Treasure of Acapulco

by Witton, Dorothy

  It disappeared for a moment and then it was there again, swimming slowly, silently, toward him. It swerved and passed in front of him, so close that he could see the small, hard-looking eyes and the white belly with three small fish hanging from it.

  Hardly breathing at all, Tony rose slowly while the shark was going away from him, and stayed motionless as it came back, its huge blue body sliding past again, eying him.

  Tony would not have been frightened except that he knew he had been under the water for some time. His air wouldn't hold out much longer. And he didn't dare fin up fast, for fear his dangling, wiggling legs would tempt the shark to pursue. It looked quite capable of swallowing him whole, in one gulp!

  He hovered motionless, waiting. At one point, the

  beast seemed to have gone for good and Tony rose several feet, as fast as he dared. But then it was there once more, passing over him at arm's length. Just as it had disappeared into the blue again, Tony choked. His air was gone! He groped hurriedly for the lever of the reserve air supply and opened it.

  He had only a few minutes left.

  He rose again, finning more rapidly, and watching on all sides. For the moment, the shark was nowhere in sight. If it came back, there was only one thing to do-pull his knife. He didn't want to do it, because it was impossible to tell how a shark was going to react to the pin prick of a knife in its tough skin. Sometimes it frightened them ofiF, and sometimes it angered them into attack. But he'd have to risk it, because there wasn't any time left. He looked at the silver mist of the surface longingly.

  The shark came back.

  Tony shifted the watch to his left hand and reached for the knife in his belt with his right, moving as slowly as possible. When the huge form sHd past again, he swiftly stabbed the white belly as hard as he could.

  It was as though there was a terrific explosion in the water. Tony turned head over heels several times in a whirlpool of violent currents. By the time the bubbles cleared and he had found his sense of direction again, the shark was nowhere in sight but Tony himself was breathing hard—much too fast. He knew that what had hit him was the backwash from the huge creature's tail. He wasn't hurt—but precious time and air had been spent.

  He went on up quickly, not hovering, now, for the required periods of decompression.

  His reserve air gave out many feet from the surface. He pulled the quick release on his weight belt and felt it drop away. Tearing off his face mask, he let himself exhale slowly as he rose, fighting against panic and the impulse to keep the little remaining air in his lungs— which would have been fatal, he knew.

  By the time his head broke the water, his lungs felt ready to burst. There was a great roaring in his ears. Only half conscious, he gulped the blessed air and went down again, pulled under by the weight of the tank. He had just time to see that the boat was a good fifty feet away—too far!

  I'm going to drown, Tony thought dimly but with absolute certainty.

  Yet when that lungful of air was gone, he instinctively pushed himself up again, with the last of his strength— and the boat was there and many hands were hauling him into it.

  From a long way off, he heard someone say, "Look, his skin is turning blue! He's going to have the bends, sure. We'll have to get him to the recompression chamber-quick!"

  Then everything went black and Tony heard no more.

  Night Fishing

  "And remember—absolutely no skin diving for at least two months!" the doctor warned. "After that, we'll see.

  "But I'm all right now!" Tony protested desperately, trying to convince himself that it was true. His joints still ached and he was rather dizzy, but that would wear off, surely. "I have to dive, to earn money!"

  "You heard me." The doctor snapped his black bag shut and walked to the door of the skin-diving station where Tony had just spent six hours in the recompression chamber. "I won't be responsible if you go underwater again for several weeks. Come around to my office then, and we'll check you over."

  He left the station without waiting for an answer, and Tony watched him go with somber eyes.

  "I'm mighty sorry about this, boy." Mr. Williams broke the silence. The American had been in and out all afternoon, waiting to see the outcome of Tony's attack of the bends. "I feel as though it's all my fault."

  "No," Tony said slowly, trying to be fair in spite of his

  106

  disappointment. "I was stupid not to realize that I might need two tanks of air, instead of one."

  Naturally he had known all along that it would be safer to take two tanks. But he had figured that if he saved Mr. Williams money on the equipment, the man would more willingly pay the twenty dollars he had offered for the job.

  "If I'd had two tanks," he went on aloud, "there would have been plenty of time, even with the shark bothering me.

  Peter, who had stayed with Tony all afternoon, shivered at the mention of the shark.

  "I shouldn't think you'd ever want to go under again— not that deep," Mr. Williams said grimly. "I didn't know there were big sharks out there, or I'd never have suggested trying to recover my watch!"

  "They don't usually attack," Tony said mechanically.

  The watch . . . that was the worst of it, he thought sadly. All this had been for nothing. He distinctly remembered that he'd still had the watch in his left hand when he drew his knife to stab the shark. Even after that. But when they hauled him into the launch, half conscious, he was empty-handed. Sometime during his agonizing fight for breath, in those last minutes after the air in his tank ran out, the watch must have sHpped from his fingers and gone down again to the bottom of the bay.

  "You can get another diver to find it," Tony said despondently. "We know it's there."

  Mr. Wilhams shuddered. "Let it stay there! I'd never ask anyone to go down in the ocean again. And I want

  to pay you something, Tony, even though your mission wasn't successful."

  "You aheady paid for the recompression chamber and the doctor," Tony muttered.

  "But not for risking your hfe." Mr. WiUiams put three fifty-peso notes into Tony's hand. "It's Httle enough, my boy."

  Tony looked at the money uncertainly. "I didn't really earn it. It was my own fault everything went wrong."

  "You earned it," Mr. Williams assured him. "I've got to go back to the hotel now. We're checking out early in the morning. I hope you won't have any lasting ill effects from this, Tony. Good-by—and thank you for trying."

  "I thank you, sir, for the money and for your kindness."

  Left alone on the street, in front of the station, Tony and Peter looked at each other.

  "Well, at least you got something out of it," Peter sighed. "I think he should have paid you the whole two hundred and fifty for almost getting drowned—or eaten by a shark! Are you sure you feel all right, Tony? Don't you want me to call a taxi to take you home?"

  "Naw, I'm all right." Tony's voice was gruff. He was trying to think. First, he had been forbidden beach jobs, because of the fight. Now he was forbidden to dive, for another reason. It looked as though his chances were narrowing fast.

  Peter knew what was on his friend's mind. "You can earn it some other way, Tony," he encouraged.

  "Fishing," Tony said resolutely. "Night fishing. It's slow money but I'll get it, somehow. I have to get it! I'll

  see Don Clemente tomorrow. If his nephew is still going out with him, I'll try to team up with someone else."

  "Do you think they'd take me, too?" Peter's voice was eager.

  Tony smiled for the first time since his almost disastrous experience under water.

  "I don't even know if they'll take me! Give me time to work this out, Pedro. And by the way, don't tell anyone about this accident this afternoon, will you? I just hope Uncle Juan doesn't hear about it."

  "You know I never talk about your business," Peter said reproachfully.

  "That's right, you don't." Tony squeezed Peter's shoulder. "You're a good friend, Pedro."

  The
next evening at sundown, Tony went around to the fishermen's beach. Don Clemente wasn't there yet, and Tony sat down on one of the overturned dugouts, looking around him.

  Everything else in Acapulco was changing fast, he thought, but this little crescent-shaped strip of sand looked the same as it had looked for years: the native canoas pulled out under the trees, some upended and some covered with broad palm leaves to protect them from the strong sun during the day.

  Youngsters were wading and swimming in the shallow water near the shore. Mexican buzzards, already overfed, picked without much interest at the fish heads strewn along the beach. A few boys and older men were dragging their dugouts to the water's edge, on wooden rollers. They worked easily, joking among themselves, their voices carrying in the early evening air. Tony

  watched them enviously, thinking how carefree they seemed to be.

  When a stocky old man came down the beach, carrying round-bladed paddles over his shoulder, Tony got

  up.

  "Buenos noches, Don Clemente."

  "Hola, Tony. How are you?"

  "I am all right, Don Clemente. I came to ask—is your nephew going with you tonight?"

  The weather-beaten old face turned toward him, eyes sharp but kindly. "I doubt it, Tony. He hasn't shown up yet. Anyway, I guess he'd be glad to get out of it, if you want to come. He'd rather take his girl out. He's going to get married soon."

  "Shall I run to his house and tell him that I'll take his place?"

  "Oh, I'll just leave word with someone here, in case he comes," the old man said easily. "I hardly expect him now. I was going to look for another partner for tonight, anyway."

  Grateful for this bit of luck, Tony eagerly helped in righting the heavy canoe. Wedging one of the short log rollers under the front and one under the back, they pushed the dugout toward the water. "Ahora!" Tug . . . rest . . . tug . . . rest ... to where the water lapped the sand.

  Don Clemente stowed away the night's provisions: lines, bait, a string bag containing a bottle of fresh water and a few tortillas.

  Tony fitted forked sticks into the holes on either side of the canoa and hung the two gasoline lanterns on them.

  He rolled his pants above his knees for the launching. There was an intent, almost devoted expression on his face that Don Clemente noticed as he straightened up.

  "You like to fish, don't you, Tony?"

  "More than anything—except diving."

  "Not so many of the young people do, nowadays," Don Clemente sighed. "Too quiet for them, I suppose. Acapulco is full of excitement now—excitement and entertainment. Young folks are always on the go."

  "I'm not—not the way you mean. I guess I'm the quiet type," Tony said.

  "Well, we're ready, eh? Let's shove off."

  They waited for a wave. "Ahora!" A big tug, with the water to help. They waited again. "Now!" Another tug and the boat was almost floating free.

  "You get in, Don Clemente. I'll push off, the next one."

  The old man swimg into the boat with a single, practiced movement. With the next wave, Tony gave a strong push and jumped in the back. They settled down to paddling with the round-bladed paddles.

  Thus began a series of night fishing trips which reminded Tony of the early years, when he had gone with his father to fish, and which would have been purest joy now, if the worry of financial success had not been ever-present.

  But even with the gnawing specter of money always before him, those nights held hours of such vast peace and contentment that Tony could not bear to lose a moment of them in sleep, as Don Clemente sometimes did, dozing with the line tied loosely to his hand.

  Out there on the ocean at night, the silence was im-

  mense, with only the gentle lapping of water as the long swells lifted the native canoa. The darkness was immense, too, beyond the glow of their lanterns. Sometimes phosphorescence made the water gleam like liquid silver. Every drop from the paddles sparkled and the fish glowed in magical gold or flowing green.

  I could be happy with this—just this, Tony thought, if Uncle Juan would let me be. He liked to feel the pull on his line as they landed the shining red snappers, the black tunas, the corvinas, and many other kinds of fish. He liked the excitement of spearing the needlefish which sometimes leaped toward the light.

  He liked to hear the occasional snatches of song that came over the water from other boats, and to see their lights, twinkling like fireflies around the bay.

  He loved the cold dampness of the air and the hush of the pearl-colored dawns as they paddled back, with the sea turning pale blue-silver, the sky faintly tinged from the hidden sunrise.

  He liked everything about it. He didn't even mind peddling the fish directly to the hard-faced buyers in the big tourist hotels, haggling to get a better price for it.

  For the first few nights, the fishing was good and Tony's savings grew perceptibly. Twice they caught the prized dorado, weighing around fifty pounds each and bringing excellent prices. Tony began to think that the night fishing might be the answer to his problems, after all.

  Once when Don Clemente seemed to be in a talkative mood, Tony questioned him.

  i

  "You've always lived in Acapulco, haven't you, Don Clemente?"

  The old man nodded. "Born here. I've never been out of it, except three trips to Mexico City."

  "And you've always fished for a living?"

  "Always. Your father and I were partners for almost two years—before you were born."

  "My uncle," Tony said slowly, "thinks no one can make a living by fishing, now. He says too many things can happen. Bad weather. Bad luck. He's convinced that a fixed salary is the only way to get ahead."

  "Well, in a way he's right, Tony. Things have changed, you know. The cost of living has gone way up. It's much harder to live by fishing than it used to be. But I'm an old man. Too old to change now. I require very little, to five. My children are all married and living in other parts of the country. My nephew is planning to get a job in the capital, too. For a young man who will some day marry and have a family to support, this kind of fishing is no longer practical."

  "But eventually I would have a fishing cruiser—to take tourists out, or to fish commercially along the coast."

  "That is a different matter, of course. But launches are very expensive, and the cost of upkeep is tremendous."

  "You and I have been doing all right with this, lately," Tony remarked.

  "We've been—lucky," Don Clemente said cautiously, crossing himself. "It's better not to talk about it." After a moment he added, "Also, you're a good salesman, Tony!"

  Tony smiled a little at the old man's combination of superstition and religion and business.

  But he didn't smile a few days later, when they returned to the beach in the morning with only a few small fish to show for their long night's work. And the night following that was even worse.

  Don Clemente shrugged. "The current has changed. The water's too warm, now. The fish stay too far out— and too deep. That's the way it goes, my boy."

  Tony refused to give up and the two continued their nightly excursions, although most of the other dugouts now remained on the beach at night, their owners accepting the inevitable.

  On Christmas Eve, Tony again invited Peter and Mr. Carson to a neighborhood celebration, and they accepted the invitation with alacrity.

  The fiesta was much the same as the first posada they had attended, except that this time the cradle in the manger was no longer empty. A doll representing the Christ Child had been placed there, and the guests sang it to sleep with the gentle lullaby which all Mexican mothers sing to their children.

  At midnight, the church bells began to ring and a hiss of fireworks exploded from the plaza. Showers of bright stars rained over the town, heralding Christmas Day.

  Tony enjoyed the fiesta, but he was anxious to get back to work. Even on Christmas night, he and Don Clemente continued the fishing, unprofitable though it was. Tony also worked many days, fish
ing with Peter off the rocks in the coves and inlets.

  Don Clemente had allowed the American boy to go with them twice, at night, although three persons were really too many for the small dugout. Peter did not talk

  much, during the fishing, any more than Don Clemente did. But a current of kindred feehng ran between the two boys.

  It was strange, Tony mused, that the person he felt closest to, now, was an American boy he hadn't even known four months ago.

  When the fishing was bad, Tony sometimes sang during the long nights, to keep from worrying too much. And one night, a few days after Christmas, he urged Don Clemente to tell him about the old days in Acapulco, to pass the time.

  "I wish I could have seen the town the way it was when you were a boy," he said wistfully.

  "It was di£Ferent, all right," the old man said. "So different that sometimes I can hardly believe it's the same place."

  "Tell me about it," Tony begged.

  "Well, it was a sleepy little village, with no tourists, no hotels to speak of, few roads—and those unpaved."

  He paused while Tony suddenly jerked his fine and pulled it in. A piece of seaweed was clinging to it, and Tony silently detached the weed, rebaited his hook and let it out again.

  "Caleta Beach, for example," Don Clemente went on. "Now it's famous all over the world, and it's only five minutes from the center of town, on a wide, beautiful boulevard. When I was young, it was almost inaccessible! Out in the country! It was a real occasion when we went there for an all-day picnic. It took hours to go around the peninsula in rowboats. Or if we went by land, there was a difficult, narrow path—"

  His voice died abruptly. Tony, who was looking at the water, thought that the old man was silently reminiscing. But finally the silence became so prolonged that he decided Don Clemente had fallen asleep right while he was talking. He turned to glance at him—and saw that the old fisherman had slumped down, his knees in the bilge water at the bottom of the boat, his back resting awkwardly against the board seat. His face had sagged and the glazed eyes were half open.