Mangy derelict-types gathered around the docks, including the willowy man who filled the scuba 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 seemed to have little effect. I was so unhappy with the prospects of the trip after checking the boat and finding out Joni was the only woman. Disappointed as I was, 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 to be mutual.

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 wide with fear and black faces strained in desperation. Refugees from the Haitian boat.

A harbor police vessel chugged around the bend of an adjoining canal, scouring the channel with spotlights. The refugees pleaded with hands and fingers to their lips not to give them away. 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 a light that made me cringe and block with my arms up. I was glad about not giving the couple away and kept the police’s attention on me by looking defiant. Deciding peoples’ fate was a powerful new feeling. By not lifting my finger their destinies changed. They might make good lives here and recognize me one day. At least they weren’t terrorists. They willingly risked horrible deaths just for a chance to reach our country, so they cared about it more than anything. They must be every bit as willing to risk death fighting for this country and what it stands for. What more proof of allegiance could anyone ask? Thinking ahead, this trip might not be fun but I could survive a few days.

Stars were scattered in the moonless sky. We would sail for the Bahamas at midnight, cross the Gulf Stream and arrive at the first dive site after clearing customs in the morning. Crossing the 48 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 which calculated speed, coordinates, arrival time, everything needed to make the crossing to Bimini at one corner of the Bermuda Triangle. What I didn’t realize was how difficult a crossing it could be in this type of craft in the dead of night.

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