Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  Then he comes back down to sea level and the feisty little squall before him. “You no scared?”

  “I was. I was so scared I used up all my fear. Not too long ago. That’s when it doesn’t matter what you remember or believe, because Mano — Ma’o — will be your friend. You must not doubt your experience, or you’ll spend your whole life doing it wrong again.”

  “Why you want to tell me Ma’o your friend?”

  “Everybody wants a friend, no? Besides, you run shark dives, don’t you? You make money on Ma’o. He takes care of you, doesn’t he? So why shouldn’t you like him?”

  “Black tip on shark dive. I not scared of him.”

  “It’s all the same, but... It goes deeper than that. The idea is, well...” Ravid wonders if this interview will best be served by esoteric bantering, by pressing what is apparently a sensitive issue relative to fear and lust. “...kindred spirits,” he says at last, looking up to see Moeava’s face skewed in perplexity, along with the ominous presence overhead, closing on a romp.

  Cats’ feet scurry and a water witch rushes out of nowhere, fifty yards or a half mile away or both, here and there in moments, ten or fifty feet in diameter, whipping froth like an egg beater, reaching skyward a thousand feet. The swirling dervish has enough huff to blow your house down and blow the rubble away. Hats are foregone, gone in the melee of dust and debris. Moeava yells something in French or Tahitian that sounds like gibberish but doesn’t need translation with the stern bucking and swinging. Moeava squeezes the bow line in both hands even as it slides between them. He crabwalks toward the cleat, where he should have taken a wrap twenty minutes prior — the wrap that would spare his boat from drifting free for a few brief moments before foundering on the rocky banks running north and south out of the little cut around the dock.

  By the time Moeava reaches the cleat he has a handful of line but can’t gain purchase. Nor can Ravid fend off the stern quarter, which he reaches by running past Moeava to the end of the dock, where impact seems certain. Ravid does meet the rub rail with both hands in time to dull the thud in the same brief moment that Moeava loses his last inch. So the bow swings free and away as the stern rounds into the dock — between two pylons so the outboard leg and prop aren’t crushed. Ravid fends again, this time grasping the cap rail behind the engine, just as a fat, steep wave with no fetch crests on its way over the starboard rail and dumps a few tons of water on deck. It could be six inches deep or ten, yet she still floats level — inches from the dock. The fluky gusts round the compass, lifting the boat, so Ravid’s tenuous grip on the stern is wrenched free — after the non-skid gelcoat skids across his palms, raking flesh. Ouch, but later — sooner Ravid follows the next wave aboard, jumping from the dock to topple into the wash on deck. With instant sea legs, he sloshes and rabbit hops to the console and, as luck and life in the new neighborhood would have it, finds the key in the ignition.

  Moeava yells again, no doubt something about starting the engine. Ravid can only assume as much, hoping that some things are common to many small boats, such as that the first key position gives the little beep to indicate electronic cycling, and the second position will engage the starter, just like the key on a rust bucket Toyota Tercel that started first time every time, until...

  “Aarrrgghh!” Ravid’s excitement is not based on nostalgia for the dreamy old car. It signals a complete circuit, which is not the same as full circle but delivers voltage with a touch of irony rather than a sense of fulfillment. That is, the deck is submerged, so the boat’s batteries are immersed at the same depth as Ravid’s ankles. The perfect conductor sends twelve volts up both legs on each turn to the second position, which may be bearable in short bursts but still elicits the startling complaint.

  Moeava yells back, presumably orders that Ravid should stand on something, which Ravid does. So the boat starts up within ten feet of the northern rocky embankment. Forward gear chunks in on a thousand rpm, pulling the stern another ten inches down for what could be the final poop and sinking. Heavy torque on the low could sink the stern, already dangerously low — never mind. Ravid eases the throttle till the prop grabs gently, and the little boat growls to the open bay.

  Which is a bright spot on a brand new day, hailed by the sudden collapse of the waterspout. Clouds cleave. Blue sky pours again through the fissures. The sun slides into every opening and Cook’s Bay lies down flat like glass — wrinkled glass, maybe, but still a thing of beauty.

  So ends the job application, with Ravid at the helm, tooling out from Moeava’s dock for a victory lap of a mile radius or so, hardly joyriding but allowing drainage through scuppers that need time and movement to empty so much water. Coming back around for the approach, he throttles down fifty yards out, finds neutral, jumps to the bow to shag the bow line and lead it back to the helm, where he bumps the stick briefly into reverse. Easing expertly up to the dock he tosses the line casually to Moeava as the vessel gently kisses the rubber tires dockside.

  Back on the dock, he rigs the stern line quick and snug as a doggie roper. He hates that imagery but can’t help tying off a perfect half hitch and throwing his hands in the air, not so much to stop the clock but to demonstrate proper seamanship as it relates to vessels at a dock with dock lines waiting to be secured. The clock has only just begun.

  Ravid rises and turns to Moeava, who waits with as little emotion as he’s shown so far — till he changes on a lunge, grabbing Ravid’s hand for a vigorous shake, then pulling Ravid in for a bear hug. Ravid holds his breath, wondering if overbearing affection runs in the family. Not that affectionate displays are a bad thing. They are abused to a fault in the hipper urban core, but more demonstrations of affection would likely make the world a better place. Because humans busy hugging each other aren’t out destroying nature. Then again, one thing leads to another, and next thing you know, it’s another spike in population density, unless it could all be same-sex affection.

  Stop that.

  Thus the beautiful morning is replete with heroism and reflection.

  But what’s this? Come on. Enough is enough. Do we really need to go through this little python-on-rabbit routine?

  Breaking free, Ravid sees that Moeava’s focus is elsewhere, out in the bay, but not too far.

  The thing about a dorsal fin on the surface is that it rarely measures the fish. Sightings are rare, so most people have no basis in experience. Is the fin completely exposed? Or is it only teasing the surface?

  This particular dorsal looks about average, maybe ten inches, indicating a young adult in the seven-foot range. Moeava says, “There. Là-bas. Your friend.”

  Ravid nods, watching the fish swim a lazy circle, angling toward the dock. “Moeava. You know what this means? How many times have you seen a fin like that? This is contact. This is aumakua, brother. On the day of our reckoning. Can’t you see it? Or feel it?”

  “I see it. I see it every day. Now you want me to go swim with that guy?”

  “Every day? You see her every day?”

  The shark rounds closer, coming in from under the reflective sheen. “Ooohhh.” Moeava emits a guttural mumble on seeing that only the dorsal tip is above the surface. Then he moans, setting up a tremble.

  “Bigger than I thought. Maybe eleven feet. Maybe twelve. Maybe fourteen. You want to count all the way to the tip of the tail. Maybe fifteen.”

  Moeava steps back when the big fish cruises by at spitting distance. “Not every day. Three, four times every week.”

  The shark rolls ninety degrees to show a flank and her bottom. “Moeava. I’ve never had it this close. She’s beautiful. Look at her skin. She’s in perfect condition.”

  “Why you say ‘she?’”

  “Look. No nuts. A male tiger that big would have nuts two feet long. Hey. Tell me you don’t feel it.”

  “Oh. I feel him.”

  “You got to admit, seeing this shark isn’t nearly as scary as being in the water and imagining her and not seeing her.”

  “Oh, ye
ah. This is not scary. We standing on a dock. Hey, your own self. Why you not go swim with your good friend.”

  Ravid covers like a politician, with a hearty laugh. “I think we will one day, my friend.”

  “You crazy.”

  “Yeah, well. I heard that before.”

  “Why you wait?”

  “I’m telling you what I believe. I believe she is my friend. I don’t know that for certain, because staring at faith and questioning its basis is the cause of fear. And that’s what we’re doing. Get it? That’s what makes us young men — we still have things to learn. That’s why they call it faith, because you don’t know. You can’t know. This is something I want to have. But if I’m wrong, I want to die with a job.” The big shark cruises south along the rocky embankment, lazily lolling, on the scenic route with no agenda. “See her easy rocking. She’s not afraid or hungry. She’s enjoying life. Everyone does sooner or later. You believe that, don’t you?”

  Moeava nods, sanguine at last. “I still think you crazy. Okay. Interview over. You get the job.”

  “Thank you. But...what job? You mean dive leader?”

  “Yeah. That job. And you be captain too.”

  “But I thought...”

  “No. I just learning. Better you be captain. You show me what to do. I be crew.”

  “But Here...herae...”

  “Hereata.”

  “Yes. Hereata said this is the best dive boat on the island.”

  Moeava smiles. “Ah, oui.” He shrugs. “What else can she say? She is my mother in all things.”

  So the two men agree that Ravid will begin the following day, assuming that the hotel will book passengers in the meantime. This will give Ravid time to get his gear down to the dock and to rest after his long travels and longer vigils seeking employment on the island of his dreams. If the hotel — meaning Hereata — cannot find paying passengers on such short notice, they’ll go for a practice dive, though it’s obvious that two inveterate waterdogs like these need no practice. Never mind; all waterdogs who plan to run together want to check each other out, to see how they move, respond and relax in the water, each to see the comfort level and air consumption of the other.

  Ravid wonders if Moeava’s comfort is actually level, nautically speaking. But Moeava must know how to run a boat. But then why would he fiddlefuck with a bow line at their first encounter, more like a wanna-be than seasoned crew? Then the boat got away from him on a flash squall blindside — so avoidable, so basic. But extreme squalls are rare, and it took Ravid by surprise too. Yet any waterdog who doesn’t know that shit happens hasn’t been wet for too long.

  Well, Moeava can likely figure out what to do if something happens when Ravid is overboard with six tourists, like a flash squall or a dragging anchor or both. If the anchor drags, and Moeava doesn’t know squat, and the boat drifts faster on the surface in building seas than do divers at depth, and Ravid surfaces with six tourists, and they’re barely visible on the crests and invisible in the troughs...

  Well, fuck it. This was your idea.

  But why would a guy go out and get a boat and have it rigged for tanks and have a prime spot with a dock and a shack and all and not know how to run the operation?

  These and other niggling anxieties mix with the gnats in the tepid downdraft, their little buzz blending with the ceiling fan. Ravid dozes, a subliminal smile spanning his dream, as he savors a homecoming replete with workaday worries over life and its optimal progression.

  Won’t it be great in a year or two, looking back on these small problems, so manini and laughable in the context of the bigger picture?

  Workaday, and then Tomorrow

  Most creatures gravitate toward better prospects. The hermit crab is a messy eater — good for the anemones riding on his shell, who snag debris drifting free of the hermit’s gob. Anemones offer camouflage and may also attract small, edible fish. The hermit/anemone friendship is based on mutual benefit.

  Likewise the moray and jack often cruise in a joint venture, with one hunter staking out a burrow entrance while the other guards the exit. The prey will flee past the one or the other, with chance balancing the catch.

  Surgeonfish pluck algae from turtles’ backs for an easy snack, while the turtles get cleaned — and satisfied as well, soothed by the gentle touch.

  Cleaner shrimp cavort blithely in a moray’s toothy maw for easy tidbits, while the moray opens wide for dental cleaning in a demonstration of service and trust.

  So the friendship between Ravid and Moeava is symbiotic, one providing the means, while the other provides operational management of a dive boat. Both are grown men sensitive to the difference between survival and success, including the appearance of know-how and chain of command. With tolerance and flexibility they both give orders and take them, forming a bond both tactful and humorous, so they both look good.

  The smooth course begins away from the dock, however. The men agree that a trial dive on the following morning will be best, to allow each a measure of the other. The hotel could find no paying passengers, nor could the neighboring hotels. Not to worry; the operation is brand new, still getting the word out, under new management. The free day is a relief for Ravid. His new employer is likeable enough, but character can change at depth, just as it can with any risky influence, like cocaine or cash. Of course that was long ago, when everybody was somebody else, and youthful indiscretion was the rule rather than exception. Moeava wouldn’t know about that. Would he? Not likely, but here we are with who we be — with the risks and rigors at depth best vetted before a commitment of casual but ultimate trust. Because you have to wonder what he does know.

  So day one of the new job follows day two of the new life — or is that one and three? Anyway, the morning schedule is further determined by circumstance, with Hereata at the dock first thing, skillfully wrapped in a pareo to accentuate her best and soften the other. No bathing beauty in the same league as, say, Cosima, she establishes her equally lusty presence in a niche suitable to any woman in whom many spices have fermented, upon whom the first look dispels any question of inhibition.

  Well, it’s the high heels and body oil. Along with the shape and fluid motion, the suggestive eyes and full lips. Then come the details, the usual heightened stuff that gets pointier, fuller, rounder, the things so vividly prurient taken singularly, yet which radiate and inform taken as a whole. She delivers the news of six passengers — for tomorrow, none today.

  So the boys, as it were, are off. Ravid senses Moeava’s minimal experience. The big fellow may be a certified diver. So what? So are a million nimrods flashing C cards to show their stuff, just before kicking a dive buddy in the head, blowing off a tank in twenty minutes, reacting fearfully, grabbing an octopus or narcing and heading deep on a death descent.

  That’s okay; Moeava hasn’t done those things and maybe won’t. He’s likely trainable, if he’s not a reactive whacko, a nutcase better left to his own devices than in a position to kill the instructor along with himself. So they cruise out to a pass with Moeava at the helm, though nearing the dive site neither the anchorage nor the tide are easy to read. Ravid follows the chart plotter to fifty feet with no obstructions, keeping it simple and not too deep.

  He picks the inside of a sandy hook in the lee of the current with some rocky cover on a mostly sandy bottom. They set the hook, head overboard and check it out to be sure. The anchor is wedged firmly in the sand, so they trade the okay sign and meander into the current. The uneventful dive presents no rigors or demands, except for the current picking up, as are the apex predators, mostly groupers, jacks and black tip reef sharks with a few lemon sharks minding their own business. Far less predictable are the skittish Galapagos sharks in the mix, but they hang off with a few more sharks not readily identifiable, fading in and out of visibility.

  The current requires reckoning when it gains to a half knot, so they work up another hundred yards then drift back toward calmer water inside the hook, where they’ll be able to rela
x and explore without concern. Halfway back, an internal alarm sounds when Ravid casually clears his mask, and into the water spews a bloody cloud. Well, it could be one of those days with some residual congestion from bad diet or excess liquor, but then comes the splitting headache.

  With sudden symptoms he rises as slow as he dares, exhaling more than inhaling, playing the volume exchange to maximum benefit, balancing between embolism and toxicity. He skips the safety stop because they hardly passed sixty feet, and time is critical on some hazards, and confirmation comes up top on a nasty hock and matching goober, with blood and snot trailers out the mouth and nose. Then come the dizzies, or is that vertigo? He takes a few strokes toward the boat before rolling onto his back, marginally conscious, too weak to swim.

  So it’s up to Moeava, who can’t move too well at the surface, he’s so big, nor can he cross-chest carry another diver while in gear any better. He could ditch the gear but fears the material loss. So he heads for the boat, earnestly though awkwardly, finally clambering aboard, ditching his tank and BC, cranking the engine, getting the anchor aboard before the drift becomes perilous and motoring to where Ravid can be snagged with the boat hook and helped aboard with two big paws under his arms, still conscious but threatening convulsion and puking blood.

  Yanking a rag from under the console, Moeava blows bloody snuk out his nose — carbon monoxide. Ravid trembles and moans on the ride back; he’s heard of dumb mistakes but always wondered who could be so stupid.

  Test failed. Ravid Rockulz cannot work with anyone so uninformed, unintuitive and uncaring to the point of mortal risk. The compressor isn’t so old and appears to chug along in its steady effort to pump three thousand pounds of air pressure into each tank. Yet the compressor testifies to Moeava’s guilt. Exhaust pipe extensions are welded on to get the pipe twenty feet from the fresh-air intake, as required to avoid packing engine exhaust into the tanks. So far so good, till Moeava or somebody wrapped each weld in epoxy tape and glopped on the resin till it slumped like candle wax, much thicker on the bottom than on the top. It could have been a few years ago.