Free Spirits of the Pirate House by Paul Ferrante Page B

T.J. Jackson,” he said politely, “and
this strange person with me is my friend, Bortnicker. We’re here
about a charter trip that The Adventure Channel’s arranged?”
    Ronnie fixed her gaze on Bortnicker, and a
wry smile creased her full lips. “I’ve heard so much about you
guys,” she said pleasantly, extending her hand again to Bortnicker,
who managed to shake it while smiling crookedly. Of course. Mike
had been here already; it was all a setup. T.J. smiled to himself. Well played, Weinstein , he thought.
    “Let me show you around the shop,” said
Ronnie, moving from behind the counter gracefully. She was wearing
a Bob Marley tee shirt knotted at her midriff and a pair of faded
cutoffs. The girl wasn’t what T.J. would call voluptuous, but
Ronnie Goodwin wasn’t too far off.
    They followed her around as she described the
equipment and how Blue Lagoon conducted their rentals. From what
T.J. could tell, she was quite knowledgeable. As if reading his
mind, she said, “I’ve been working here for ten years now. Started
tagging along with Dad when I was four or five.”
    Finally, Bortnicker spoke. “Get a lot of
tourists here, I guess.”
    “That’s all we get, actually. The
majority are friendly, but some are fairly demanding. We’re booked
most days of the week, sometimes twice a day. My dad has an
assistant who either serves as first mate on the bigger boat or
takes people out on the Reef Seeker II if we’re double
booked.”
    “How’s business?” asked Bortnicker,
struggling to make conversation.
    “Oh, we do all right,” she said with a wink.
“My dad’s owned the business since the late 90s, when he bought out
the original owner, who was retiring. This was one of the first
certified dive shops on the island. Dad spent a lot of years here,
working his way up to first mate, and scraping together enough
money to someday own his own place. Mr. Osgood gave Dad a pretty
good deal because he’d been such a loyal employee.”
    “Well said, young lady!” applauded an
athletic, dark skinned man who had slipped in the rear door.
“You’re making me sound quite the hero.”
    Embarrassed, Ronnie skipped over and kissed
him on the cheek. “Oh, Daddy, you know you’re the best Divemaster
in Bermuda. You’re just too modest to admit it.”
    “Shh, child,” he whispered, giving her a
quick hug. “I take it these are our American TV stars?”
    “Uh-huh. This one with the Paul McCartney
eyes is T.J. And this man of few words is Bortnicker.”
    Jasper Goodwin shook hands with the pair as
Bortnicker went a pinkish red. “Great to have you here, boys. Let’s
have a seat and chat.” He pulled a few cane chairs over to a card
table littered with brochures featuring different Bermuda
attractions. Ronnie took a seat next to Bortnicker, raising his
already high level of self-consciousness.
    When they were all settled, Jasper unrolled a
detailed chart that said Sites of Bermuda Shipwrecks .
“Right,” he began. “Now, look at this map, boys. As you probably
noticed on your flight in, Bermuda is ringed with coral reefs. In
fact, the first British colony started here in 1609 came about
because a ship called the Sea Venture that was bound for
Virginia hit the rocks here. Salvaging the contents of wrecked
ships in our relatively shallow and clear waters became a major
industry for the settlers and was later sanctioned by Governor
Nathaniel Butler. Bermudian salvagers of one stripe or another
would continue this practice even after World War II.”
    “So there are lots of wrecks around the
island?” asked T.J.
    “Well,” said Goodwin, rubbing his
grey-flecked black goatee, “look for yourself. This chart alone
features 30 or so wrecks that have been identified. Overall, there
have been reports of over 250 sunken vessels at various depths,
ranging from the 1600s to the present. Oops—please excuse me for a
moment.”
    The passengers from Reef Seeker I had
by now gathered their gear and come inside,