Courier of Love

by Della Kensington

  The six people scheduled for the dive came sleepily together shortly after dawn, the brace of the morning air reminding several of them that in their anticipation they had not slept well during the night that had just passed. The excitement and preparations were soon to allow Christina to partially hide in the noisy group of five men. When she and Arthur arrived the Captain and his adolescent son had already been busy running through a supply list. Joe was the next to throw his gear onto the deck, his eyes betraying the sleep he had so recently left. Minutes behind him, Clay appeared, looking even healthier than she had remembered him looking before the accident a week and a half ago. At the sight of him she felt a tug of anxiety within her abdomen. He boarded the boat, his amiable smile greeting the other men. With a nod he touched the bill of his cap in her direction and simply acknowledged, “Christina.” His voice was cool, but polite, his eyes unfathomably cautious in his cursory appraisal of her.

  Her voice carefully controlled, Christina’s eyes triangulated his temple, his shoulder and then his dark, distant eyes. “I’m glad you’re all right Clay…I’m really….”

  He slapped his shoulder with his hand and interrupted, “Seems to feel fine.” Clay turned to the others. “I’m sorry to have held everyone up. I’ll try to make up for it by making you all look good for National Geographic. Well…most of you.” He tousled the captain’s son’s hair and the other men laughed.

  Her attempted apology had been left behind.

  …

  The morning breezes rode over the large boat and caressed Christina’s skin as crystalline drops of water sprayed the width of the boat’s hull. They traveled out through the harbor and into the Sir Francis Drake channel passing on their way a wide variety of boats and several cruise ships, some masted like old schooners. Money, position and power abounded on these multicolored craft and the pervasiveness of the symbols of wealth temporarily occupied Christina’s thoughts.

  Through the years their destination had been forged in Christina’s memory, “Pelican Island,” her father had once said mysteriously. “Aye, lass. She lay in the deep off Pelican Island.” He had captured her imagination. She had dreamed about it and wrote stories about it as a child fantasizing a giant bird-like rock rising from the water. At one time, while re-reading “Treasure Island,” which was written about Norman Island, located just minutes away, she imagined she might one day even see a giant “X” marked on the water’s surface. Instead, an hour away from Tortola, small rocks called The Indians, which weren’t in the shape of any letter, much less an X, greeted them. Unimpressive as they were, they were still an obvious hazard to careless sailors. For Christina the visual appearance of the place lacked some unknown climactic experience…thunder perhaps she thought, looking around half expectantly.

  Their plan was to anchor in a harbor on the north side of Norman Island, within easy access to the wreck site.

  The tide was running silently beneath them as they prepared a light breakfast in the soft warmth of the early morning sun. Conversation was casual and Christina felt somewhat like an outsider as the five men, obvious friends and acquaintances, joked and kidded about events unfamiliar to her. Clay’s manner, however, had a strange new quality to it and she noticed that he was carefully avoiding any direct exchanges with Arthur. Arthur, on the other hand, seemed to be going out of his way to engage Clay and Christina in a conversation that was to find no direction.

  The morning between Clay and Christina passed as quietly and swiftly as the dangerous forces of the currents below their moods, and by ten o’clock they readied their equipment for the first look at the site of the sunken Santa Del Rey. In water, 80 feet down the sparse remains of the alleged tobacco ship, its cannon yet undiscovered, lay speculatively in crumbling decay, long neglected because of its location, presumed insignificance and sand-covered, collapsed remains.

  As Clay removed his shirt, Christina flashed an anxious glance to his injured shoulder, its wound remarkably healed but still angry looking from the intrusive remains of recently removed stitches. Clay’s eyes caught her appraisal and she felt embarrassment flood her cheeks. Turning to accept his wet suit from Arthur, Clay’s weight shifted and his long muscular legs began their journey into the skinny constraint of the suit. Christina had to consciously shrug off the surging impulses that were shaking her very stability on the deck.

  …

  Clay, Arthur, Christina and Wayne, the captain’s son, began the 80 foot descent with a hesitant air of caution, making certain they had accurately judged the forces of the running current. Determining the safety of the current their descent quickened as did their feelings of excited apprehension.

  The wreck site of the ship had been known since shortly after its tragic sinking, but early exploration had rewarded treasure hunters only rudimentary artifacts from the area. In subsequent dives across the centuries, her sparse bounty was supposedly purged and now her heavy, oak timbers lay forgotten under the sand on the sea floor beneath them. The cannon however had never been discovered and its suspected treasure suddenly danced with renewed vigor through Christina’s imagination.

  The three men had all voiced familiarity with the wreck site, but their dive now held new promises, Christina’s father having removed a negative presumption. At eighty feet the light filtered through the mercurial environment with increased difficulty and in the dim depths of the water their underwater lights greatly assisted their first task.

  Several timbers from the ship’s starboard stern structure were exposed, perhaps laid bare by the violent storms in 1980. Clay had agreed with Arthur’s speculation about the storm in their discussion at breakfast. Unprotected by sand the timbers were now rapidly deteriorating.

  Clay did not bring photographic equipment with him on this initial dive but instead like all of them, carried a roll of vinyl rope. Christina herself, tethered with lightweight plastic tubes that would hold the ropes. Their purpose this morning was to reconnoiter the site and stake a brightly colored vinyl rope grid over the entire area. With its four foot square areas held a foot above the ocean floor, subsequent photographs could be catalogued and mechanically pieced together, reconstructing an image of the wreck site for study on their boat above. The work was carried out with surprising precision and Christina found herself participating in the grid layout with a sense of confidence.

  As Arthur and Christina held lights, Clay and Wayne expertly stretched and staked the vinyl cords in one direction. Across the horizontal 40 foot expanse of fluorescent and orange lines, Arthur and Christina then placed their lines. The final effect was that of the orderly grid work looking a sharp contrast to the soft ocean floor. Everywhere along the grid display, curious schools of colorful fish gathered and surveyed the work of the divers.

  The job complete and their air supply diminishing, Arthur motioned Christina towards the surface and the four began to drift slowly upward towards the shadow of the boat above. In their ascent Christina realized that she had not seen Arthur in his role as diver and archeologist before. His abilities in the water were obviously skilled and his plans for the search had shown his educated and studied approach to his profession. Here, away from his mother, Arthur had a command of himself that evoked within Christina a surge of pride that she had not felt before. She watched him with new eyes as he led their ascent.

  Chapter 16

  Having returned to the wreck site a second time and after spending an afternoon of hard, physical labor, the announcement that they were done for the day rang through Christina’s tired body and closing her eyes her spine arched backwards into the cushions on the deck. Her gear still spread around her she lifted her hands upward and across her face. Eyes still closed and smoothing her fingers through the dampness of her hair Christina parted her lips and began to draw in long relaxing breaths.

  Clay’s voice cut through the momentary sanctuary she had found behind the lids of her eyes. “You did well today, Christina. You should feel very proud of yourself.” His words were delivere
d with sincerity but his tone continued to hold the distant position he had shown this morning.

  Slowly opening her eyes, her hands froze against her hair as she looked up across the tall, masculine expanse of Clay’s sun hued body. He was standing next to her, his loose trunks revealing his powerfully chiseled and, sinuously athletic thighs and the swell of the inner lining of his suit. She swallowed deeply and obviously, a chill running along the recesses of her spine. An uncomfortable smile accepted his statement but speech was lost to her. She raised her body to a less vulnerable position as Clay stepped away and began tending his gear.

  Arthur and Wayne immediately joined Clay’s observation with accolades about Christina’s accomplishments much as if they were both surprised that a woman like herself capable of doing what to them had been the privy of men. In the process, Arthur made another attempt to find a conversational link between Clay and her by complimenting him on the obvious amount of skill she had learned under his mentorship. Clay flashed a dismissing glance at Arthur’s offering.

  As the day advanced, Joe too, began to sense and respond to the tension of the situation and he increased the theatrics of his story telling, sometimes singing loudly to Christina and making her laugh. He ignored Clay. Christina found Joe and Arthur’s attempts to resolve and bridge a situation they knew little about almost perversely amusing.

  …

  The dinner hour neared and though Clay attempted to remain quiet, the spirit of the group began to swell again and disperse the undercurrents of stress that would, if nurtured, affect the success of their mutual efforts. Clay’s professionalism began to rise above his personal needs and by the time they were seated he was laughing and Christina was watching the evolution of his mood as the cabin lights played across the growing warmth of his smile.

  As the evening began to darken the translucent blue waters around the ship, its crew toasted their day’s work and the combined skills they had begun to share. A feeling of comradery filled the wooden cabin and dinner began to hold a specialness for all of them as the excitement of the search ran through their conversation with a unifying power.

  The sleeping quarters were small…small beyond description. Christina was the only woman on board and privacy here would be minimal at best. Curling onto the narrow bunk Christina considered the situation. Men were louder than women. They entered bed loudly. They wore less clothing. They coughed. They made throat and body sounds and their weight rocked their quarters. She had not prepared herself for the awkward intimacy of the situation for the sight of bare chests, the appearance of legs and arms flung casually into the air and off of the bunks... In the heat of the small space she became particularly aware of the sounds of breathing and the scratching of facial hair and the adjustment of bodily parts. The movement and sound of the men was seemingly synchronized with the sound of water as it lapped against the hull of the boat. Moisture dampened Christina’s forehead and upper chest. Was Clay sleeping? Was that him turning, breathing lazily into the blue darkness of the night? Or, was he awake, perhaps one of the men clearing his throat and listening with his own heightened sense of curiosity about her. The tiny space seemed devoid of air and the memory of Clay’s body against hers flashed through her mind and ignited her skin as it experienced the physical tension within the space. The boat rolled rhythmically, its boards singing above sounds of the men breathing…or was it the wind sounding across the vulnerable boat? She sighed and shut her eyes that had strained pointlessly against the darkness. She would tell Clay something tomorrow; something that would touch his understanding, something that would…her weary body succumbed to the depths of sleep.

  The work of the second day settled the group into a well-coordinated team. Wayne’s strong, youthful body held the powerful pressure of the “mailbox,” a device which expelled water and disbursed sand out of the way from where ever the intake nozzle was searching. Christina’s fingers searched and probed the area thus exposed and highly charged expectation surged throughout her. Arthur, nearby, combed the area of the site with another device he had called an electromagnetic detector a device which emitted one tone in the presence of iron and another near precious metals. Around and across the wreck site, Clay tethered the large buoyant camera platform, his image coming and fading in the murky water, darkened by the disturbed sand.

  By mid-day they had gathered a small collection of indigo and pottery fragments, each minor find leading them forward with anticipation.

  Arthur began to focus increased attention on the area that sloped away from where the keel of the ship had come to rest. At this point a large pile of ballast stone lay in mounded monument to the terrifying event of that storm lashed night, over 300 years before. Traversing them, Christina thought to herself that had the ship survived the ballast would have eventually become cobblestones in some far off city. In their role as pavers their surfaces, through time, would have been smoothed by carts, wagons, horses and the tiny shoes of petti-coated women.

  Their work moved southward, the sea floor pitted behind them with deep wounds from the sand moving device. A sizeable section of the ship had been carried forty yards from the impact site and by afternoon the group had re-gridded another area and resumed their search of the sand. As Wayne carefully fanned the ocean floor, Christina’s eyes strained against the tedium of moving material. To her left Clay waited, watching the exploration of her fingertips. She chanced several glances at his hovering form and took comfort in his expression that had become patient and friendly.

  As magically as the other objects had appeared, suddenly a small glistening, quartz pin was exposed before Christina’s hand. Once photographed, the tiny object was put in a basket and excitement swept the group as they proceeded with increased expectations. Within thirty minutes Arthur had located an object 50 yards south of the ballast pile and after signaling the boat the group’s efforts moved to the new area.

  Aware that the pull of the current was increasing, a sense of urgency moved their energies. They watched apprehensively as Wayne carefully moved the sand from the location identified by the signal from the metal detector. Arthur continued to closely monitor the hand-held device. Slowly what appeared to be a man-made object came into view, taking form in front of their eager eyes. At first Christina was unsure as to whether she was still lingering in some girlhood fantasy or was this really happening. The pitted form of a dolphin began to appear. Arthur signaled for the sludge vacuum to stop. Always calm and precise he now began to proceed with determination, moving and fanning the dolphin with his right hand. Reassured that the object was safely intact, the vacuum device was once again employed. Before disbelieving eyes the indisputable shape of a small cannon lying on its side began to appear. Christina could hear her heart pounding in her ears and her breathing felt constricted within her chest.

  They had found it.

  A dozen years of Christina’s father’s research had proved successful with the fanning away of a single foot of sand. The group was now nodding enthusiasm and making sounds with their mouthpieces. As they looked alternately at the increasingly exposed cannon and each other, Clay and Christina’s eyes met, sharing a moment of intimate accomplishment. The feeling was that of something beyond what she had ever experienced. Clay was smiling broadly with his eyes and raised a camera playfully in her direction. She feigned an “It was nothing” pose and he rolled his eyes in amusement.

  Exposed, the cannon was found to be perfectly intact, its iron length pitted and corroded, its bore encrusted with sea life that prevented any immediate search inside the shaft. The ornamental figures of what looked to be two dolphins were positioned on each side of the cannon’s base and as the divers studied their find each member of the group touched and caressed the discovery with curious fingertips.

  Surfacing, they found themselves laughing and talking all at once, sharing the discovery with Brice and Joe and displaying the little quartz pin that had been found. “It’s a perfume applicator, isn’t it Arthur?” Clay announced kno
wingly.

  Holding and surveying the tiny object close to his eyes Arthur replied intensely, “I think you’re right.”

  Quizzically Christina asked, “What would a perfume applicator be doing on a tobacco ship?”

  “Noblemen carried them on ships.” Arthur explained

  While taking the applicator from Arthur and holding it snobbishly below his nose Clay picked up the explanation, “So that when they stood downwind of the less than pleasant smelling oarsman, they could dab their mustaches with some exotic scent.” Arching his eyebrows nobly high Clay stretched the smoothness of his upper lip from side to side. Humor veiling his face he looked directly into her eyes. He paused and the tiny applicator left his upper lip and arched in his hand directly towards her. “Congratulations, Christina.” His voice was soft and thick. “You and your father and Arthur should be very proud.” His eyes having become intimately appreciative; he caught himself, “Hey Joe…” His eyes left hers. “Where’s the champagne? Christina and Arthur here deserve a toast.”

  Christina felt embarrassment flow though her body. In one moment she had entered into a magical intimacy with Clay and in the next she was thrown into the unwanted limelight of the group. Regardless of how strong she felt herself to be, her need of Clay and his confusing messages continued to reel her thoughts and emotions off balance.

  Arthur’s arm wrapped appreciatively around Christina’s shoulders and while looking expectantly into her face he mimicked the holding of a microphone close to her mouth. “Tell us Miss Weldon, what does it feel like to be a famous archeologist. Do you and your father plan to write a book? Where will your next find be?” He was attempting to humor her while pridefully bringing attention to what he sincerely felt was her and her father’s accomplishment. She felt unduly praised as he stood there holding her and she knew that Clay was watching them intensely, probably misunderstanding.

  The moment, however, was too important to everyone and she could not have the accomplishment clouded by inappropriate or misguided feelings and praise. Beating Clay and Arthur to a toast, Christina raised the glass Joe had given her.