Unable to watch the tragic event I focused on my own bad situation right here. Steamy vapors seemed to hang around and some almost stuck to me. The boat’s up-down movement kept my body unsettled. The rest of me was a jumble of nerves and confused feelings. One thing was not confusing after almost going overboard earlier—taking this trip meant facing mortal danger. The only unknowns were how much and what kinds.

I paused behind a ladder and listened while Gun began telling a story to a large man with a pointy shaved head. “Carl, I kid you not, on this occasion it was either me or this shark,” Gun said. “He just would not leave me alone.” Then he rubbed his foot across some wet crud on the deck. “First I tried shooting my spear into his head. A one-timer—swooossh!—then blood everywhere. I couldn’t see. But, it was not a good kill shot. I got all gut.”

The man looked delighted, and laughed. “Not a good kill shot!” he repeated. Drops of sweat rolled around his bare scalp.

“So, the fish remained impaled on the spear shaft,” Gun continued in his coarse voice. “Very lively.” He had a small smile as he enjoyed telling the story. “So, I get this bad boy in a headlock, under my arm like this—like a big loaf of bread like this—stabbing between the eyes with my knife.” He demonstrated with jam-and-twist motions, but I turned away, imagining the fish’s agony. “Stabbing it right into his brain. To kill him humanely.” When I looked back Gun was stroking his beard, amused. “It was two six-footers. Reef sharks. One was the girlfriend.”

“Well, God, no, they sure weren’t nurse sharks!” said the man named Carl. He had a small beak nose and large black eyes. Then he wiped the glistening moisture on his scalp so it had a smooth even glow.

Listening to this violent story with more furious life or death action in the background was creepy. “Had to cut his head off in pieces before that pecker gave up and died,” Gun spoke in a thoughtful tone. “And he still wiggled after the head was completely off. But, that was not the scariest thing on the trip.”

“Another trip from hell?” a strong voice surprised me from behind. “We heard about you.”

I veered around, but smacked right into a tall African-American guy with a massive build. He walked by me with a sober face, like armor. His glance resembled minimal acknowledgment instead of a greeting. “Hello, I’m Killis…” he presented himself to the group.

Nobody shook his hand right away, as if we were waiting for him to extend his hand first, or he was waiting for one of us to do so. Then we all extended our hands at almost the same time.

“Gun Gunderson here. At your service. I’m the Captain.”

Carl rubbed something off his hand before introducing himself. “Hey, hello, Carl Iman. Didn’t we meet once? It was a day dive at Paradise Island?” Killis seemed to agree with a nod of recognition toward big Carl.

Ongoing chatter in English and Creole crackled back and forth from the police boats, punctuated by shouts of “Asylum” and “Azil Politik!”

“Anyway, we all came close to dying several times on that job,” Gun resumed his Trip From Hell yarn. “The boat was taking on water the whole way.” He chuckled. Maybe Gun could take big leaks in stride but that sounded scary and even reckless to me. It also gave me a strange feeling of security, though. With Gun in charge, even a leaking boat might not mean death.

Strobing red, white and blue lights shot up the night. The black man appeared to survey the refugee spectacle taking place ashore and in the water. He had some wiry gray hairs showing in the light, and his razor-sharp hairline resembled a rim. “So, what did I miss out here?” he asked.

It almost sounded like a rhetorical question, which everyone hesitated to answer.

“What it looks like,” Carl replied. “A lot of Haitians trying to Hit the Beach!”

Killis acknowledged that much with a half-nod. His hair was trimmed up high in the front and slanted forward like a brim, reminding me of the Statue of Liberty’s crown the way the top was also slanted forward a little. “You think any will get away?”

“Oh, sure,” cheerful Carl replied. “They’ll be rounding ‘em up for days!” Droplets accumulated all over his scalp again.

Gun winked. “Some will still make it.”

A tremendous ship four times the length and height of ours appeared in the harbor mouth, lit up full of dancing, happy faces. Impressed by how swift and graceful she looked I couldn’t help comment, “That boat’s all rigged for merriment.”

Police squawking in the background and the cries for help began to die down. Gun ignored the gorgeous yacht cruising into full view. As she sailed by a few hundred feet away I wanted to be on that boat. A thin man with facial hair was visible on the open stern pulling the arm of a smaller woman, and she yanked hers away. Another man stepped in between them and made hand gestures of, “Let it be... Okay... Cool it out...”

Laughter roared from the yacht’s high bridge. Manning the helm was a tall guy in euro-briefs with an overhanging belly, flanked by two barely-dressed beauties.

When the ship turned and maneuvered into the docking area, I saw her name was The Rapture. From a considerable distance I heard someone yell and a bad word boomed across the open water, followed by the strong wake of the turning ship. A festive crowd including limousines and valets was gathered on the dock to welcome the passengers. There was a red cordon around.

This time I was ready for the wake sweeping toward us, and braced myself against the railing while our boat shuddered like a trolley on bad tracks. Manning the bridge was Captain “Jockey Briefs” who looked foolish except for the women by his side. He barked orders and made hard flailing gestures with his arm.

“High society fishing and boating festival,” Gun informed me.

“Look at that jerk in the panty briefs ordering everybody around,” I replied. “He looks stupid.”

Another newcomer climbed aboard our boat and stated in my direction, “He looks stupid ‘cause he is stupid! That lazy-ass voice on The Rapture belongs to the world’s biggest loser, Seaweed Joe!” The man stood next to me, a crotchety-looking old timer wearing a floppy aviator-style skullcap.

“Oh, God, no! Look out, Jimmy’s back!” Carl announced, and he threw a make-believe punch at the new guy. “Heard you was making this trip!” Carl’s bald scalp and beak nose wrinkled in amusement. “How ya doing, Big Guy?” Carl seized the skinny old man in a playful headlock and rubbed the aviator-style cap into his head. The old guy named Jim handled himself surprisingly well, unloading a not-so-playful punch into Carl’s kidney that caused him to let go immediately.

“Oh, no!” cried Carl. “Not there, my friend, you know, not there.”

“Not there, either!” Old Jim removed his leather skullcap and pointed at it with a big grin. “You know that, my friend.” He wore his cap with the earflaps turned inside out, or was the cap itself turned inside out? I couldn’t tell he was such an odd fellow.

Each passing minute I was more fearful about this venture. Gun spent his whole life at sea. I was a suburban kid. Pavement, lawns, curbs, that was me. If I was so worried at this point, how would it be when there was nothing around but ocean, and these people?

            Police lights flashed dazzling colors across our faces while everyone watched The Rapture approach the dock. Somebody on shore fumbled the mooring line, and the second person dropped it. Then, another line hooked on but failed to hold fast, and it also fell into the water. The Rapture glided out of control in front of the baffled crowd who all broke out in Oohs! and Aahs! as she scraped hard against the pilings. Accusations about speed and screwing up were exchanged. “Captain Briefly” tore off the bridge screaming ugly things at the crew.

Gun turned and smiled like he knew something but wouldn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he inquired, “So, Caleb, what was that you wanted to know about sharks?”

Also turning away from the accident scene, I asked, “How do you know which sharks are dangerous?”

“No whiskers,” old Jim butted in again.

“Long and slender. Very high tail,” added Gun. “But I really knew I was in trouble when I saw those white fin tips.”

“White tips, never good.” Carl laughed in a half-snorting way.

Killis tightened his lips in disapproval, and descended the stairs into the main cabin as if he was making a statement about not being interested. He had a wide forehead to go with his neat haircut and the trimmed-up brim of hair in front.

“So, white tips mean they’re killers?” I asked.

“These were man-eaters,” Gun replied like there was a big difference. “I should say man-biters. Once they get the taste.”

“They’re everywhere.” Carl grinned my way, and donned a cap with a Hammerhead shark logo. “You get used to it.”

The shaved-head man was serious. If I was going to do this diving I would run into sharks, and my adrenaline pumped at the actual vision of it.

Gun smiled. “Relax, Caleb,” he said. “I have a spear.”

“What if you’re a second late? Or you don’t get a good ‘kill shot’? I’m dead.”

“Nah, you don’t die right away!” Spurts of laughter rolled out from Carl’s large mouth. “Gun always misses his kill shots! Don’t forget that guy last year, you know the one!”

“He’s just messing with your head,” Gun told me and smiled again.

Carl followed the black guy into the main cabin below, addressing Gun on the way down, “Bull, Gun, you couldn’t hit a money shot if your life depended on it!”

Jim had a good laugh along with Carl, and the old timer moved a short distance away from us to secure his gear. Then, Gun leaned over and informed me that Jim was 76, a former Petty Officer in the Navy who lost control of his bodily functions on the previous voyage and defecated right here on the main deck. Why tell me such a thing? It was dismissed as an accident, which Jim cleaned right up and apologized for, but it was still an awful embarrassment. I’ll bet!