The Scubaboard Murders: An SB Wiki Novel

[Mike Boswell]

I

"Advanced?" I said slowly, not sure I heard her right. I was having trouble hearing anything, at that point. "Yes" she breathed, "Yes, they told me you were the only one who...who...." She broke off suddenly, looking at me intently. "They said you were the only one who could help me." I sat heavily. "Not again", I thought, the grief suddenly welling up in my throat.

I hadn’t told Frank Wasson, the boat captain, much about myself, just a fake name and that I was certified. You reach a point where fame intrudes into your private pain. I wanted to be alone on this trip, without everyone treating me like some damned celebrity. Sure, I had the coveted AOL ticket from PADI, the most famous dive agency on earth, but over the years I had gotten tired of everyone fawning on me and asking for autographs.

She walked tentatively toward me across the diamond-plate decking, and whatever reservations I had about the existence of a Supreme Being melted away: None but the hand of a divine Sculptor could have filled that 3-mil Bare wetsuit in quite that way: None but a heavenly Poet could make it move like that.

Embarrassed, I tried looking away, but her eyes held me, the little golden flecks scattered among the emerald green seemed to draw me in. I took a deep breath and closed my eye for a moment to get my bearings. "Well, some people would call me advanced, I guess. I've never really thought about it one way or the other" I lied. "So, what can I do for you, miss...?" I said as gruffly as I could manage.

"Halloran...Clancy Halloran" she said with an earnest sadness. She looked down for a moment and I gazed at the mane of thick auburn hair, imagining what it would be like to bury my face in it, inhaling its fragrance. "But you probably won't need to remember my name. Chances are I won't be around much longer." she said, glancing nervously toward the bow.

I followed her glance and froze. There, on the bench seat, sat a pair of twin steel HP120’s, and draped over them hung the regulators, one bungied and the other with the unmistakable long hose. Even at that distance I could make out the small ID tag “TS&M”. Clancy shuddered “She said I was gonna die…..”.

The Dancer’s twin diesels suddenly coughed to life, and we began stowing our gear in the overhead and under the benches. I helped Clancy with her gear, showing her how to check the top dumps, side dumps, bottom dumps, pull dumps, and the up and down buttons and levers on her state-of-the-art BCD. “I didn’t get the bagpipe attachment,” she said matter-of-factly: “I’m just not that into sad music”.

(to be continued - by you!)

 

[irishsquid]

I did get my AL80 topped with "Voodoo Gas" though. After I finished my online class, I was lucky to meet this one guy at a local quarry who told me I would be able to dive much deeper and stay down longer than ever before. I mean, he had split fins and a dry snorkel, so who was I to argue or doubt.
Besides, I have this Spare Air I bought on E-Bay. Isn't it cute she asks? Such a pretty yellow. You don't think the Capt. will be upset do you, it does have a semblence to the taboo "banana on a boat".
Naw, he won't mind. That yellow is a nice contrast to all that pink SM gear over on that side of the boat. Did you see that Harley that SM diver rode up on. I shouldn't knock it though, she sure is prepared. She must be from Antartica or something, she is wearing a Fusion DS, with heavy undergarments. Maybe we should explain how warm this water is....
(next)

 

[TSandM]

At the other end of the boat, a slender, older woman sat, pensively staring out over the white foam wake of the boat. "How do I prevent this tragedy," she thought. "It's the blind leading the blind on the stern deck. And I tried so hard to be tactful -- but I have driven her into the worst hands possible."

At this point, the captain, Frank, came and sat beside her. "Why the long face?" he asked.

"Do you know that man on the stern?" she responded.

"No," said Frank. "What about him?"

And the woman replied, "You didn't hear the story about what happened in the Caymans?"

. . . to be continued.

 

[merxlin]

"It's considered bad luck to even talk about it" I said, but knowing the captain would not be satisfied without more detail I began: "it was a dive like any other dive there. Yet despite the hundred plus foot viz, and calm seas, there was just something off about this one dive. The plan was to exceed the standard 60 ft, to perhaps as much as 100. The divers agreed that they should be able to do a 40 minute dive at that depth on aluminum 80's, and still get back to the boat with the required 500 psi. I mean, what could happen?"

 

[Mike Boswell]

"I want you to know that I appreciate your help." Clancy said. "When I saw that patch on your jacket, I knew you were the one." Her youth and innocence touched me in a way that was hard to put into words, and I felt the old protective instincts surge to the fore. I reached for my hip flask and offered it to Clancy. "It's not even seven AM", she giggled. "It is, somewhere." I said.

To my surprise, Bob NWGreatfulDiver had joined the small group in the bow. They glanced in our direction, and began talking earnestly amongst themselves. Fortunately I had taken the lip-reading specialty course, and as he turned away from me, I could make out that Bob was saying something about "rock bottom" and my worst fears were confirmed. They were talking about me, about Cayman, and all the rest.

It occurred to me to wonder who else was on the boat that morning. I'd seen RhoneMan talking with Merxlin, and I'd got a glimpse of IrishSquid as well. I gingerly fingered the deep jagged scar over my left cheek and forehead, and readjusted my eyepatch. I emptied the flask and flexed my left leg, feeling the reassuring twelve-inch tactical combat knife strapped to my calf. If I was lucky, I wouldn't need it this time: Thal had been quick, but not quick enough.

I reached into my WalMart duffle and pulled out the bagpipe chanter, attaching it to my BCD and, filling the bladder, began to play. The Dancer took the bit in her teeth and surged forward out of the small harbor towards the open sea, to the sweet and mournful strains of "Amazing Grace".

to be continued...

 

[irishsquid]

The Dancer hadn't been out of the harbor for more than 15 minutes when a commotion started. Clancy was agitated and started squealing, "Oh My God, the boat's on fire. Somebody do something! Please Lord help." Bob, in usual form said, "Calm down Missy, it's just Squid enjoying a fine stogie, and please don't evoke Divine intervention. Iztok may swim up just to start a fight." Jax spit rum all over her computer while doing a dive simulation and said, "Hey Bob, where's that LIKE button on this computer?"
That brought most folks back into a relaxed condition. After a while of quiet thought, Mike had pulled his knife from the sheath and was slowly drawing the blade across an Arkansas Oil Stone. The ringing sound it made had a few people shivering. It felt like a cold darkness had fallen across the seas.
(to be continued...)

 

[TSandM]

And, in fact, it had. The weather, which that morning had been forecast as clear, had exercised a prerogative usually viewed as feminine, and proved unpredictable. Since it was to be a long trip out to the Oriskany, this was a bad omen for the simple, fun dive everyone had expected when they boarded.

Unknown to those on deck, in the pilothouse, a heated argument was raging. Chickdiver and Benthic were nose to nose with Captain Frank. "She is far too much of a novice to do this dive on a day like this," they insisted. "She has a good mentor," offered Frank, appeasingly.

"Mentor or not, this is not the day for this dive!" they stated, implacably.

At this point, through the open door of the pilothouse came VooDooGasMan, who had finished preparing his single 80 for a hangar deck penetration long before, and who had been disturbed by the ruckus in the wheelhouse. "It's only a bounce dive, anyway; what are you all so het up about?"?

 

[Mike Boswell]

The Dancer plunged ahead through the gathering storm. The wind gusts kicked up a choppy sea, churning up an oily, brownish-grey foam. The turn in the weather had made Clancy nervous. "Why are you sharpening that knife" she asked uneasily.

In response to her question, I nodded across the deck towards two men, who sat together without speaking, their faces impassive. "The one on the left is called Vladimir," I said. "The other is Lapenta". Lapenta! Just speaking the name raised the hair on the back of my neck: The feared Corsican boss they called "Il Cignale" - The Boar - had once put ten million francs on Lapenta's head, and the toughest, most ruthless assassins in Marseilles had just laughed at the very idea.

"Vladimir looks kind of cute." Clancy giggled. Yes, I thought grimly: About as "cute" as seeing your liver lying on the floor at your feet.

"I'm still worried about the dive," Clancy said. Her words brought me back to the present. I sighed. I’ve always had a gift for teaching young people and I always wanted to give back to the dive community. That’s why I had started my own dive shop on Cayman, so many years ago. SHE had been one of my first students, but after the accident she had soured on me, and gone over to the dark side. Now, thanks to her, the authorities wouldn't even let me teach there.

Clancy continued: "I mean, I've never been to 130 feet before. It sounds awfully deep." I laughed and pulled out my Cobra computer, attaching it to my regulator with the quick disconnect: "Ever seen one of these?" I asked Clancy "It’s a Nitrox computer."

"How does it work?" She asked.

“Well, it’s really simple," I said. "Think about it: The reason you have to end your dive is that you run out of oxygen, right?"

"Sure," she said uncertainly, "I guess...."

"Well, with a Nitrox computer you can dial in your own oxygen level. More oxygen lets you stay down longer. Pretty slick, hunh?"

I took out my spare Cobra and attached it to her regulator, and showed her how to select the Nitrox blending option and set the level.

"130 is a liitle deep for a beginner, so you will want to set this at about 40 percent." I said.

 

[irishsquid]

Irishsquid, hearing this latest conversation made an offer. "Here you go Clancy, offering a Maduro wrapped stogie that was big enough to require my tactical knife to cut. This can build up your your tolerance to CO2 levels, which should help you, as there is a bit of current at depth. It never hurts to reserve all the oxygen you have". Handing it over, he excuses himself, saying something about needing to rig up his caved filled LPs and checking his AL40 pony bottle. Clancy blinked and cocked her head. "Pony bottle..., what's that? At that moment, JimLap chimed in, "Didn't anyone brief you? This wreck is just teaming with seahorses. They love interacting with divers and feel more inclined to interact with divers if they feel part of the group!" Jax yelled. "Damn it", choking on her fresh rum drink. I just got this computer cleaned off from the last one and you all are at it again, and I still can't find my LIKE button. Is Howard around here somewhere?... while shaking her head.

 

[Mike Boswell]

Mma Constance Maputwse, proprietress of the Most Excellent Jamaican Detective Agency, sat on the edge of her bunk, her head reeling from the motion of the Dancer. A good friend of Captain Frank, she had confided to him that her detective business in Montego Bay was a little slow, and, at his invitation she had decided to fly from Kingston to Miami for a little shopping and then to take a few days off as his guest on The Dancer.

“Oh, my head feels terrible.” She groaned.

“Oh, Mma, Shall I make you a nice cup of bush tea?” asked her devoted assistant and confidante.

“Oh, Yes, Yasmina, Yes. That would be most helpful. And would you most kindly ask Captain Frank how much longer this will be happening?”

Mma Yasmina Ngamosi immediately departed on her missions, and returned presently with a steaming cup of bush tea.

“Mma, The Captain says it will be some time, but he will try to make things go smoothly. In fact, after I had spoken with him in the cabin, he shouted out the door most loudly to this very crazy dancing fellow on the bow named Helemano, and asked him to stop rocking the boat.”

“Oh, thank you, Yasmina.” Replied Mma Maputswe, gratefully taking the tea. As she sipped the hot tea, she reflected on the many strange things she had seen on the boat, and on the ominous words she had overheard that morning, spoken by Peter Guy: “If he finds it before we do, he’ll die.”