Jan used The Dutchman’s Pleasure for hired fishing excursions, but, on occasion, worked scuba trips. The boat was an older vessel, known as a Topaz, circa 1988. At thirty-six feet in length, it easily navigated the Bonaire coastal waters. Aside from his wife, The Dutchman’s Pleasure was Jan’s pride and joy, and he kept it in pristine condition. When not tending bar downtown, he was on the Pleasure fixing small maintenance items or cleaning its hull of barnacles.
“Hey, Roscoe,” Tiffany said, “where we diving?”
Making a fake slap to my forehead, I said, “Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that.” I pointed south. “How about a site called Tori’s Reef? We’ll stay shallow and spend the entire dive in depths of twenty-five to forty feet. There’ll be plenty of coral and fish. It’s also a good place to see spotted eagle rays.”
At that moment, as if on cue, Jan pulled back the throttles, and the big engines changed pitch. The buoy indicating the Tori’s Reef dive site floated just beyond the boat’s bow. We’d be there in a few seconds.
“R, get the bow,” Jan said.
“Aye-aye, Skipper.”
Using the railing to steady myself, I made my way to the front of the boat and unstrapped a long pole with a hook on one end. Jan altered the power settings of the engines, holding the Pleasure in position so I could snare a rope floating on the surface connected to the buoy and secure it to the bowline. The line went taught as The Dutchman’s Pleasure settled into a downwind position, small waves lapping against the hull, rocking us from side to side.
Tiffany sprang to her feet. “Let’s do this.”
CHAPTER 9
WHILE I SLIPPED into my wetsuit, tank, and fins, Jan helped Tiffany and Lester assemble and test their gear. Earlier, Jan and I had agreed that I should be in the water first, ready to help when Lester and Tiffany entered.
I sat on the side of the boat and watched Lester attach the air regulator to his tank backward. Jan knelt beside him and helped correct the situation, explaining to Lester what he should’ve already known. Lester exhibited the classic signs of a nervous beginner—shaky hands; rapid breathing; repetitive stares over the rail at the water.
“Nothing to worry about, Lester,” I said. “You’ll be fine. This is a good dive site.”
I caught Jan’s attention and pointed a finger at my chest then over the side. He nodded. With one hand over my mask and the other holding the regulator in my mouth, I took a breath and rolled backward off the boat. Drops of seawater worked their way between the regulator and my lips, giving me a quick taste of salt. I gave Jan a signal to indicate that everything was okay and swam to the stern.
Tiffany waddled to the platform at the rear of the boat, stopping every step or two to steady her balance. Her scuba ensemble made quite a statement. Her mask and fins were bright pink. Her wetsuit, which was all-over black, had pink accents along the arm, waist, and legs. Even her weight belt was pink. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the price tags still attached.
She held her mask and regulator in place with her hands and looked straight out at the horizon. She extended one leg forward, the other trailing behind, as she “stepped” into the water, executing what’s known as a giant stride entry. I motioned for her to hold onto the drift line, a rope floating on the surface behind the boat.
She shook her head, removed the regulator from her mouth. “I’m okay,” she said. “There isn’t much current.” She placed the regulator back in her mouth.
I raised my arm out of the water, my hand holding the line. She moaned into her regulator and grabbed the rope, smacking her hand on the water as she did so.
Safety is never an accident.
The wake from a passing vessel sent several large waves pounding against the hull of The Dutchman’s Pleasure. The boat rocked while Lester was trying to walk to the stern in full scuba gear. He lost his balance and Jan grabbed his arm, but Lester fell on his keister, his tank scratching the side wall of the Pleasure. Jan’s face turned red, and he let out a stream of Dutch profanity—then helped Lester to his feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jan rubbing the mark with his foot, shaking his head.
As Tiffany and I rode the shallow waves behind the boat, holding the drift line, Jan succeeded in helping Lester into the water. His entry wasn’t graceful, and he floundered on the surface, splashing water with his hands and lunging for the drift line. His eyes were the size of golf balls, and his regulator whined from his rapid, deep breathing. He should’ve been relaxed and floating, but, instead, he kicked hard, trying to keep his upper body high above the surface.
I considered canceling the dive and getting everyone back on the boat. However, many new divers experience anxiety on the surface, but, once below the water—and the waves—they relax and have an enjoyable dive. I hoped this would be the case with Lester.
Forming a circle with my index finger and thumb—the international scuba “okay” sign—I flashed it at my dive partners. They nodded and reciprocated. Next, I extended an arm, thumb pointing down. We released the air from our buoyancy compensators and sank below the surface. As we descended, noise from the surface vanished, the only sound our exhaled air as it vented through the regulators and bubbled its way to the surface. I kept a watchful eye on Tiffany and Lester.
We halted our descent a few feet above the reef at a depth of twenty feet. The current was minimal, with visibility at seventy-five feet. My dive computer showed the water temperature at eighty-one degrees. Near perfect conditions.
Tiffany swam to me, pointing at her mask. During our descent, it had leaked around the edges, filling halfway with water. Using a tried-and-true scuba method for removing the water, she tilted her head back and exhaled through her nose, forcing the water out around the edges of the mask. With it cleared, she gave me the okay sign.
The three of us glided along the reef at depths ranging between twenty-five and forty feet. Eels, a large barracuda, and numerous small reef creatures scurried about the coral. Several tarpons, three to four feet in length, swam gracefully behind us. Tarpons posed no threat to humans, but over time, had learned to use divers as cover to ambush small reef fish. They cruised behind and off to the side of a diver, then swooshed past and toward the coral to snag unsuspecting fish. If a diver was unaware of this behavior, it could be a startling experience.
I regularly checked on Lester. Breathing normal now, he seemed relaxed. He swam along the reef calmly, proving himself capable, and didn’t exhibit any signs of the surface-fueled anxiety. Tiffany swam an arm’s length from his side, her gaze alternating between him and the coral below.
After twenty minutes on the reef, and at a depth of forty feet, I signaled to Tiffany and Lester to turn around. Time to head back to the boat.
As Lester turned, a tarpon darted between him and Tiffany, headed for the coral below. In doing so, it swam closer to Lester than to Tiffany, nearly brushing his mask.
The sudden movement startled Lester and he panicked, looking from side to side, then at the surface. Sometimes, the first course of action by a diver struck with panic or fear is an uncontrolled desire to get out of the water, resulting in a beeline to the surface. It’s a fight-or-flight response, and since there’s nothing to fight, the diver instantly opts for the flight option. Rapid ascents increase the chance of severe injury and make divers much more susceptible to air embolisms and decompression sickness—better known as the bends—which are sometimes fatal. Student divers are taught to make slow ascents, breathing slowly and regularly. But panic sometimes negates training, especially for beginners.
Tiffany acted immediately. When Lester started his move to the surface, she grabbed his weight belt and used her body weight as drag to slow his ascent. Lester looked up, feet kicking, arms flailing, clawing for the surface. Lester wanted out of the water and Tiffany was doing everything she could to slow his ascent.
Thanks to my oversized fins, I swam to Lester’s side in four kicks. His mask was full of blood and mucus, which, I guessed, had something to do with
his injured nose. There weren’t any bubbles coming from his regulator, which became my immediate problem; Lester was holding his breath.
Divers should never hold their breath, especially on an ascent. Air in the lungs expands and, like rapid ascents, can cause pulmonary barotrauma and possibly death. Lester needed to start breathing again—and soon. No way I could communicate the importance of that to him underwater, so I placed one hand on his regulator and with my other hand, punched him in the gut. Not hard, but forceful enough to get him to exhale. He exhaled so hard that if I hadn’t been holding his regulator to his mouth, he’d have involuntarily spit it out. I didn’t want to hit him but saw no other way. Wide-eyed, he inhaled, then continued regular breathing, albeit at a rapid pace.
His struggling and thrashing increased. A swing of his arm knocked Tiffany’s mask off her face. Dread shot through me. I watched her for a few seconds, worried she might panic.
But unconcerned with her own discomfort or safety, Tiffany closed her eyes and maintained a firm grasp on Lester. I watched her mask sink to the bottom—slowly descending, a pink circle in a field of blue, coming to rest sixty feet below the surface on top of a round green sponge coral.
A glance at my dive computer showed our ascent rate within acceptable parameters. Our best option was to maintain this pace to the surface.
Our ascent took close to a minute, my heart pounding the entire way. As soon as his head popped above the surface, Lester tore off his mask and regulator, gasping for air but, instead, getting a mouth full of water. He coughed and gagged, his face turning a blotchy red. To increase his buoyancy, I reached over and removed the weight belt from around his waist. His thrashing slowed, and he seemed to calm somewhat. I grabbed the bright orange lifesaver attached to the end of the rope Jan had thrown in our direction and tucked it under Lester’s arms. I told him to hold on. He nodded and breathed heavy, eyes fixated on the boat, gasping and coughing.
Tiffany kicked over to Lester. She removed the regulator from her mouth. “You’ll be okay, hon. Just breathe normally.”
Lester pushed her away and continued to stare at the boat. “Pull me in,” he tried to yell but caught another mouth full of seawater.
I took the regulator out of my mouth and said to Tiffany, “You okay?” She said she was and placed the regulator back in her mouth. I handed her my mask and told her to put it on. “Stay here, above your mask. I’ll take Lester to the boat, grab a mask from Jan, and come back to get yours.”
“I can get it,” she said.
“No, not solo.” I looked at the boat, then at Lester. He couldn’t be left alone on the surface, so I needed to stay with him the entire way back. “I’ll be back here in three minutes.”
“Roscoe—”
“Wait for me to get back.”
She put the regulator back in her mouth.
“Promise?” I said.
After a moment, her face muscles tightened, and she flashed the okay sign.
I swam alongside Lester as Jan pulled him toward the boat. Lester clutched the lifesaver and grunted each time a wave washed over him. Breathing rapidly and white-knuckled, he gripped the lifesaver so fiercely, I feared his fingers might leave permanent impressions. Something else to upset Jan.
I glanced at Tiffany every few seconds as she floated on the surface. Occasionally, she’d put her head in the water and adjust her position slightly in order to stay above the green coral, but mostly, she watched Lester and me make our way to the boat. Each time she caught me watching her, she’d flash me the okay sign.
“Why is she not coming with you?” Jan yelled as we neared.
“She dropped her mask. I’m going to return and get it for her as soon as I help Lester aboard. Keep an eye on her, okay?”
Jan nodded and turned back to watch Tiffany.
Lester and I made our way to the ladder at the stern of the boat. I helped Lester remove his fins, and, on the second attempt, he hauled himself onto the first rung.
“There she goes,” Jan said. He pointed to where Tiffany should’ve been floating on the surface. Much to my horror and dismay, she was gone.
“Right when Lester got on the ladder, she went under,” Jan said.
I smacked a fist on the water’s surface, then reached up and yanked Lester’s mask out of his hand. I rinsed out most of the blood and snot, pulled it over my face, and swam to the spot where Tiffany’s bubbles breached the surface. Before I descended, Tiffany surfaced, holding her mask up in a one-handed victory wave, unable to supress a smile sneeking across her face.
Then she signaled okay, turned, and swam toward the boat. I followed and counted to ten.
As we neared the boat, I heard Jan ask Lester, “What happened to your nose?”
Lester shook his head, eyebrows pursed. “A simple bloody nose and those two get all panicked.” He glared at me working my way up the ladder. “And that fucker punched me in the gut.”
Jan smiled at me. I waved the matter off.
Lester threw his fins down and unbuckled his gear, dropping it to the deck.
Jan straightened and took a step toward me, shooting a finger at Lester. “He doesn’t come back.”
I unzipped my wetsuit and sat on a wooden seat that ran along the side of the boat. “I understand.” I looked at Tiffany and shrugged.
With the mooring line released, Jan cranked the engines and headed north, back to the pier. As The Dutchman’s Pleasure bounced through the surf, I sat near the back of the boat, nursing a Bright I’d borrowed from Jan’s cooler.
Tiffany walked over and sat next to me, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Thanks for your help, Roscoe,” she said. “I’m glad you were there. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“It happened so fast, I’m not sure.” She reached over and took my beer, keeping it for herself after downing a sip. “Everything seemed to be going along fine. Lester was doing well.”
I walked over to the cooler, grabbed a beer of my own. Soaking up some sun, Lester lay motionless on the deck near the bow. Relaxed and under control, he held an ice pack on his nose.
Tiffany continued, “Then, that tarpon went by. I saw blood pouring out—covering the inside of his mask. It freaked me out and then all hell broke loose.”
“That’s when he started to go up?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He bolted for the surface. I knew that was bad, so I grabbed him, hoping he would settle down.” She took a sip of beer. “As I said, I’m glad you came along. Not sure how much longer I could’ve held him.”
“You did good, but we’ll need to talk about your broken promise back there.”
“Roscoe—”
“Not now, but you shouldn’t be solo diving.” I took a swig, pointed a finger at her. “You know that.”
She let out a sigh, leaned back on the rail, and curled her toes. “What a way to start a vacation.”
Jan slowed the engines as we approached the pier. Like a well-trained dolphin, I stood and started toward the bow, knowing all too well my role in getting us secured to the dock. I took a step and turned back to Tiffany. “You know … you probably saved him from serious injury.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she said.
I swallowed the last of my beer and tossed the empty bottle into the cooler. “I’m not kidding. Maybe even saved his life. Sure hope he appreciates it.”
CHAPTER 10
NO ONE SPOKE during the drive back to the YellowRock—all seven minutes of it. Lester sat in the back seat; head tilted back with an ice pack on his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but the swelling caused a whistling sound every time he breathed. At my suggestion of a doctor, he held out an open hand, palm facing me. I shrugged. Okay, have it your way.
Tiffany sat in the front seat with a Bright in her hand, the smell of her spearmint chewing gum doing little to mask that of the alcohol. Staring out the open window, she released a deep sigh every third or fourth exhale. She turned my way once, shook her head,
and returned to the window.
I parked in front of their unit. We unloaded the gear and hung it to dry in the shed out back. Lester didn’t say anything and disappeared into their room as soon as we finished. Tiffany kissed me on the cheek and said she’d stop by later. I watched as she entered and closed the door behind her, the one with a number five nailed to it.
I walked back to the office, unlocked the door, and went inside. Since it was Sunday, Erika had the day off, so the office was unattended. I pressed the delete button upon hearing the threatening message Marko Martijn—the contractor responsible for the unfinished foundation work—had left on my answering machine and then hit the stairs to my apartment anticipating a cold beer. I went to the desk in my living room and fired up the internet. The dive having done nothing to quiet—or answer—the dozens of questions still banging around in my head.
The Rockford Register Star was the leading newspaper in Rockford. The edition open on Bill’s table and visible in the crime scene photos correlated to the NP—or “newspaper”—on the crime scene sketch.
I dialed the number listed on the Rockford Register Star website and got an automated answering system. The pleasant female voice told me to listen carefully because their menu options may have changed.
Are people calling the newspaper often enough to memorize their menu options?
Orny Adams, one of my favorite comedians, came to mind. “If people are calling often enough to memorize your menu options,” he says during his stand-up routine, “then fix your damn product!”
Smiling, I pressed the button for the classified department. The same pleasant voice told me the regular hours for the classified department were eight to five, Monday through Friday—currently closed. I went back to the menu and selected the button for the circulation department. A gravelly voiced guy answered.
“I’m hoping you can help me,” I said.
“Whatcha need, bub?” Loud, repetitive machine sounds echoed in the background. He yelled as he spoke, and I pulled the receiver away from my ear.
Diver's Paradise Page 5