Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  One big risk of cave diving is silt, and no dive guide enters a cave without forewarning divers to use a gentle sideways kick or a short, easy flutter with the fins way off the bottom. A cave often has tributary caves feeding at blind angles on the way in, so coming out can be fatally confusing without noting coordinates on the way in. Just so, an eager six-pack included a man whose past, like this cave, intertwined elaborately with tributary caverns, feeding the primary drive. He seemed compensatory, driven to make up for something or other, hungry for the leading edge. Suffice it to say he made the first turn easily enough, though he had only five hundred pounds of air remaining at 130 feet. But he’d come this far, and then came that odd little voice that urges the inexperienced to go for it, requiring him to surface to 90, then descend again to 130 before surfacing again with a safety stop on the way. He made the Room and actually lingered there to have his picture taken to better imprint the experience on his identity. Then he hurried out. Hurry stirs silt in a cave. He didn’t come out — well, not for a few days, when two rescue divers found him hung up along a tributary just past the deep turn, where he must have kicked too hard and gone awry, where a hose snagged on a rock to one side, which he may have thought was overhead, and where any number of other problems could have ensued, all of which were likely incidental to running out of air at 120 feet in a narrow cave full of silt with zero viz.

  Nobody said boo, not calling the guilty instructor a jerk or dismissing the episode with the common discount: shit happens. The instructor retired from diving a few months later, cast permanently into the fatal column, dangerous by any assessment, and worse, imprinted with murder, second degree.

  Litigation on that one lasted far longer than anyone cared to follow.

  Far better to tell about the doctor who sucked his tank empty in sixteen minutes and grabbed his dive buddy’s octopus. After hyperventilating on that, he took off for the surface, dragging his dive buddy along — a guy he met that morning — till the buddy realized they were outpacing their bubbles like a hare passing a tortoise and stopped short at 60 feet, up from 120 way too fast. The doctor, a card-carrying member of the American Medical Association, went full speed to the surface, forgetting to exhale and surely forgetting a safety stop, since he was about to drown anyway, which he may as well have done. He embolized with a nasty bubble in his neck and got bent to boot, leaving him screaming bloody murder, or gurgling it anyway, while writhing on the surface. Soon reduced to a whimper, he was flown by medivac helicopter to Honolulu at ten feet over the sea to minimize further decompression. Finally in the hyperbaric chamber he got pressurized back down to a hundred feet and seemed to be in less pain but died a day later anyway.

  Well, maybe best not tell that story either, or about the geeks and harebrains who showed up daily to go flopping along the back wall like clown plankton, pinwheeling, flapping their arms, riding the bicycle, bumping into each other, kicking an unwary dive leader in the head. Realization isn’t always nice. So Ravid Rockulz shook it off but sensed another persistent insight: This was getting old.

  Well, some days were better than others, and a few good days passed before an early afternoon nineteen years in, when Ravid took the hand-off of empty tanks from the boat on its trailer to the parking lot where he stood, behind the dive shop, near the compressor. First came the 40-gallon tanks for the women and children, then the 80s, then, what the hell...160s? But it wasn’t 160s; it was only more 80s, along with much heavier bones, muscles, joints, tendons and the essential attitude of one Ravid Rockulz. Stooping under the burden of sheer, dead weight, he felt a milestone: On that day, in that arduous task, he’d crossed the line from youth to middle age. A moment earlier it was another working day nearly done, heading for a brief rest and a lazy afternoon, his to enjoy. Then would come evening recreation, maybe after a swim or some errands. Maybe he’d call a woman, though that would be rare with so few women met other than tourist women. The tourist women were available but repetitious, and most often demanding on the glib, social side for the brief return on the other side.

  But time slurred, on realization, to slow motion to better scrutinize the fatigue — physical and mental and, let’s face it, spiritual and emotional. Repetition and strain prevailed at last, as they will, but still. The afternoon was given to rest and recovery, which shouldn’t seem so bad to a hardworking man, but life’s changing phase had announced itself with grim reality. A man of youth and vigor was slowing down. A nice nap in a heavily shaded room with an oscillating fan felt like a seductive prospect. He felt old when a major bowel movement led to the jubilation formerly reserved for sexual triumph.

  On the bright side, with realization a sentient being can assess life and change direction as necessary, which can be a blessing.

  With that optimistic rationale, Ravid Rockulz drifted into his first daytime nap in recent memory. He had been in his early thirties only a short while ago. Okay, maybe mid-thirties. He woke two hours later in his late thirties, pushing forty, laughing briefly at Crusty’s chronic morning complaint that he felt shot at and missed, and shit at and hit. Ravid downed three aspirin with a caffeinated cola to ease the funk. Then he decided on a solitary dinner at a quiet café, where he would ponder his future with specifics. He would make a list to better see the options and assess the pros and cons, goals and fears, so he could have a chart by which to navigate.

  Beginning with a beer and an excellent ahi poke (PO-kee), raw tuna diced into half-inch cubes and seasoned with sesame oil, black sesame seeds, cayenne and ogo (seaweed), he unfolded his sheets of paper and stared at the blank surface. It did not shimmer or promise or even hint but awaited the plunge, 8½ × 11 of open ocean. Who would dive here? I mean, right out in the middle?

  He couldn’t have said how long he sat and stared, waiting for the syllables, words, phrases and concepts drifting by like flotsam on a steady swell into his brain, down his arm, through his fingers and pen to swirl onto the paper and tell him where to go, what to do, what to say to whom and when.

  In a few minutes he wrote:

  Being a dive instructor is not enough.

  Beneath that, in a few minutes more, he wrote:

  Hawaii. Tahiti (?) Carib (?) Indonesia (?)

  Photography.

  He waited a few minutes more and then finished his poke. He waited another few minutes after that, doubting that clear answers to tough questions would drift in from the cosmos no matter how long he waited, and even if they did, by then the message might be, Okay, go ahead and decompose.

  In fact the right directive could drift by any time, but waiting wouldn’t help, so he ordered another beer and one more round of poke. Just so, the future arrived unannounced, casually strolling up and out of anonymity into the heart of a dumbstruck waterman, with chemistry and coincidence as random as that encountered by the first single cell, who was likely male. The future wore women’s clothing — and what a woman. No different than most on biological, mental and emotional levels, yet this woman seemed unfathomable, incomprehensible and lush. Such is man’s weakness for the tricks of nature.

  Ravid did not meet women by going out, because he didn’t hit the hot spots — too loud, too weird, so tediously posed with half-drunk youth claiming identity by virtue of sitting in an airplane for six hours, then coming down the road for a few beers. All that and the sunburn from earlier in the day rounded out their experience. Not only had they nothing to offer Ravid Rockulz, but they were also worthless in the world he valued. No, it was not nice to be cynical and superior, but reality demanded certain standards.

  He’d heard only last week that a honky-tonk bar in Kihei was “crawling with leg.” That language alone made the place seem creepy, but it got worse: Light bulbs hung from the cross ties inside blowfish — inflated, dried blowfish, the same creatures swimming just yonder who might have recognized a certain waterman in the recent past and approached in greeting. Well, maybe not the same, because nobody could catch blowfish near shore on Maui and sell them as light f
ixtures to a lowbrow, low-grade honky-tonk without rousing the waterpeople to a shark frenzy impersonation. Never mind. The grimy pub bought the dead fish from a reseller in Indonesia; the drift was the same. The place was vile, willfully ignorant and hateful of reefs and the neighborhood. The people there were blind to the lights and most else but their poses, appetites, hormones, impressions and on and on ad nauseam. Get the picture? Some aspects of the early years are easy to leave behind.

  In fact, Ravid went out rarely; so few restaurants could serve anything near as good as what he got at home at a fraction of the cost. And only a fool would go deep, looking for leg, when all the leg he wanted was there for easy catching on his own reef. Some nights, however, called for a change of scenery, like tonight. So there he sat, waiting on the future, when three women walked in looking like the mysteries of the Universe resolved...

  Ooh...if I could gnaw on that bone from eight to eleven...

  But it wasn’t like that. It was more resigned, more reserved and removed. It was something else, another place that felt like a destination, no further seeking required. Calling two of these women very good looking, perhaps beautiful and certainly doable. Either would pass muster in any crew. The third woman, however, was beyond beauty, a cameo classic in proportion and essence, nubile in body and spirit, a picture of youth for tired eyes. Would she think him too old? She had to be tabu, or kapu in Hawaiian, a word commonly used to warn tourists of private property. But this parcel seemed open and inviting, and who could fence that off?

  Minna Somayan, a hapa Kanaka Maoli (meaning half pure Hawaiian — her phrase, spoken blissfully) explained that she was of pure descent on one side and a cross of Filipino and Chinese ancestry on the other. High cheekbones offset her Polynesian lips and slightly slanting eyes. Glistening teeth shone pearly white with no cane holes, yellowing or overbite, and her skin alone — golden brown as heart koa — would have made her perfect. But the features came second. First came grace, her movement a subtle lead from the hips, the eyes and fingertips. Fluent and warm as lava, compelling as hula, she held the power of women over men, yet with regal mercy, she dismissed it. In Hawaiian terms, she combined humanity and nature, with legs, hips, breasts, face, eyes, slippers and a pareo in tropical pastels and patterns on her curvy self. Her embodiment of the elements seemed a consensus of the components. Apparently at ease with ogles, she smiled on the trim, fit fellow alone with his little beer, his little dish of poke, his little chopsticks and his pen writing little words on his little list, probably mapping out a good life for himself.

  Ravid Rockulz understood current, surge and undertow by instinct and how these ocean forces related to the power of women; no man can dominate, no matter how strong or skilled he may be. He can only stay calm, ride it out and survive, if he’s lucky and smart. Great loss may come otherwise, once he pits his meager power against a force of nature. He knew as well the profound scope of peripheral vision, a view developed by any waterperson in the company of large predators. Hard and hungry stares do not go unseen, no matter how oblique the assessment. Women learn it too, early on. Ravid knew the game, often picking his beauty du jour and ignoring her. With practiced indifference, he could often entertain her after sundown. A beauty not gazed upon, if it’s human, wants to know why. So he reached for indifference, looking away even as his eyes strained in their sockets.

  The trio headed for a table close by. Passing Ravid on the way, the first two women tittered and whispered, freely feeling the voltage in the air. Passing close enough to touch, her eyes on him since first sighting, she still smiled. Neither furtive nor flirtatious but like a long-lost friend, a friend in need, not a family friend and certainly not a sister, she approached like a soul in the bond, in trust and common values shared. She said, “Aloha,” which said it all, after a fashion, instantly recognizing what would survive them, what would transcend whatever came between them, whether a brief greeting or love as durable as time.

  In keeping with tradition, Ravid returned the greeting: “Aloha.” He matched her smile, meeting her eyes, attempting indifference but failing.

  As if pleased by his good graces and cultural presence, she stopped to offer both hands in a greeting at once familiar yet formal, cordial yet symbolic. Grasping hands was spontaneous, warm and natural, an honest recognition of the life force arcing between them. They conceded, each seeing, feeling and knowing it, though rubbing noses seemed premature. She dispensed with social protocol — meaning petty barriers — and let the friendship begin. What a woman.

  He stood, taking her hands as offered in a reunion of sorts, like intimates meeting after a lifetime apart, after passing on to the waters of forgetfulness and then returning to a reef remembered. “I’m Minna,” she offered.

  Dumb as a fence post on which a nightingale just landed, he said, “I know.” But he couldn’t have known. Could he?

  She laughed. “What’s your name?”

  Ravid. “Ravid. I’m Ravid.”

  “Ravid? Is that French?”

  No, it is not French. It’s Israeli. “No. Everybody thinks I am French, because of my accent. But it’s...Israeli.”

  “Oh, wow! That’s so cool. I mean, Israel.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re not a tourist.”

  “No. I am a dive instructor.”

  “Oh, wow. I love that. I mean I love the water. I’d love to learn how to dive and whatnot. I know I can.” He squinted, as if to see how she knew she could. “I mean I’ve been around the water my whole life. I can, you know, free dive and whatnot.”

  Free dive and whatnot? She sounded like a valley girl gone Native, which is better than sounding stupid, but not by much. But then how stupid did he sound when he asked like a college boy at a frat party, “What’s your last name? Do you have a job?” Kicking himself for spewing questions so early in the game, he cut himself off before any more stupidity could be spewed. Not to worry. She didn’t think him stupid, just dumbstruck, which was normal, given her intense beauty and appeal.

  “Somayan,” she murmured, squeezing his hands as if infusing him with her magic. “I work in a shop. For tourists. I got this pareo there.” She freed her hands for a pirouette and tropical curtsey. “Don’t you love it?”

  “I do. It suits you. What’s the name of the shop?” Yes, another question felt stupid, but then so far, so fast held no alternative than to dispense with the run and reel. He wanted to take up the slack, tighten the drag and put her in the boat. He shuddered at the thought of gaffing.

  She smiled more sweetly, assessing him for safety or savoring the moment before murmuring again, “Edith’s Beach Treasures. In The Shops.” He knew the place. “I’m working tomorrow. Eight to five. Come see me.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s not what I want to do for my life and whatnot. I’m in school. I’m going to be a nurse. I work at the hospital too, as a volunteer. But only twenty hours, because of my paying job and whatnot.” Ravid stared at thin air, wondering if an angel could be more angelic. Only half a normal workweek could she give selflessly, on top of a regular job and school. Perhaps compulsive, she was still admirable and a cut above the standard waitress or shop clerk or tourist woman. She interrupted, amused. “Good-bye, Ravid.”

  “Good-bye, Minna.”

  “A hui hou.”

  “A hui hou.” Till we talk again.

  She turned away and then turned back. “What language do you speak? I mean, you know. Israeli?”

  “I speak English.”

  “Yes,” she giggled. “You know what I mean.”

  “Hebrew is my mother tongue.”

  “How do you say good-bye in Hebrew?”

  He shrugged, “Shalom.”

  “That’s amazing,” she said. “It’s like aloha.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “That’s so cool. I mean, you’re not haole.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She drifted. “You know what I mean. I’m born and raised.”

&n
bsp; “I love that.”

  She beamed on cue. “See you.”

  He sat down thirsty for another three beers but was too dazed and confused to remember how to get one with the pressure of the three women mere meters away, one of whom had altered Life as He Knew It with terrible and beautiful voltage, much as lightning can alter a sapling, or the same voltage properly harnessed can light up an entire city.

  Feeling more like the scorched sapling, he decided to remove the embers to somewhere else, to sizzle and twitch in private rather than risk everything with too much, too soon. Besides, he could get a twelve-pack on the way home for twice the price of a single beer here, which was like getting two for one and then ten for free, or some such amazing return that swamped his bilges in his quest for snug harbor on suddenly turbulent seas.

  So he left and went home, his mind sloshing this way and that. He lay himself down after a long, tiring day and a brief, exhausting evening. Falling quickly as usual, unburdened in the midst of his prime, he slept like a rock, or a very tired Rockulz, till five, waking to a cat’s tongue on his nose a half hour earlier than usual. He lay there, thinking of the future, Minna Somayan, diving, photography and Minna Somayan till Skinny insisted that early eats were in order.

  She was everything he fantasized about in a woman and then some, transcending hormonal attraction with spiritual aesthetic — so pure was his analysis, yet he found himself in bed again with Skinny and Minna hardly thirty hours from their first meeting. “We could wait,” she said rhetorically, naked and halfway under. He didn’t even shrug. Her attributes held from a distance closing to intimate proximity. He could not have her any more than a person could own land. Stewardship seemed the concept of the hour; they would care for each other, maintain and nurture, each according to needs.

  Together they craved beer, wine and liquor, as if to transcend sensory logic or short-circuit the wiring network — or take the edge off the intensity of meeting each other after so long apart. Whatever the motive, the alcohol did not diminish the drive but calmed them down to workable levels so they could proceed directly to contact where they seemed to have left off in the sweet by-and-by, reconnecting desire to fulfillment and thereby satisfying the longstanding needs in their love and lives. Some buds along the way covered everything in mist — or maybe that was fog — never mind; immersed in underwater beauty or dream time, they went deep beneath the sheets. They scourged the depths, resurfaced briefly and delved again, going macro on the detail and delightful recollection again available on this side of the life/death continuum. With potent dope and sexual abandon they had their fill of the hot buffet — of total, carnal possession — with such vigor that Skinny jumped off the bed much as a person moves out of traffic. This was narcosis, in which the seasoned diver and novice lover will ditch his mask and regulator, because he sees more clearly without these encumbrances and needs only the air he can breathe between the water, or from his loved one.