by Landon Beach
They were now on the southern side of Grand Island and not far from where they had put in at Munising. It had almost been an embarrassment to anchor last night without traveling very far. His son had made a mistake, but he had made mistakes at that age too. The Loran beeped as they approached the waypoint.
Bermuda was in thirty feet of water and still looked like the nineteenth century schooner that it was. At one hundred and thirty-six feet long, there was plenty to explore, and the ship was one of the most visited wrecks in the Great Lakes. It was also one of the safest to explore. Bermuda sat perfectly on the bottom with the deck only twelve feet from the surface. There were three open hatches that lead into the hull where he and Trist could explore, and the only dangers were the normal ones associated with penetrating a wreck, mostly silting. On the surface, there was a fair amount of tourist boating traffic—the only way to dive the Bermuda was to take a boat out to her—so they’d have to be careful when they surfaced.
Just off the bow, Robin spotted a Boston Whaler bobbing at anchor near the wreck site. He pulled the binoculars hanging around his neck up to his eyes and scanned. There was no one onboard. They’d have company beneath the surface. He lowered the binoculars and checked the Loran one more time.
Robin brought Levity’s engine to idle and pointed the sloop into the wind. “Drop the hook, Trist!” Robin shouted.
Manning the anchor windlass up forward, Trist let go the anchor, and it entered the water with a familiar sploosh. He watched as the chain payed out and the anchor disappeared.
When the desired 5:1 scope of chain was let out, Trist set the brake. He tied a piece of line around the chain and then tied it off to a cleat, transferring some of the load from the windlass. “Go ahead and back down,” Trist said.
Robin throttled astern at around 1500 rpms for a moment to let the flukes set in. When the boat would not move aft at 1500 rpms, then Robin was confident that the anchor was set, and he cut the engine.
The cloudless sky allowed the sun to warm everything from the deck beneath Trist’s bare feet to the shirt sticking to his back. There was no hint of a breeze and the water looked like a never-ending mirror. Satisfied that the anchor was secure, he headed aft.
Robin emerged from the companionway with two scuba tanks.
“Need a hand?” Trist said.
“Nope,” Robin replied.
“Should I even be diving?” Trist said.
“Yesterday? No. Today? You’re fine,” Robin stated.
✽✽✽
Trist watched him lift the tanks through the hatch and set them on the cockpit deck. He made it look so easy. The one exception to the ‘no television rule’ in their house had been his father’s favorite show, Magnum P.I., and though many people weren’t quite sure that Robin was not Harrison Ford, Trist knew that his real alter ego was Magnum’s best friend, T.C. His mom had a different take. She claimed that Robin had Ford’s ruggedly handsome good looks, T.C.’s arms and shoulders, and Magnum’s sense of humor. Whatever. He didn’t understand why Magnum had been appointment television for his mom and dad in the ‘80s. He’d much rather watch Friends, which he had to sneak over to Kevin’s to watch under the cover of a big homework project. Well, he wasn’t sure if he’d be spending much time with Kevin anymore after the other night. And he preferred Frasier to Friends, but Kevin always had a packed house—that included Rachel—to watch. A clank from another tank brought his attention back to his dad. He’d been lifting for two years now and still couldn’t come close to Robin’s pipes—his arms more like tiny knots than bundles of kettle bells like his father’s.
Robin came back up on deck with two sets of mask, fins, snorkel, weight belt, and regulator. “C’mon, let’s get our wetsuits on,” he said to Trist.
Trist followed him down below.
✽✽✽
Jill St. John awoke to darkness. She gasped when she tried to open her eyes as her eyelids felt like a thousand tiny needles had decided to prick them all at once. She closed her eyes to let the pain subside while she took stock with her other senses. Wherever she was smelled like a hospital room, and her face felt cold. Her eyes still felt like they had been branded with a hot iron. Her head was on a soft pillow and she was covered with crisp sheets and a fluffy comforter, lying in a small bed. Her arms, resting next to each side of her body, had only inches to spare from the left and right edge of the bed; when she curled her toes, they extended past the foot.
The room was silent except for a soft hum, like an air conditioner on low power. Where was she? How much time had passed? What was the last thing she remembered? Her right forearm began to throb. A needle? She had been abducted; absolutely, she was sure of that. By the man who was driving the vehicle...she was in the back seat unable to move because...because...yes, because she had been tased. Then, the vehicle had started to move and she rode for some time. How long? An hour? Two? In any event, she had just started to regain feeling in her fingers when the man beside her had stuck a needle into her arm and injected her with something. “You’re going to be fine, sweet baby,” he had said. That was the last thing she remembered.
Jill placed her left hand on the inside of her right wrist and slid it up toward her elbow. She touched a gauze pad held against her skin with medical tape that wound around her forearm. She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. She opened her eyes slowly. One, Two, Three walls. A dresser. Is that a door? Ouch!
The pain was too much and she closed her eyes. Her vision became an inferno at first. Then the edges cooled to black and the center became a twisting kaleidoscope, spiraling her mind over an edge and into an infinite void. She drifted back asleep.
✽✽✽
Robin and Trist stood next to each other on Levity’s swim platform. They were in full wetsuits including hoods. It might be June, but the lake felt like it was still thawing from winter. They each had a tank strapped on, wore a weight belt, had a dive knife strapped to the right calf, and wore a pair of fins. They both had a dive light as well. Robin took a breath from his regulator and then removed it from his mouth. Trist followed suit.
“Okay, we’ve got perfect conditions but that doesn’t give you a blank check to scoot off and try something dangerous,” Robin said.
“Dad, lighten up. I’m still not feeling a hundred percent.”
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all morning.”
Trist paused.
He’s gonna come back with some smart-ass remark, and I’m gonna crush him.
“I’m following you, okay?”
Nope, can’t predict children—even my own. Robin nodded. “Okay.” He pointed to the Boston Whaler. “We’ll have some company down there, so stay safe. Whoever it is, he or she was here early.” He swiveled his head to the right and then to the left, surveying the surface of the water. “I don’t see any other boats right now, but that doesn’t mean that there won’t be any when we surface later. Safety, safety, safety.”
“Dad, I got it.”
Robin put the regulator in his mouth. Stop overthinking everything and trust him. He gave Trist a thumbs up sign and they both jumped into the water.
Robin’s body shivered. Goddamn Lake Superior. This arctic soup could freeze your bones. He shook it off and saw Trist next to him, eyes behind his son’s mask saying, “What in the hell are we doing in water this cold?” Robin checked his depth. Nine feet. He motioned for Trist to follow him and they swam up under Levity’s hull and inspected it. God, the boat rested pretty in the water. He ran his hand along the hull as he moved from the stern to the bow. Trist turned on his light and swept the beam across the hull as he followed.
At the bow, Robin grasped the anchor line, made eye contact with Trist, and then started to follow the line down. At thirty-two feet, they reached the anchor. Robin motioned for Trist to aim his light at it. Once it was illuminated, he inspected the connection between the line and the stock: it was secure. The flukes had dug in; unless weather came out of nowhere, Levity was stayi
ng put. Robin checked his underwater compass and oriented himself in order to head toward the Bermuda; he had anchored far enough away to not risk fouling his anchor on the wreck, which could damage the underwater preserve and royally screw up a day’s dive. Untangling an anchor—no matter what it was fouled on—was one of life’s events one would rather never experience. Snag a fishing line? Cut it and move on. Lose an anchor...
When Trist asked if it was that big of a deal, he had replied, “Would you ever volunteer to get a flat tire and have to change it on the side of the road?”
Robin steadied up on the course to the wreck and began to move, Trist beside him. After a few dozen kicks, the Boston Whaler’s anchor and line came into view. Then, Bermuda emerged out of the shadows. The masts and rigging were long gone, but some of the railing was still intact. The aged wood was beautiful and preserved by the cold fresh water of Lake Superior. Had Bermuda wrecked in saltwater, there would be little to nothing left of her.
They followed the hull up and over the railing where they could see the entire length of the schooner. Bubbles rose from one of the hatches amidships. Robin and Trist stopped aft to examine the rudder stock that rose up from the deck a few feet. They exchanged a look of satisfaction at the superb craftsmanship and preservation. Robin motioned to a hatch just past the cabin trunk and they paused above it. He turned on his dive light and entered the hatch. Trist followed and they were soon below deck.
Further forward, they could now see a light trained on the bottom with bubbles rising nearby; it looked like just one diver. Robin was about to give the go ahead to explore when he heard a clanging noise made by the unknown diver. He motioned Trist to follow him.
They approached the diver, and Robin could now see what had made the noise. The man had rigged a light on a stand to aim directly at the deck and he was using a crowbar, trying to pry some of the decking up. Robin grabbed Trist’s arm with authority and his son snapped his head around to look into Robin’s mask. Gonna straighten this out. Robin let go of Trist and motioned for him to stay back. Trist signaled okay.
The man dug the crowbar into the wood with a crunch that made Robin’s stomach turn. The effort had also stirred up a small cloud of silt making visibility worse. However, the diver saw Robin’s light and stopped working on the deck. Robin gave him a look that said: No! Get the hell out of here.
The man now saw Trist as well. He flipped Robin the middle finger and reached for something on the deck that was hidden by the cloud of silt. Robin maintained his position a few yards away.
Out from the cloud of silt, the man leveled a spear gun...at Trist. Then, he looked back at Robin and raised his eyebrows.
Robin brought his dive light up and aimed it right into the man’s eyes, blinding him. Then, he kicked directly at the man, dropped his light, put his hands around the man’s neck and squeezed. The man spit out his regulator in his panic and dropped the spear gun. With powerful strokes, Robin kicked with the diver in his grasp up through the hatch. The man struggled but was soon out of breath and kicked with Robin rather than against him. In a few seconds, their heads broke the surface. The man started coughing, and Robin changed his grip from the man’s neck to his air hose. Trist surfaced a few yards away and took out his regulator.
“What the hell!” The man finally got out.
“We don’t damage and steal from underwater preserves, asshole,” Robin said.
“You could have killed me,” he said.
Robin grabbed the man’s neck and pushed him underwater for a few seconds. Then pulled him back up. He was too mad to think about the fact he was half-drowning a complete stranger. If his fellow nurses could see him now.
The man had swallowed water and was hacking away.
“And you pointed a gun at my kid. Now, get your ass outta here, before I report this,” Robin ordered.
“Man, you’re crazy,” he replied and tried to swim away, but Robin yanked on his air hose.
“You got it?” Robin said.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “But what about my gear?”
Robin looked at Trist. “Swim down and bring up his stuff—except for the crowbar. Drop that on the lake floor away from the wreck.”
Trist put in his regulator and submerged.
He turned back toward the man, pulled his air hose so that their faces were inches away from each other. “Don’t come back here.”
The man could feel Robin’s hot breath in his face like a victim about to be eaten by a grizzly bear. He nodded, and Robin released his grip. The man started to swim toward the Whaler, looking back at Robin every third or fourth kick, and then continuing on.
Trist rose next to him. “Here,” he said handing Robin the tripod and dive light.
“You got the spear gun?”
Trist raised it out of the water.
“Good, let’s get this guy out of here and then leave. I think we’ve seen enough of the Bermuda for today.”
They headed toward the Whaler.
✽✽✽
“Never mind us reporting him,” Trist said. “What about him reporting us?”
Robin stood behind the helm and eased off the wind to port. Both the mainsail and jib were raised, and the morning calm had turned into an afternoon full of wind—Levity was on a beam reach and dancing through the water. He looked down at Trist who was seated on the starboard cockpit bench sipping on a can of Vernors. “He won’t report us.” The sun peeked around a cloud and hit Robin’s face. He squinted and raised his sunglasses from the cord that hung around his neck. “Fool knows he was in the wrong.” He paused. “Only thing is...”
“What?”
“He’ll be back. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but some day. We scared him, but guys like that operate by a different code.”
Trist took a swig from his can. “What code, Indy?”
Robin grinned and looked up at the wind vane on top of the mast. “No code,” he said. “Those guys have zero respect for history.” He motioned for Trist to get him a pop from the cooler underneath the port bench.
Trist lifted the cushion and dug into the ice-filled chest, pulling out a can of Canada Dry. Robin looked at the can. “That’s the stuff.”
“Traitor,” Trist said and threw the can to him.
Robin grinned and cracked open the lid. “It’s just better, T. Sort of like how Star Trek is better than Star Wars.”
“Like hell it is,” Trist said.
“Trek is literature. Star Wars is pulp.”
“You’re never going to convince me. You Trekkies are so loyal and stubborn. Isn’t there enough room in space for both franchises?”
Robin took a long pull. “Nope. Anyway, back to the Bermuda. Three lives were lost when she wrecked in Munising Bay. Doesn’t sound grandiose, I know, but those are three people who didn’t get to come home. And for that reason alone, you don’t touch a wreck that is at its final resting place underwater. Idiots like Mr. Crowbar don’t get it and never will. Our society is so enamored with collecting stuff and displaying it that we forget to consider what we’re displaying.”
Trist sat and studied the bearded gnome on his can of Vernors. He looked up at his dad, “For once, I agree wi—”
Robin swayed to the right, lost his grip on the wheel, and fainted.
Levity heeled over hard, and Robin and Trist were thrown up against the rail. The boat continued to tip and Trist grabbed Robin’s shirt to keep him from going overboard. Then, the boat righted itself and the sails began to luff. Trist went for the wheel, but there was too much momentum and Levity jibed—the boom shot through the air and crashed to a halt on the other side of the boat. Now, the sloop heeled to port and Robin’s body slid across the cockpit and landed on the port bench.
Trist made it to the wheel and turned until Levity was pointed directly into the wind. Both sails luffed and he released the jib sheet. With nimble feet, he raced forward and lowered the jib. Then, he sped back to the mast and worked the halyard until the main sail was hauled all the
way down.
With the sails now lowered, he centerlined the boom. Satisfied that the boat was secure as possible for the moment, he jumped down into the cockpit and held Robin in his arms. “Dad?”
Robin made no movement. His eyes seemed welded shut.
“Dad!” Trist put his hand on Robin’s neck and felt a strong pulse. Next, he lowered his ear to just above Robin’s nose and mouth...and both heard and felt his father’s breathing. “C’mon, Dad,” he said.
Robin’s eyelids started to flutter and his eyes finally opened. Trist could barely focus on his face for the tears now pouring out. “What happened?”
17
The Hatteras cut through the water with precision and grace, the wake leaving a line of white foam that divided the deep blue surface. It was just past noon and Grant Livingston took a seat across from Madame at the well-appointed table aft of the flying bridge. A waiter meandered over with a stainless-steel push cart and replaced Madame’s finished espresso with a new one.
She paid him no attention.
He placed a second bowl of fresh fruit on the table between her and Livingston and then handed a folded newspaper to Madame. Before shuffling off, he placed a cup of espresso in front of Livingston.
“Last night was...extraordinary,” Livingston said, reaching for the espresso.
Madame opened “The Arts” section of The New York Times. “You’re a bit out of practice,” she said.
“Now where did he get you a copy of The Times?” He said.
She lowered the paper. “Last Sunday’s edition.”
“I see,” said Livingston. He went to grab a section for himself but she moved the paper from the table to the chair next to her.
She raised “The Arts” back up. “Am I still cut off from pop culture?”
He yawned and reached for his espresso, “I need to get up earlier, and, no, I think you can handle The Times.”
