While he busied himself with his mechanical repairs, the dive club members kept to themselves, prepping the boat. Except for old Jim at one extreme and me at the other, all the divers were between forty and fifty-five, most with protruding bellies. Joni looked strong but she had a chunky figure. They were all talking about successful real estate transactions but now the focus was on the tax benefits of investment property. I would never fit in with this crowd, having sold off all my possessions because they seemed to “weigh down” my life. Perhaps that’s why I was alone—I had nothing to offer.

Mangy derelict-types gathered around the docks, including the willowy man who filled the tanks aboard the Bull Shark. By midnight, I ate three chicken breasts, four char-burgers, two hot dogs, and drank nine Heinekens. In this humidity the beers must have evaporated because they had little effect on me. I was so unhappy with the prospects of the trip after seeing the boat then finding out Joni was the only woman. Disappointing as things were I didn’t even try to paint a bright side on it for myself. The boat was a garbage scowl, the two closet-sized heads were odorous and the company I had little to say to, which seemed mutual. Most puzzling of all was why I was still going along on this voyage, incredibly not discouraged enough or terrified enough about avoiding sharks and other mortal dangers to back out, hoping instead the trip leads somewhere better than where I am.

At that moment I spotted a man and woman floating by the Shark’s hull, then emerging from the water and dripping loudly as they dashed hand-in-hand into a clump of trees overhanging the shoreline. They saw me watching them, both dark figures, exhausted lovers but not from making love. Their eyes were bulging out with fear and their black faces strained in desperation. Refugees from the Haitian boat.

A police vessel chugged around the bend of an adjoining canal, scouring the channel with searchlights. With hands and fingers to their lips the refugees pleaded for me not to give them away. At the moment of truth I could not bring myself to turn them in. I pictured my own grandparents, and glanced into the eyes of the Harbor Police as they motored by. They blinded me with brilliant lights, which made me cringe and block with my arms up. After they did that to me for no good reason I was glad about not giving away the Haitian couple, and managed to hold the police’s attention by defiantly trying to stare back against the lights. Deciding peoples’ fate was a powerful new feeling. Maybe I just became a criminal, too. By not lifting my index finger, destinies changed. They might make good lives here and recognize me one day. At least they were not terrorists. They willingly risked horrible deaths just for a chance to reach our country, so it mattered more to them than anything including life itself. Whatever feelings people had about immigrants, these refugees had courage and probably would jump at the chance to fight for what this country stands for just to be a part of it, since what it stands for is why they risked dying here. What more proof of allegiance or good intent was there? Thinking ahead, this trip might not be fun but I could survive a few days.

Stars dotted the moonless sky. We were sailing out to the Bahamas at midnight, crossing the Gulf Stream and arriving at the first dive site after clearing customs in the morning. Crossing the forty-eight miles of ocean in this boat would take seven hours.

Gun instructed me on the use of the Magellan Global Position System, a handheld satellite triangulation instrument. I knew some things about navigation from books and movies but Gun was impressed with my understanding of the readouts that calculated speed, coordinates, arrival time, everything needed to make the crossing to Bimini at one corner of the Bermuda Triangle. What I did not realize was how difficult and dangerous a crossing it could be in this type of craft in the dead of night.

Just before midnight, my mood became hopeful when Gun boarded the boat with a new passenger named Ally who looked about my age, late-twenties with multicolored eyes and wavy brown hair tied in a bun atop her head. Everyone introduced him or herself to Ally, and she greeted the crew with wide smiles, promising, “I’ll learn all your names eventually.” I wasn’t sure if she was possible for me.

“There’s your girl,” one Hammerhead whispered to another.

Gun told me the same thing. “She’s available.”

Ally was friendly and also lanky, with a spine that was not just straight but she even leaned back the slightest bit when she walked, her arms moving in a graceful profile and legs striding ahead. She disappeared below with Gun and some Hammerheads, leaving me staring at the magnificent Rapture across the channel. A tall stunning blond was standing beside “Captain Briefly” and several other men in Dockers and Polo shirts. Under the halogen lights, the men with cameras and clipboards evaluated the damage, disagreeing about it. Why they were doing this at 11:30 at night was a mystery. Unless they were heading back out to sea again and this was the only time to document it. Finally, my mind began to spin from all the beer and the heat.

Waves splashed against the barnacle-crusted walls of the marina. That tall blond from The Rapture was radiating sex. Wearing low stiletto heels, a see-through yellow skirt and matching thong bathing suit underneath, each satin-smooth curve of her flesh was highlighted by the powerful night lamps as she moved back and forth among the men. Lightheaded now, I wanted to reach across the channel and seize her unbelievable juicy ass and thighs in my vice-grip fingers; I wanted her so bad I actually fantasized being able to do it! Imagine how those guys were feeling right next to that heart-stopping womanhood of hers.

She gave rise to another side trip of my imagination, and that fantasy about being forced to have sex with too many beautiful women at the same time. Women had that Chase Me, Catch Me and Conquer Me thing, the whole concept of passionate romance and getting the worthiest mate was tied to that fantasy. But, for me the whole idea of men being submissive or subdued sexually didn't seem exactly normal. I imagined trying to escape from all the girls but being pushed down again and again with creamy soft breasts and smooth legs around my head, captured in the rushing pleasurable sensations as they all have their way—that had to wind up in a way-big orgasm! What could be better? How about ten orgasms in a row! Sure, that must be mind-blowing! Ten or twenty orgasms in a row like women could have, well, some of them, if they really liked the guy. Maybe liking the guy was not the most important part for some girls. Maybe just getting the orgasms was.

At midnight I left the boat for my last bit of dry land before sailing. The docks and parking lot were almost deserted but for a few black kids speaking Spanish and fishing with strings. The scruffy guy that filled the air tanks aboard the Shark earlier was wheeling two big coolers to the marina gate when suddenly a shiny limo pulled up. The doors opened with tinkling noises as three bikini-clad girls jumped out to speak with him. They all bent over to see inside the coolers, necklaces, and breasts dangling. He pulled out helplessly thrashing lobsters, which all the girls got excited about and giggled. Their jewelry jingled and flashed in the limo headlights.

One dark-haired beauty drew most of my attention with such a curvaceous body and coppery skin, wearing only a bathing suit top and tiny skirt-wrap showing her broad shoulders and toned thighs. She even glanced my way to reveal some exotic or Asian looks. She was the girl that yanked her hand away from the athletic guy on The Rapture a few hours before. Her jewelry, which included several bracelets and chains on both ankles, glinted in the lights as they paid for the lobsters and hopped back in the limo. Now that’s what I dreamed about, what my heart ached for, someone just like her! I wondered if she was still looking at me from inside the limo and did not move in case she was.

“Hey, Caleb, we’re shoving off!” Jim shouted to me from the Bull Shark.

***

We got underway, and the big engines roared when we picked up a little speed. A few people remained topside while Gun leaned way back in his Captain’s Chair with both hands clasped behind his head, and he lazily steered out of the harbor using one foot on either side of the wheel to control the boat. We set course for Bimini Island but the boat seemed unstable in the open ocean. It swayed around on small waves and its maximum speed was six knots, or almost eight miles per hour. There was always a near-deafening drone of the dual diesel engines and generators in the background. I overheard one of the Hammerheads mention these engines did not have mufflers.

Gun had not slept for days and the Hammerheads took bets on how long before he fell out of his chair. Until this morning he was in the Indian Ocean, doing emergency underwater repairs on a leaking oil tanker. Then, he had to skipper this charter. I felt bad for my hardworking new friend.

He told me, “I’ll be up all night. It’s no problem, though.” However, he was nodding off. As he leaned back in the chair with his feet controlling the spokes on either side of the helm, I tried learning how to do it in case he couldn’t go on. He operated the helm with no effort and it appeared straightforward, so I didn’t ask many questions. Every now and then the boat veered with a large wave or a gust of wind, but I didn’t realize that Gun unconsciously adjusted to all those forces by anticipation, watching over the sea and judging the waveforms around the boat along with the wind’s effects, and prevailing currents.

Spindly seventy-six year old Jim stopped talking about adventures of his life long enough to inform me the Hammerheads had assigned watches to each person, and my shift was coming up at 2:00 a.m., meaning that in less than two hours I had to steer the boat which I apparently had no choice about! Not wanting to cause trouble for Gun I didn’t complain. It was their prerogative. Instead, I considered getting some rest but still didn’t feel too tired after all the beers and food. Gun needed the sleep more than me. The dive club members didn’t care. Neither did anyone seem to care that navigating on the high seas in the dead of night was not a five-minute learning experience.