A bright orange helicopter from the U.S. Coast Guard appeared overhead. Its engines ran so silent no one noticed until it was right above us. The copter hovered, crewmen hanging out the side with binoculars. No doubt they had their high-resolution cameras and imaging instruments trained on the girls. The girls of The Rapture waved at them, cheerfully showing themselves off.

There were more blasting sounds from the bang-sticks traveling through the water, and the divers lanced hapless fish swimming by. Like visions of naked mermaids, though, I focused on the girls of The Rapture frolicking just beneath the surface. Helped by the increased magnification underwater I trained my sights on their luscious pumping bodies and my choice of companionship was obvious but unreachable.

A school of big fish raced by in tight formation, again something never seen in aquariums. They appeared to wear armored bodysuits and from the sheet of fish pictures I recognized them as a school of tarpon.

Jet ski vibrations, bangsticks, air bubbles, I could not tell where any sounds came from, and all sound traveled faster underwater so it was chaos. Gun signaled to Joni and Carl with hard gestures, Down with the bangsticks! And pointed up at the copter whirling above.

The engines of The Rapture hummed, the low vibration seemed to come from everywhere. Then an Underwater Recall Siren blared, Captain Seaweed was ordering everyone to return to the boat immediately. The booming underwater signal scared the life out of me. Captain Joe used it liberally after losing the race to Two Trees and it abruptly stopped whatever enjoyment I had from this dive.

The big ship churned up lots of water above. When the Hammerheads began surfacing they were angry and headed straight back to the Shark.

“Goddam snooping Coast Guard! Freakin’ Seaweed Joe!” they were all grousing.

I brought up the rear, and a good thing, too. I noticed Jim waving at us from the surface, the diver’s emergency signal! He was in danger, stuck between the Bull Shark and The Rapture, probably caught in the currents and unable to get back to safety. I swam straight for him, yelling, “Jim’s in trouble! Jimmy’s in trouble!” Jim disappeared under the waves and I dove down for him. By the time I reached him he was hardly moving, just drifting with the current beneath the surface. He had no air either. He shed his gear to float himself back to safety but still couldn’t make it on his own. I snagged him by his Snoopy earflaps and dragged him back up to the surface where he finally gagged on the air. His head tossed around helpless in the waves, but then he shoved me away, hard.

“Get away, don’t touch me!” he screamed. “I’m fine! Fine!”

By this time we drifted almost all the way down-current to The Rapture, who maneuvered alongside to rescue us. Then I remembered my fondest wish. My eyes broke the water surface, and from there I was swept up by my lust for those two astonishing women in thong suits who helped us aboard The Rapture.

“I’m Gaynelle.” She was the tall, stunning blond from The End of The World and the Miami marina. The long natural slope of her breasts and outline between her thighs was hard to forget or overlook. Gaynelle’s long fingers slipped in and out of my hand upon shaking.

Around this group of mostly women, colorful technical drawings and graphs with headings like “terrawatts” and “gigajoules” were set up on easels. It was a scientific conference they were having out on the Party Deck.

“My name is Samara,” said the other dark-haired beauty who had a firm handshake. “You were at The End of The World.” She was the one dancing and whose panties Captain Joe nailed to the beam. I glanced at her feet, recalling the ornate toe rings, beautifully-shaped legs and ankle bracelets. I also noticed her mouth opened when she saw me in the water. Sometimes that happened when a girl was attracted to me—their mouths opened. She was 5’8”, reminiscent of a mystical temptress with warm honey-colored eyes and such fine features as a magazine cover girl. Being so shocked by what she said, I replied, “I can’t believe you remember me.”

“Sure.” She leaned her head back in another possible gesture of interest. “I remember you.” Was this the best thing I ever did? There were at least ten beautiful women on deck, but this pair stood ahead of the rest.

“I remember you, too,” said Gaynelle. “You’re the guy who was staring at me.” And she laughed.

They were a contrast—Gaynelle was a graceful six-foot blonde, crystal blue-eyes with little jewelry and softer but no less beautiful features than Samara, but less mysterious, too. If Samara’s eyes looked like honey, the sound of Gaynelle’s voice was like warm flowing honey to my ears.

“Staring?” I muttered. I thought of putting on my innocent boy face but reconsidered. “I’m sure a lot of guys do that—stare at you.”

Gaynelle was the one I could love, she was superior-looking but didn’t come across as haughty like most stunning blonds. She also had a fresh farm girl face, just one of nature’s perfectly shaped and formed creatures, not even beautiful in the model sense but buxom with high cheekbones and little or no makeup, perfect for those who liked the type. No doubt she was very smart, ambitious and she paralyzed me with desire. I watched the colors of her eyes. The fluids were so clear they reacted with fine movements in and out as she focused on me.

The ship had a big open top deck, with enclosed decks below which were all sheathed in reflective glass and sat atop two pontoon hulls large enough to be hulls of their own huge ships, and must also contain big compartments inside. I knew almost nothing about ships, but this one had to be worth several millions with its advanced electronics and speed. Plus, another million per year to operate.

“Sorry to interrupt your meeting,” I said in the direction of their complex graphic and mathematics displays. “What is that, anyway?”

“It’s OTEC,” answered the Asian girl, Samara.

“What’s OTEC?” I asked.

“O-T-E-C,” she spelled out. “Look it up next time you’re on the web.”

Maybe this OTEC was the key to everything I wanted!

Captain Joe of The Rapture broadcast over the marine radio, advising the Shark of our presence on his boat. Ira was laughing over the radio. Everyone else on the Shark could be heard laughing.

“This is Bull Shark, to Rapture. We acknowledge your message,” Ira replied. “We have a feeling this might not have been entirely accidental, Rapture, if you get what I mean?”

“You mean they might have been checking out our women, Bull Shark? Over.”

“Roger that possibility, Rapture. Over.”

Jimmy grinned while I was proud and also a bit embarrassed when my manhood reacted to the close display of female forms, soaking in front of a dozen hot girls and willing to give almost anything to insert myself into one of them at this moment.

But, these were super-smart scientists so, wanting to engage in a meaningful conversation I suggested to Jimmy, “Jim, tell them about your idea for a weapon to knock out the Improvised Explosive Devices? Maybe they know something.” The girls looked at each other with curious and surprised expressions. “We were talking about weapons our boys need to win the War on Terror,” I explained to them, and they nodded with polite smiles.

I achieved my goal of reaching The Rapture but it was short-lived. The Bull Shark swung around behind, and down-current from us, which allowed Jim and me to drift back to our boat without effort. Once in position Seaweed Joe bid us a loud farewell over the radio, “Throw the scrawny pair overboard!”

Jim refused help to board the Shark and being too proud he denied any problem handling the currents. Who was to say? All we knew was that he was 76 and still doing 200-foot dives. Along with his claims on the first speargun design he told stories about everything to do with scuba diving going back to 1935 when he was a child. I got credit for recognizing his hands-waving emergency signal and nothing else. They all agreed Jim was never in real trouble. As for myself, I was hitting my goals for sex and adventure on this trip!

***