I woke up to brilliant daylight, hearing objects banging against each other, metal against wood, clinks and pings of metal on metal, then the engines powered down and people were talking about getting ready to dive, having breakfast, and a “smooth” Gulf Stream crossing. The boat was maneuvering slowly. Rocks and crags around the cabin door shone with the multicolored hues of shallow reefs.

“What time is it?” the older woman’s voice rang out.

“Eight!” answered old Jim.

I had only slept for a couple hours and the banging bothered me so much I got up to find the source. Everybody’s gear was hanging on rods from the walls and ceilings. Body suits, fishing gear, bags, all manner of stuff swung back and forth ceaselessly. No sooner would I locate one noise and stop it than another would start—a regulator knocking against a door, bottles rolling inside coolers, a scuba tank not secured properly in its sling, a sling not in the right place. And always the droning of un-muffled engines in the background.

“Did I hear right? You steered most of the night?” the woman Joni asked me with a very sweet disposition. “Nice work!”

Looking at her bright expression I decided not to dislike her. She looked in her late forties and had a square, rosy-colored face with short blond hair. Perhaps she was thirty pounds from her ideal weight but appeared very strong. When she picked up a big cooler and easily carried it across the deck with the boat pounding through the waves, I knew she was strong.

Everyone assembled their scuba gear in preparation for the first dive, and she heaved a steel air tank across her shoulder with one arm and brandished a spear in the other like a baton.

I was amazed at the sophistication of their gear, rugged and colorful, digital instruments, buoyancy control jackets, prescription masks, various designs of fins. Shaved-head Carl, all six feet two inches and two-hundred fifty pounds of him, was sporting the fanciest gear including a tiger-striped wetsuit and large flat tank that resembled a backpack, with thick shoulder and waist straps.

“What is that?” I asked him.

“It’s called a re-breather. Filters and cleans my air. You can stay down for hours with this. Doesn’t make bubbles either, good for sneaking up on fish. Plus, I can talk to you with this underwater mic.”

The only one who wasn’t into the spiffy gear was skinny old Jim, who wore a ragged gray flight suit secured by string around the ankles and wrists, and his WWI style aviator cap with the earflaps turned up.

Everyone but Gun leaped in. “You’re not going down here, Caleb. Memorize these pages.” He handed me a diving instruction manual and flipped to the pages showing Underwater Hand Signals. “Learn the language, practice breathing only through your mouth. Don’t ever hold your breath. You don’t want to know why. Just do that. See you in forty-five minutes.”

“Where are we, Bimini?” I asked.

“We’re in the Bahamas but we’ll clear customs after this dive. Doesn’t make sense to go all the way there then come back here.” He explained in a way that made me think he was leaving out something important. Then, he showed off by hopping in the water with the tank in his hand instead of strapped on his back. Once in the water he whipped the now-buoyant tank on with a single motion, buckled it, and descended. He was equally at home in the water as he was on it.

That scared me. This was dangerous business. Did I know Gun well enough to trust my life with him? He didn’t know me so well that I should be doing so. Maybe I wasn’t capable of this diving. These people were experts. I tried lying back down in the bunk since the only sounds now were the generator and bilge pumps. I always slept on my side but that was impossible with the tossing of the boat throwing all my weight from one side to the other. Then I tried lying on my back but as soon as I began to fall asleep my mouth opened wide and my breathing seized, waking me up to my own snorts and gasps. I was frustrated and confused about how to survive. More days and nights of this, all the unknowns ahead, the truth hit me hard as I became mesmerized by the boat’s rocking relative to the immense rocks outside.

I read the diver’s manual instead. Each thirty-three feet down equaled one more atmosphere worth of pressure on the body. Moving around at sixty-six feet was twice as much pressure against the body as moving at thirty-three feet, and used up air at a faster rate. Depths over one-hundred twenty feet also caused a nitrogen imbalance in the blood that had a strong narcotic effect, similar to laughing gas, also known as Rapture of the Deep.

After beginning to pass out once again I was upset by the soft clanging of one object or another keeping time with the waves striking the boat. I didn’t care which objects, I hated them all. I continued shifting from side to side, onto my back, even trying to sleep on my stomach which I disliked the most. This felt like some prison in Paradise, a looming Devil’s Island experience.

Whiffs of gasoline and other noxious fumes blew from the stern in my direction. A roach crawled across the thickly painted plywood wall and I tried flicking it into the ocean, but it disappeared into the folds of Gun’s towel hanging on a nail. I chased it through the folds and it emerged in good position to be knocked down, landing on the deck, the surface of the sea, whatever¾I didn’t care anymore! I was furious about the situation! This was a prison all right. We weren’t going back to Miami anytime soon. I hated the crud and slime and constant noise and movement of the boat.

But the divers began returning, dripping and exhilarated. The privacy curtain across the lower half of the berth was open. But, under my own closed curtain I saw sharp clean toenails, and dark feet leading to slim ankles, one braceleted, with the appealing shape of a woman’s nude calves, thighs, and the puffy crease inside her soaking bathing suit. It was Ally dripping there. Since I could see her below my curtain she probably saw me last night while I was listening to her. Maybe she was standing there now just to show me that, making me stare at her fluffy wet tuft in silence. Despite my exhaustion the blood sprang into my dick and I almost opened the curtain to her, but she dabbed her towel in the place between her inner thighs and then departed.

“Great morning dive!” one voice exclaimed.

“What about that shark?” asked another.

“You sure it was a shark?” said the other woman, Joni.

“It had whiskers,” someone else said.

“Did you see that Nassau grouper? He was like a curious dog, begging for food. I hadda push him away he was so nosy.”

Tanks and other gear clanged on the deck. Excited talk of the perfect reefs and the abundance of dazzling fish overlapped.

A few minutes later I joined people on the bridge. They dripped water everywhere and engaged in house-buying talk.

“So, how much did you put down on your house?” Joni asked him.

“Nothing. No money down,” Gun replied.

“Have to watch out for those no-money down deals,” said Carl with those laughing black eyes of his.

“Some like to bend the bank rules,” Killis spoke with a no-nonsense face.

“Sometimes you bend the rules to get something done,” Jimmy stated. Joni half-nodded in agreement. Little wonder why I had nothing in life, I didn’t take risks, all these people did.

Gun moved in the chair, and his suit made a plunger sound as sea water squeezed out. “I’m not against bending the rules, a little,” Gun said with an ironic grin. As an original Woodstock ‘69 attendee he took pride in his anti-establishment streak. “About time to set down some roots, though.”