struggled to get the fins on over the neoprene booties. The water smelled of soil and fish spawn and oily slicks of the baby shampoo divers use to defog their masks.
From the top of the cliff, Dwight Hayes watched me as I kicked toward the blue floating marker.
I put in the regulator mouthpiece, sucked in a first dry, cold breath, then raised the deflator hose of the BC and let out the air.
I had a moment of disorientation as the world flickered white, melted in a soup of green bubbles. Then I was underwater, sinking slowly.
Sound became a physical force—an insect doing circles around my head, making kamikaze runs into my ears. Every exhale set off a minor earthquake of bubbles. I heard pings and clicks and whines and had no idea where any of them were coming from.
I pinched the nose pocket of my mask to equalize pressure. I remembered to breathe, to swallow the powdery coldness of the regulator air out of my throat. The skills came back to me—but Dwight
Hayes was right. It was unsettling. My breakfast had been mercifully light, but even the yogurt and fruit was threatening to retreat up my throat.
I sank through green and yellow light, following the frayed nylon rope of the marker into the murk below. There was about five feet of visibility.
I saw bubble streams below me first, then the figures from which they came. Three streaks of oil resolved into human forms. A silver sheen became a floating underwater platform—a railed grid of metal maybe fifteen feet square. Two divers were on their knees on the platform, feeding hot dogs to a frenzy of Guadalupe river bass and catfish. The third diver was floating effortlessly above them, observing. The water around them was cloudy with fish poop, and pieces of hot dog that would soon be converted to fish poop.
I turned horizontal, aimed my fins, and kicked toward the floating guy. Anybody who could float must be the instructor.
He was dressed in a Farmer John style wet suit—sleeveless, Uneck. The highlight stripes on the suit were blue, as was his mask frame and the middle of each fin. Even his tank was blue. His arms and neck were smoothly muscled, the rest of his body lean, athletic. His hair was a short black cloud that moved in the water the way smoke boils over a petroleum fire. His hands were clasped lightly over his weight belt and his legs pigeoned, scissoring gently whenever he needed to correct buoyancy.
When he noticed me he raised his hand—either as a greeting or a sign to stop, I couldn't tell which.
I looked at the blue man's two companions, gave them the okay sign. Each returned it.
I pointed at them, then at the platform, telling them to stay put.
I looked at the blue man.
Behind the mouthpiece of his regulator, I could see he had a moustache and goatee.
His skin looked extraordinarily sallow, but that may have been a trick of the water. His eyes were preternaturally clear in the mask's pocket of air—milkwhite corneas, pupils the colour of burnt wood, calm to the point of being scary.
He pointed at my chest, then pointed away.
I gestured for the message slate hanging on his belt.
After a moment's hesitation, he handed it over. I put the black grease pen to the white surface and wrote, Maia sez hello.
He took the board, read it, then hesitated, the tip of the pen over it, as if he was considering his next move in tictactoe. He crossed out my sentence, wrote, handed it back.
CLASS —GO away!
My knee bounced lightly against the platform. I tilted off balance like a Ferris wheel basket. I groped for the inflate button on the BC hose, sent a burst of air from the tank into the vest until I neutralized. Matthew Pena just floated there, analyzing me.
I regained enough control to use the message board, then wrote, 5 minutes—Jimmy D insists.
Matthew Pena read, wiped the board clean, clipped it back in his belt. He pointed at his two students, tapped his pressure gauge console. Both checked their own gauges.
Each made finger numbers to
From the top of the cliff, Dwight Hayes watched me as I kicked toward the blue floating marker.
I put in the regulator mouthpiece, sucked in a first dry, cold breath, then raised the deflator hose of the BC and let out the air.
I had a moment of disorientation as the world flickered white, melted in a soup of green bubbles. Then I was underwater, sinking slowly.
Sound became a physical force—an insect doing circles around my head, making kamikaze runs into my ears. Every exhale set off a minor earthquake of bubbles. I heard pings and clicks and whines and had no idea where any of them were coming from.
I pinched the nose pocket of my mask to equalize pressure. I remembered to breathe, to swallow the powdery coldness of the regulator air out of my throat. The skills came back to me—but Dwight
Hayes was right. It was unsettling. My breakfast had been mercifully light, but even the yogurt and fruit was threatening to retreat up my throat.
I sank through green and yellow light, following the frayed nylon rope of the marker into the murk below. There was about five feet of visibility.
I saw bubble streams below me first, then the figures from which they came. Three streaks of oil resolved into human forms. A silver sheen became a floating underwater platform—a railed grid of metal maybe fifteen feet square. Two divers were on their knees on the platform, feeding hot dogs to a frenzy of Guadalupe river bass and catfish. The third diver was floating effortlessly above them, observing. The water around them was cloudy with fish poop, and pieces of hot dog that would soon be converted to fish poop.
I turned horizontal, aimed my fins, and kicked toward the floating guy. Anybody who could float must be the instructor.
He was dressed in a Farmer John style wet suit—sleeveless, Uneck. The highlight stripes on the suit were blue, as was his mask frame and the middle of each fin. Even his tank was blue. His arms and neck were smoothly muscled, the rest of his body lean, athletic. His hair was a short black cloud that moved in the water the way smoke boils over a petroleum fire. His hands were clasped lightly over his weight belt and his legs pigeoned, scissoring gently whenever he needed to correct buoyancy.
When he noticed me he raised his hand—either as a greeting or a sign to stop, I couldn't tell which.
I looked at the blue man's two companions, gave them the okay sign. Each returned it.
I pointed at them, then at the platform, telling them to stay put.
I looked at the blue man.
Behind the mouthpiece of his regulator, I could see he had a moustache and goatee.
His skin looked extraordinarily sallow, but that may have been a trick of the water. His eyes were preternaturally clear in the mask's pocket of air—milkwhite corneas, pupils the colour of burnt wood, calm to the point of being scary.
He pointed at my chest, then pointed away.
I gestured for the message slate hanging on his belt.
After a moment's hesitation, he handed it over. I put the black grease pen to the white surface and wrote, Maia sez hello.
He took the board, read it, then hesitated, the tip of the pen over it, as if he was considering his next move in tictactoe. He crossed out my sentence, wrote, handed it back.
CLASS —GO away!
My knee bounced lightly against the platform. I tilted off balance like a Ferris wheel basket. I groped for the inflate button on the BC hose, sent a burst of air from the tank into the vest until I neutralized. Matthew Pena just floated there, analyzing me.
I regained enough control to use the message board, then wrote, 5 minutes—Jimmy D insists.
Matthew Pena read, wiped the board clean, clipped it back in his belt. He pointed at his two students, tapped his pressure gauge console. Both checked their own gauges.
Each made finger numbers to
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