Free Miss Adventure by Geralyn Corcillo Page B

wherever you find it?”
    “I don’t conquer it,” he tells me. “I try to understand it. At least to the point that it doesn't conquer me .”
    He stands on the other side of the garage door threshold. It’s as if he’s daring me to cross over.
    If I don’t do this, I’m a failure.
    I step into the garage.
    “Lisa? Are you okay?”
    “Fine,” I answer lickety-split. “This just feels weird. I don’t usually wear my clothes so tight.”
    It takes me three tries to get myself into his truck, and then we’re off.
    We drive from Glendale down to rainy Santa Monica, heading toward the beach. The ocean gets closer with every block, making the lining of my stomach feel electrified.
    I hate this so much. I think about what a lucky girl I was just yesterday before I had to put on a wetsuit and dive into the ocean during a storm.
    Jack turns south, instead of heading west toward the Pacific. He pulls into a parking lot.
    “What are we doing at the airport?” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds unnaturally tinny. Please just let him need a map of tides or something.
    “We’re taking a helicopter,” he explains as he parks. Then he gets out of the truck.
    I fly out after him, stumbling awkwardly on the pavement. I try to get my panic under control.
    “Taking one where ?”
    “About a mile or so out.”
    “Out over the ocean?” I squeal. “We’re jumping in from a helicopter ? From how high? Is it safe? What if the wind blows me into the propeller?”
    “Regular rules of gravity apply,” he says, opening the tailgate. “When you jump, you’ll head straight down and hit the water. Promise. Here, take this.” He shoves the vest thing at me.
    “Why do I need a bullet-proof vest?”
    “It’s a buoyancy compensator,” he says. “Put it on.”
    “So it’ll make me float?”
    I try to look graceful as I struggle into the thing, but it has lots of straps and buckles like one of those monster backpacks teenagers take to Europe.
    “Or submerge,” he says. “It does both.”
    “Submerge? How far? I’ve never done deep sea diving. Will I get the bends?”
    “Today,” he says, slamming the tailgate, “we’re just going to float.”
    Jack adjusts my straps and gets the vest ready, and I have to say, it looks pretty complicated. “Couldn’t I just wear a life vest or something simple?”
    “This covers more of your body,” he explains. “I want to test the accessibility of the pockets and a BCD is the greatest hindrance to the ease of use.”
    Oh.
    Carrying our flippers, we walk through the rain toward a chopper. Holy . It’s tiny . Like a metal chestnut with an angry wasp stuck to one end. And it HAS NO DOORS.
    “Jack.” I stop on the tarmac and put my hand on his arm. “Should we really be taking a chopper? I mean, how many rookie divers are going to be dropped down from a helicopter?”
    “Very few, probably.” He shrugs. “Most would be dropped off by a boat, but this is faster and much more manageable.”
    “So, what happens? The pilot drops us off then picks us up later?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “How much later? What if he can’t find us?”
    “The pilot is a she, and she’ll find us. I’ve got a transmitter on me.”
    Once I’m seated in the helicopter, I notice the pilot’s graying hair curls up at the ends and her rosy cheeks dimple when she smiles. Honestly, she looks more like a country grandma than a sadistic harbinger of death. As the blades begin to pump, I wonder whether Jack hired her on purpose to relax me. As if. A helicopter with doors would have been better.
    We begin to move.
    Our Father, who art in heaven …
    No. Not heaven. It’s way too close to the sky.
    Strapped in, headphones in place, microphone I can use to communicate with Jack right near my mouth, I shut my eyes tight and stiffen my entire body. I hang on to the edge of my seat with the grip of a snapping turtle.
    Don’t look . Don’t look . Don’t look .
    My stomach dips and rolls anyway. Oh,