuda. It was cleaner, safer, and a lot less crazy, though we managed to have our fun. Plus, we could play golf and swim in pristine waters. We’d rent a couple mopeds and have a blast.
“Then, when I got married, T.J.’s mom and I went there on our honeymoon, and I fell in love with the place all over again. Cheryl and I visited a couple more times, including once when T.J. was around two years old, and as an architect I hoped to someday be able to work on a project there, something that would blend perfectly with traditional Bermudian surroundings and add to an already fantastic landscape.
“Well, last fall I was contacted by this golf resort near the town of St. George’s on the East End that is revamping its clubhouse and dining facilities. The manager is a guy originally from Bermuda who was one of my college buddies, and the one who actually had suggested we do Spring Break there. We’ve always kept in touch, so when this project came up he thought of me, because he knew I could create something that in no way would look out place.
“I took a quick trip over there in March to get the lay of the land. Since then I’ve been working on the design, and I’ll be meeting with the resort committee and Bermudian officials during the kids’ two weeks to submit my presentation. Hopefully, they’ll accept my ideas.”
“You know they will, Mr. J,” said Bortnicker.
“Not to brag, but I’m pretty confident,” Tom Sr. replied. “Anyway, to get back to the itinerary, they’re figuring two or three days of diving on the wreck, and then a few more investigating the estate house. In between, the kids will have a little down time to hit the beach or whatever. And T.J. and his cousin are even supposed to participate in a road race of some sort.”
“It all sounds so marvelous,” gushed Pippa.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Mom,” said Bortnicker with exasperation. “I mean, really. What could possibly go wrong?”
Chapter Five
“I told you I’d hit .300,” said T.J., as he dropped his equipment bag on the kitchen’s hardwood floor.
“Yeah, but only just,” said Bortnicker, who had already cracked open the refrigerator in search of snacks. “You no hit curveball so good.”
“Something to work on for next season. But jeez, cut me some slack, Bortnicker. I hadn’t played in two years!”
“No problemo, Big Mon. Overall, I’d say you had a great season. I mean, when Coach Pisseri asked you to come out for the team last winter, he was just looking for guys to round out the bench. I think you were a pleasant surprise for him.”
Indeed, T.J. had even surprised himself. It was true that he’d only been asked to try out for the Bridgefield High JV because the small school’s talent pool was so limited, but after an early season injury had shelved the team’s starting centerfielder, T.J. found himself roaming the outfield with the long, loping strides he’d cultivated during cross country season in the fall. His arm was only fair but extremely accurate, and as the team’s number two hitter, he had become adept at bunting or hitting behind the runner to move his teammates into scoring position. And although the JV season had ended with a rather mediocre 12-12 record, Coach Pisseri had taken him aside after today’s game and told him that, with a little hard work—namely, playing American Legion ball over the summer—he would have a good shot of starting on the varsity team by his junior year. T.J. had thanked him but reminded the coach that Cross Country was his first priority and that he’d have to make those running workouts his main focus during the summer. Pisseri, afraid to lose an athlete of his potential from a talent-depleted program, had agreed to help him work something out after the Fourth of July.
Spirits of the Pirate House Page 3