Free The Girl of the Sea of Cortez by Peter Benchley Page A

to believe, certain only that she had something to worry about: If Paloma had done what she said, it was right to worry about her safety; if she had not, then a mother should worry about a daughter who makes up stories.
    Sensing Miranda’s confusion, Paloma said again, “Don’t worry, Mama. The important thing is, we’re all here and we’re all safe.”
    Because Miranda wanted to believe that, she chose to, and she turned to her work.
    Jo did not mention the manta again. During supper, he spoke without bluster about the day’s fishing, about what he had caught and what he had hoped to catch, about how it was nice that the price for grouper had risen but the reason it had risen was that the fish were growing scarcer. Or perhaps they had just moved to other grounds.
    “Do you see groupers out where you go?” he asked Paloma.
    “Some.”
    “More than before, or less?”
    Paloma shrugged. “About the same.”
    “You ought to bring some home.”
    “I don’t fish.”
    “I know.” Jo paused. “Maybe someday I should come have a look where you are.”
    Paloma felt all her interior warning systems go off at once, but she forced herself to stay slouched in her chair, looking nonchalant. “Wouldn’t be worth your time. There’s not much there.”
    “What keeps you going, then?”
    “I study different things.” She glanced at Jo. “Things Papa wanted me to study.”
    Jo turned away and said, tight-lipped, “Sure.”
    After supper, Miranda washed the plates and cups, and Paloma swabbed the table with a wet rag. Jo sat and watched.
    At the end of a long silence, Jo said, “I’ve decided. I’d like you to teach me to dive.”
    “You would?” It was the first time Jo had ever asked Paloma to teach him anything. “What do you want to dive for? You said yourself it’s a waste of time.”
    “Yeah, well, maybe I’ve been wrong.”
    Paloma looked at her mother and said, “I think Jo is sick.”
    “He asks you to help him,” Miranda said sternly. “That is good. Now what do you say?”
    Paloma looked at Jo. “But you know how to dive. At least, you did once.”
    “Yeah, well.” Jo was blushing. “That didn’t work out too well.”
    Paloma knew the story—how Jobim had led Jo into diving step by step, first in knee-deep water, then in water up to Jo’s chin, then in water just over his head, then in water where the bottom was ten or fifteen feet away.
    Jo had had all the lessons, knew all the rules, had done everything his father had asked him to do—and hated every minute of it. He had felt uncomfortable, unnatural, in the water, and he felt actually threatened by deep water. But he had never dared tell his father, for Jobim’s approval was the most important thing in the world. The next most importantthing was to be with Jobim, to spend his days with him, and the only way to do that was to dive. So Jo had resolved to force himself.
    One day, Jobim had taken Jo into the open sea for the first time. They went to where they could not see bottom, for Jobim wanted Jo to learn to gauge the depth by the feel of the water pressure on his body and by looking up at the surface from underwater.
    They went down the anchor line, and at about forty feet Jo was seized by a fit of claustrophobia. Where some people feel free in open water, Jo felt trapped. The water was pressing on every bit of his body, confining him, suffocating him. There was no land anywhere, not below, not on the sides, not above. Everything was blue and heavy and oppressive. He had to leave.
    He had screamed underwater and flailed with his arms and clawed his way up the anchor line. The line caught between his snorkel and his mask. Thrashing to free himself, he twisted the rubber strap even tighter around the line.
    Jobim had grabbed him, tried to subdue him, but panic made Jo even stronger than he was normally, and he kicked and punched and tore his father’s mask from his face.
    Jo might have drowned both of them if Jobim had not felt,