by Steve Alten
Mac had met with David and Jackie on their journey north to come up with a strategy.
“We’ve got a major problem here, kiddies. The Juan de Fuca Strait is ninety-five miles long and about fifteen miles wide. If these Meg babies are in the strait, we could patrol up and down the waterway for months without locating them.”
“Forget the strait,” David said. “Assuming any of these pups are still alive, they stayed alive by remaining close to their nursery. Where did that diver report seeing the two litters?”
Mac enlarged an area of the Salish Sea map on his laptop, placing an X at the mouth of Orcas Island’s channel.
“Obstruction Pass, only the sisters moved the nursery after that fisherman put a load of buckshot in Lizzy’s eye.”
“I suggest we concentrate around the less populated islands; the deeper the water, the better.”
Mac switched to a bathymetric display. “Hate to tell you, kid, but Obstruction Pass is shallow water.”
“Yeah … well, I’m not convinced that location was actually their nursery. Maybe the sisters were escorting their young to the real nursery when they ran into the diver. What do you think, Jackie?”
Jacqueline Buchwald stared off into space, oblivious of their conversation.
“Jackie?” David nudged her shoulder.
“What?”
“I was just asking you what you thought.”
“About what?”
“The sisters selecting Obstruction Pass as a nursery.”
She gazed at the bathymetric map. “I don’t know … maybe.” She glanced at her watch. “Sorry, I’m feeling a little seasick. I’m going back to the cabin to lie down.”
Mac and David looked at one another as she stood and left.
“Seasick?” Mac smirked. “It’s like a lake out there.”
“She’s been acting weird ever since we left the lagoon.”
“Don’t try to figure out women, kid. Their minds are far too complex for our simple, straight-forward brains.”
Southeast Farallon Islands
27 Nautical Miles Due West of
San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge
The Farallones consist of four groups of islands―Noonday Rock, North Farallones, Middle Farallones and Southeast Farallon. Uninhabited by humans, this barren landscape of mountains and wave-battered rocks is home to harbor seals, Steller’s sea lions, the California sea lion, the northern fur seal, and the largest pinniped in the world―the northern elephant seal.
Male elephant seals can reach lengths of more than fifteen feet and weigh upwards of six thousand pounds, the females slightly smaller but still tipping the scales at two tons. The mammals spend their winter months on shore at rookeries where they copulate, birth, and fight for dominance. The alpha bulls are sexually dimorphic and will mate with as many as four dozen females. Come spring, the herds return to the Farallones en masse to laze about the rocky beaches, playing, sleeping, and molting.
The presence of these massive creatures entices another species to this remote island chain: Carcharodon carcharias, the great white shark. The seals are the predator’s favorite delicacy, and as many as thirty to one hundred mature male sharks and their larger female counterparts frequent these waters, their presence giving this expanse of sea the nickname The Red Triangle.
* * *
The 74-foot yacht, Lost Angel, was designed by its owners, Andrew and Sally Bartolotta as a means of paying homage to their favorite Megalodon, the ship’s dimensions actually mirroring those of the deceased shark―from Angel’s fearsome jaws, painted along the eleven-foot prow, to her seven-foot “dorsal sail” which was mounted atop the upper deck to complete the effect.
A studio session percussionist and artist on the Zildjian, Evans, and ProMark rosters, Andrew Bartolotta had made his fortune playing drums and composing songs for half a dozen successful heavy metal bands. When they weren’t touring North America, Australia, and Europe, the long-haired, heavily-tattooed and pierced thirty-four-year-old and his wife lived on the yacht, which functioned as their primary dwelling and office. A fully-equipped mastering studio―Angel’s Lair Studios LLC―occupied most of the upper deck.
In addition to being musicians and devoted “MEGheads,” the Bartolottas were avid divers. With the Tanaka Institute out of business, the closest they could come to experiencing the adrenaline rush of giant sharks was to cage dive with the Meg’s modern-day cousins. Unfortunately, Andrew found the local great white excursions to be rather disappointing. Chumming the Farallones was strictly outlawed, forcing dive crews to rely on fake wooden seals to lure the sharks close enough to see through the murky water.
Desiring to better the odds and treat his guests to a mind-blowing cage diving experience, Andrew had met with several marine biologists who had discovered that when music was pumped through underwater speakers, the vibrations attracted sharks―especially the bass-heavy, drum-pounding sounds of Heavy Metal. Sensing kismet, he had dry-docked the Lost Angel for two weeks in order to outfit the ship’s keel with underwater speakers that could pump out music coming from Angel’s Lair studio.
With everything finally ready, they had set out from San Francisco in the early afternoon in order to avoid the commercial cage diving companies. Joining them for their first “Great White Jam Session” were members of September’s End―bassist Justin Kleya, lead guitarist Jack Morefield, Jeremy Saltis on drums, and Scott Marucci on vocals. The band’s engineer, Mike Burke, had passed on the offer―“Why would anyone serve themselves up as a meal to a two-ton animal with teeth?”
Sally’s friends were more enthusiastic. Dr. Rebecca Bass and her husband, Judson McCurdy, were both certified divers; McCurdy having taken up the sport after an ATV accident which led to debilitating back problems. Servicing their guests during the two-day jaunt was Captain Jeffrey Ritter and his mother, Teresa―a master chef who was on a working vacation from her four-star restaurant in San Francisco.
* * *
An intermittent drizzle suddenly became a heavy rain, the wind-guided droplets battering the forward bay windows of the pilothouse. Jeffrey Ritter increased the wipers’ speed before checking the weather report again.
Gray skies, light rain, clearing by 5 p.m. Five to eight-foot seas. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The mouth-watering scent of fried onions wafted up from the galley, causing his stomach to growl. A moment later his mother ascended the spiral stairwell behind him, carrying a dish covered by an aluminum hot plate.
“Everyone’s eaten; I thought you might be hungry.”
“You read my stomach.” He removed the top, revealing a Philly cheese steak, the melted provolone dripping off the sourdough roll. “Ma, you deserve a raise.”
“Just remember, your boss owes me at least two cage dives. How far out are we?”
“About forty minutes. We’d be able to see the islands if it wasn’t so overcast.”
A light appeared in the distance, corresponding to a blip on his radar screen. Jeffrey adjusted the yacht’s course and then grabbed his radio, speaking into the mike. “This is Jeff Ritter aboard the dive yacht, Lost Angel … coming up on your port side.”
“Afternoon, Captain Ritter. This is David Popowitch aboard the dive boat, Superfish.”
“How are conditions in the Farallones, captain?”
“Six-to-eight-foot seas, coming in at twenty second intervals. Water temperature’s fifty-five degrees, visibility’s only about two feet.”
“Any sightings?”
“Nothing in the cages. Lots of Risso dolphins when we crossed the channel. Leaving Southeast Farallon, we saw a pod of orca west through Maintop Bay; that might explain the missing great whites. If you’re planning on doing any cage diving, you may want to try Fisherman’s Bay. Lots of sea elephants out on the rocks, barking up a storm. Our passengers complained about the stench, so we circled upwind.”
“Appreciate the advice, skipper. Ritter out.”
He turned to his left, the 54-foot dive boa
t blasting its horn as it passed a hundred yards off the yacht’s portside bow. Jeffrey returned the gesture before easing back on the wipers as the rain let up.
Teresa took the wheel, allowing her son to eat and use the head. By the time he returned, the sun was poking through the clouds and a gauntlet of sharp, gray islet peaks were visible along the horizon.
Maintaining a northwest heading, Jeffrey kept a healthy distance from a breakpoint marked by white water. The Farallones resided in “confused seas,” meaning the waves came in from all directions. As they neared the shallows they would stack up, rise and break a good two-to-five-feet higher than the swells which had delivered them across thousands of miles of ocean.
Using his binoculars, the captain stole a quick glance to port. Sea lions dotted the cliff faces and frolicked in the foam-coated shallows. Up ahead loomed a windswept mountain of gray rock; rising from the sea to starboard was a weather-battered obstacle known as Seal Island.
Jeffrey cut his speed to ten knots as he guided the yacht between the two landmasses, feeling the ebb tide pushing his vessel to the west and an unforgiving shoreline.
Throttling up to fifteen knots released the sea’s grip on his keel. Satisfied with his level of comfort with the elements, he reached for the radio’s handset, switching over to the ship’s intercom.
* * *
Andrew Bartolotta scanned the sound board and pressed the button labeled PLAYBACK, sending the musical track of his band’s new song, “Millennial Brain” through his singer’s headphones.
Scott Marucci offered him a thumbs-up from the other side of the soundproof glass. Focusing his gaze upon the sheet of lyrics clipped to the music stand, he leaned into the microphone to lay down the vocals.
“No time for books or magazines … My thoughts are barbed, but extra lean.
Don’t need no vowels, sacrifice the I … Re-tweet a link, update a lie.
“Twitter, Facebook, Instagram … It’s followers that make a brand.
Servitude to the one-four-tee … Going viral is X-Stas-C.
“The iPhone is―a deadly new disease. Instead of talking, we text to please …
The poles are melting, good jobs are few. I earn my keep … with likes and views.
“Twitter, Facebook, Instagram … It’s followers that make a brand.
Servitude to the one-four-tee … Going viral is X-Stas-C.
Scott tapped his foot, the instrumental quieting for his solo at the bridge.
“Truth is buried in the lies of the beholder.
Hate thy neighbor as we grow older.
Divide and conquer, the end is near.
Social media preys on our fears―
Alternative facts feed the Millennial Brain
Alternative facts feed the Millennial Brain!
“Twitter, Facebook, Instagram … It’s followers that make a brand.
Servitude to the one-four-tee … Going viral is X-Stas-C.” *
Andrew offered him a thumbs-up, then turned on his microphone. “Sounded great. I want to do the bridge again. This time build it to a crescendo so that you’re screeching right as Jack’s guitar lick takes us into the final chorus.”
A blinking red light on a wall panel caught his attention. He wheeled his chair over, pressing the intercom. “Andrew here. Go ahead skipper.”
“We’ve reached Southeast Farallon. Awaiting your orders.”
Locating his iPad on a stack of albums, Andrew clicked on a link which located his yacht on a Google-Earth map.
“We’re here to dive with the great whites, skipper. Any idea where they might be?”
“One of the commercial boat captains recommended Fisherman’s Bay. He said the elephant seals were abundant in the area. He did mention there’d be a nasty stench.”
Andrew looked over at Jack Morefield.
The lead guitarist shrugged. “What’s a little stench among friends.”
“Good point. Fisherman’s Bay it is.”
* * *
It was 4:35 in the afternoon by the time the Lost Angel dropped anchor in 165 feet of water. With the engines off, the yacht rose and fell with each swell, the eight-foot waves rolling beneath the keel before breaking into whitewater fifty yards to the west.
A football field away, hundreds of elephant seals belched and snorted across an inaccessible shoreline marked by several caves. With the winds blowing in from the east, the captain’s location spared the Lost Angel’s guests from the pungent scent of pinniped droppings.
The yacht’s dive shed occupied the back twenty feet of stern along the main deck and held enough equipment and gear to accommodate a dozen divers. Mounted along the outside of the transom was an A-frame; dangling from this perch by steel cable was a shark cage large enough to hold four adult divers. Everyone on board had donned wetsuits, save for the captain and September’s End’s drummer, Jeremy Saltis, who changed his mind when he saw the shark cage was made of aluminum.
“Ya’ll are crazy. If it were me, I’d want titanium around me … at least steel.”
Andrew laughed. “Steel’s too heavy, dude. You’d need a crane to drag it in and out of the water. Plus steel rusts. Either way, there’s nothing to fear; sharks hate the taste of metal.”
“How about Rock ‘n’ Roll?”
“We’ll soon find out.” Andrew keyed open a large plastic storage trunk secured to the deck. Raising the lid revealed four plastic face masks, each trailing fifty feet of hose attached to an air machine. He handed the mask attached to the yellow hose to Rebecca Bass, the red to her husband, Judson McCurdy, the blue to Teresa Ritter, and kept the green one for himself.
“This is an Integrated Dive Mask. As you can see, the IDM covers your entire face, allowing you to breathe naturally through your nose and mouth. Air circulates across the inside of the visor to prevent fogging, and I’ve never had one leak. If you do get water in your mask, just hit this purge valve. Best of all, the IDM has a built-in microphone. Channel-1 is linked to the boat; Channel-2 connects you to the other divers in the cage. Press this button by your chin to talk.”
Andrew pressed the POWER button on the air machine, causing the four hoses to inflate.
Teresa placed the IDM mask on her face, adjusting its six straps to create a snug fit. “This is great. My jaw always gets so sore from having to bite down on a regulator.”
Rebecca helped her husband adjust his mask. “See? No heavy air tanks to lug in and out of the boat; this will be fun.”
Collecting his fins, Andrew joined his wife by the shark cage. “The CD’s loaded. Give the sharks ten minutes to assemble on their own before you start pumping out the music.”
“Understood.” Sally kissed him on the lips. “Keep an eye on my friends, especially Judson. He was in horrible lower back pain on the ride out; I saw him popping opiates like they were breath mints.”
Leaning on the transom, Andrew pulled his fins over his rubber boots before securing his mask over his face. He pressed the microphone button by his chin. “If you can hear my voice, raise your hand.”
The three divers complied.
“Okay, let’s pump some adrenaline.” Sitting on the fiberglass transom, he spun around on his buttocks to the awaiting shark cage and lowered himself inside while Sally fed his hose over the side.
“Let’s go blue next, then red and yellow.”
Teresa Ritter awkwardly made her way to the transom in her swim fins. She sat down before twisting around to face the cage, which was suspended upright in the water by the A-frame’s steel cable. Inching her way out, she dangled her fins in the open gap framed by the cage’s four aluminum buoyancy tanks before easing herself over the side.
The frigid sea took her breath away, the gray-blue underworld causing her eyes to widen in wonderment. Visibility extended only a few feet in every direction except to the north where the cage was too high out of the water to see the yacht’s keel.”
“What’s on tonight’s menu, Chef Teresa?”
She turned to Andrew
and smiled. “Hopefully not us.” She looked up as a pair of fins plunged between them, followed by Judson McCurdy. As the heavyset man’s mask dropped to her eye-level, she saw the contortions on his face ease into a blissful smile.
“Oh, God … this feels like heaven.”
“Are you in that much pain?”
“You have no idea. I fractured my pars bone years ago in an ATV accident. The pars is the only bone in the body that doesn’t heal. Without it, the vertebral discs systematically fail, causing my L-5 to press against my spinal cord. I know it’s hard to believe, but I used to be an athlete. Over the last five years I’ve lost two inches in height and gained fifty pounds.”
He looked up as his wife slipped into the cage next to him. She mouthed several sentences in silence until her husband pointed to the communication button by her chin.
“Sorry. I was just saying how cold the water is, even in a wetsuit.”
“I love it,” Judson said. “It feels great on my back.”
“Well, I’m freezing. I may have to get out.”
“Give your body a few minutes to acclimate,” Andrew said. He switched channels on his communicator. “Sally, seal the cage and lower us to thirty-five feet.”
“Thirty-five feet; will do.”
They looked up as the top of the cage was flipped over. Andrew reached up to position the four air hoses through a gap in the bars before snapping the aluminum grill in place.
A dull mechanical whine was their only warning as the cage suddenly sank beneath them, forcing the divers to grab hold of the aluminum bars for the ride down. Judson found himself floating along the underside of the aluminum hatch, his wife and the other woman standing upright beneath his dangling legs.
Rebecca Bass looked up at the bottom of the boat―one moment the keel was visible; the next it was gone. A minute passed before the winch was shut down, leaving them suspended in silence, surrounded by a gray-brown haze. Had she not been in the cage, she would have lost all orientation, unable to discern up from down.
