“Look at that. They see us. They’re coming our way!”
“Who is?” Ren said. Ren craned his neck and took a last drag.
“Cuban customs.”
“I don’t think so, man. I’m pretty sure that’s just a light.”
“What if you’re wrong? We’ve got that stuff! We gotta get rid of it! I’m not doing time in a Cuban prison!” Within seconds, Nick had scaled the mast without a harness. Ashley and Ren watched in wonder as he liberated the stash, held it between his teeth, climbed down, and dumped it overboard. They stood next to him as he tossed it into the black water.
“Feel better?” Ren asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine now.” Nick was right, customs did come out to say hello. It was one guy in a rowboat and a lantern. He rowed out to say that they couldn’t enter Cuba in San Antonio, and that they had to head up to Marina de Hemingway, just outside of Havana, to check in. He was friendly, not the least bit suspicious, and didn’t speak English. Nick dusted off his telenovela Spanish, which did the job. The next day they slipped out to the open sea through the reef, where they dove for conch, then chopped and marinated it in chili and lime for a light lunch. Nick grabbed a couple of lobsters too, which they steamed up for dinner as they cruised to Hemingway, landing at 4 a.m.
Nick and Ashley shared the swing shift. Again they talked all night, mostly about the meaning of dreams, one of Nick’s favorite subjects. They also drifted toward God. He told her about his renewed faith and was surprised to find out that she’d been going to bible study, and after years of not believing was proud to call herself a Christian. Ren, on the other hand, was still an atheist.
Marina de Hemingway was stifling hot and buzzing with mosquitoes, so they spent their days wandering the Cuban streets, Nick’s español just effective enough to get them into trouble. One day they met a young cigar roller who moonlighted as a taxi driver. He took them to a bordello where they could hear some Cuban son. Two days later, the same driver borrowed his buddy’s Russian jalopy and gave them a tour through the lush mountains of Piñar Del Rio. They drove through the jade-green limestone hills, carved by a wide river, which snaked past acres of tobacco, their broad leaves billowing in the wind. They bought a bottle of Havana Club, queso, and guava paste from the side of the road. The queso had bugs in it. “Just more flavor,” Nick said as he downed a slice of cheese slathered in sugary guava. The Chapmans followed his lead.
That night they crashed in a casa particular, and the next morning they rode horses through the mountains to a swimming hole in the river, which led to a cave. The freedivers did their thing, held their breath and explored. It was an epic road trip and the perfect Cuban farewell.
They left Cuba on a Sunday, which was a point of contention because Nick and Ashley wanted to attend services at a local church. Captain Ren turned a deaf ear to the Lord, though he’d be baptized within a year, and pointed out a weather window they had to make. Ashley and Nick shared one last night, shoulder to shoulder, at the helm of Nila Girl as they sailed toward Fort Lauderdale. Nick’s eyelids were heavy and he nodded off.
“You should lie down,” she said. “Get some sleep.”
“No,” he told her, “I want to soak up every moment we have out here.”
That’s when Ashley knew for sure that Nick had feelings for her, and if the situation were different, if Ren didn’t exist, if they lived in some parallel universe, then maybe she could see the two of them together. But she wasn’t that kind of dreamer. She lived in the real world with a wonderful husband whom she loved and adored and was devoted to. Nick knew that, which is why he never made a pass. He didn’t whisper so much as one suggestive comment. He would bottle it up, tuck his feelings away, and take the pain. He always did have tremendous pain tolerance. They would be friends, he said to himself, all three of them. Forever.
Nick was back on the Gossip Girl set within days of his arrival, and the rest of his time was spent in the pool, training for Dynamic or climbing stairs, jogging and doing burpees while holding his breath. Morgan occasionally came by to roust him from his lair. It didn’t surprise him when he found out Nick got the record. He knew Nick was a stud athlete.
“What are you gonna be? A pro freediver?” Morgan asked. Nick had picked up a sponsor. A company called Destalt was invested in Team USA and was helping Nick with gear and travel expenses for their upcoming trip to Nice. The head of Destalt took to calling Ashley and Nick “America’s Pink and Blue.” Nick liked that. In his mind it connected them all the more. “You have a job that pays 150 grand a year, and you’re switching to a gig that pays what?”
“Nothing,” Nick deadpanned.
“Exactly, your new job pays nothing.”
“It’s not a job, Uncle Morgan,” Nick said, “it’s a lifestyle.” He laughed along with his friend, but as funny as it sounded, it was also true. He was tired of selling his hours and wasting his days. He wanted to be on the edge again, to live madly and completely like his heroes from Kerouac’s Beat novels. Morgan could see how much it meant to him, but it made him sad, because eventually they’d get to the part where Aquaman kisses Gotham goodbye.
One night when Nick was on his way to the Metropolitan Pool to do laps he saw the young, blonde girl from church walking home. He didn’t know Denny’s story yet, but he knew she was in pain. She couldn’t walk without leaning against a fence or the wall, and each step took intense focus.
Three years earlier she’d been a star high school swimmer from Philly who had just enrolled in art school in New York to study photography, but in 2010 something changed. She felt numbness and pain in her extremities. Her vision blurred. She would become exhausted after walking a few steps, and each one was excruciating. Nobody believed her. Her mother, her aunt, her friends—everyone told her it was psychosomatic until the end of the year, when she could barely stand unassisted. That’s when she was diagnosed with MS, a crippling autoimmune disease. She fought it the best she could, and the water was the one place where she could still move normally. There was no pain when she swam, so she’d hit the pool as often as possible. When she was exhausted, however, her vision was the first to go. As Nick approached her that night, all she could see were white lines and a hazy image coming close.
“Can I help you?” he asked. Breathless, she narrowed her eyes and tried to make him out. Most people ignored her on the New York streets. Long past embarrassment, she’d crawled home from the subway once and not a single person had offered to help. “It’s Nick, from church,” he said. “Let me walk you home.”
She nodded. He took her arm and her backpack, and led her down the sidewalk one gentle step at a time. “I pushed myself too hard at the gym,” she said. “That’s why I’m walking like this. I did laps, then hit the treadmill. Overdid it.” She wasn’t lying, but inside she was laughing at herself. She had hit the treadmill and it was tremendously difficult to go half a mile an hour for ten minutes. She sounded ridiculous. “I used to be a competitive swimmer,” she continued. “I could probably beat you.”
“You probably could,” he said. She braced for the inevitable question: “What happened to you?” She’d encountered a few good Samaritans over the previous two years and they always made her explain herself, which was a different kind of torture. Nick never brought it up. It took them twenty minutes to walk less than a block, and when they arrived at her front stoop, her vision had clarified a bit. Nick pointed kitty-corner to his apartment. “We’re neighbors.” He smiled. She checked her watch.
“The pool’s closing in ten minutes. I made you miss your swim.”
“I’ll go tomorrow,” he said. Denny nodded. Nick crossed the street, then looked back. “See you in church!”
—
TRAINING CAMP FOR Team USA was held at Dean’s Blue Hole, and on his way south Nick stopped in Marathon Key for lobster season with the Bonzo crew. Paul and his friends were getting older, and though the Bonzo was still on the water, they had a more updated boat too, Bonzo’s Buddy. They’d also
had children, and Nick became the resident dive instructor and life coach for the next Bonzo generation. Over the years, he’d taught them how to duck dive, equalize, catch lobster, and clean fish. Everything Paul taught him, he passed along and then some. Paul couldn’t get over what a gifted and kind teacher Nick was. As impatient as he could be with himself, he was a saint with the kids, and they adored him. When Nick took Paul’s daughter, Ashley, out on the reef for the first time, she was scared, but she took his hand, and soon they’d gone deeper than she ever had been before. The years went on, and whether he was protesting, acting, or working on set, Nick rarely missed a lobster season, and the older Ashley and the other children got, the more he taught them.
By 2012, those kids had begun to carry some of the weight, especially on scouting days, which was good, because the original Bonzo crew had slowed down and Nick had become the workhorse. One afternoon the weather gods unleashed six-foot seas on the lobstermen, toying with both Bonzo and Bonzo’s Buddy. They were at Seven Mile Bridge and the current was charging hard. The sea was whitecapped and the sun was going down when Nick dropped into Grouper Gorge with a spindly speargun. On board, the crew was restless. They craved both a shower and beer. Paul blasted the horn, and called out to Nick to hurry up.
“Relax!” Nick shot back. “You need me more than I need you!”
Paul smirked proudly as he leaned over to Scotty. “Fuck, you know what? He’s right, the little bastard.”
“What did you say?!” Nick yelled.
“I said you’re a little bastard!”
“Fuck off!” The Bonzo crew exploded with laughter. They weren’t as touchy as the freedivers and they liked watching Nick dive angry. He took a peak inhalation and went back down. He was underwater for over three minutes and came up with a 35-pound amberjack dead on his spear. Paul was in awe. Anybody who has fished for amberjack knows how hard they fight and how much force it takes to subdue even smaller specimens. At that size, and with that tiny spear Nick had to stone it right behind the eye. If he’d hit it in the tail or gills, the thing would have taken off with the spear and the gun.
That evening, as the sun set and most of the Bonzo crew were on dry land, Nick and Paul went back out on the boat to have a beer. “Tell me what’s going on with you,” Paul said, streaks of orange fading in the western sky. He knew Nick had a habit of brooding, and Paul had both the strength and sensitivity to get to the heart of any difficulty without intruding. “I can tell. Something’s eating you. What is it?”
“I’m in love. I met someone, and she could be the one.” Nick told Paul about Ashley Chapman. He gushed about her athletic ability, her beauty, and their conversations.
“That’s great, Nick! That’s really great, man! What’s the trouble?”
“I can’t have her. She’s married. Her husband is a great guy, and I’m fucked.” Paul knew what unrequited love felt like. Before he’d married his wife, Terri, he’d fallen for a different girl, but the timing was off. Paul had offered advice when Nick was troubled countless times, but that night he had no answer. He just put his arm around his nephew and opened another beer for him. There was nothing else to say.
—
TEAM USA SHARED a house on Long Island near the Blue Hole. Ashley was the women’s captain, Ted Harty was the men’s captain, and Ren was the coach. In team world championship events, each athlete on every team competes in three disciplines: Static, Dynamic, and Constant Weight, Nick’s specialty. Their scores are tallied together and the highest-scoring team wins. But there’s a catch. Competitors get but one attempt in each category and a single red card can shatter a team’s gold medal dreams, which is why athletes often take fewer chances at team worlds than they might in an individual competition. Nick’s goal was to get to 100 meters at Dean’s Blue Hole before leaving for France. He didn’t mind taking chances, and wanted to make a splash on the sport’s biggest stage.
It had been months since any of them had done intensive depth training, so they lowered the plate little by little, from 50 to 55, then to 60 meters. Nick was still impatient. Worse, he didn’t listen when Ashley and Ren tried to explain the facts of life. Prudent divers—even those with triple digits on their resume—know they must venture down little by little to acclimatize to the pressure before they can hit the rocket boosters and push the limit, in the same way that the most experienced mountaineers on Everest must spend time at base camp each season before heading to the summit. Nick resented being subject to the laws of physics like a mortal and Ted was done trying to tame him. If he hadn’t learned his lesson at Deja Blue, then the sea would have to teach him. Again. Nick took control of the plate. He lowered it from 60 meters to 75, a huge jump.
“That’s unheard of,” Ren warned him. Nick ignored Ren, breathed up, and dropped down. He didn’t black out at depth or at the surface, and it wasn’t nearly the same kind of episode that he’d had at Deja Blue, but he came up coughing and breathless, spitting thick gobs of blood. He’d injured himself and was furious. He swam to the beach, threw down his monofin, and stormed off. While he sulked, Ashley, Ren, and Ted decided it was time to rein him in.
All the greats flew into Nice for the 2012 Team World Championship and during the opening ceremony, the athletes grouped by country affiliation, dressed in national team T-shirts or track suits, carried their national flags, and paraded along the waterfront. Nick loved everything about it. At home, he was just a no-name athlete in an obscure niche sport, but here were athletes from thirty countries, and some—like Goran Colak of Croatia, Guillaume Néry of France, Natalia Molchanova and her son, Alexey, from Russia—were well known back home. It proved to Nick that his sport had some stature, and representing his country among them gave him pride. So would donning his stars and stripes wetsuit, and hammering a deep dive. He felt fully recovered from his squeeze and was ready to ramp up in the training days ahead.
Ted, Ren, and Ashley had other ideas. They held an intervention and told him they weren’t going to let him hurt himself worse and damage the team’s prospects. They gave America’s best male diver the team player speech and told him that they’d be making his announcement on his behalf. They even had a number in mind.
“I didn’t fucking come all the way over here to do a 65-meter dive,” Nick said.
“No, you came here to be part of a team,” Ted replied. Nick was pissed, but he had to accept their decision or quit, and he wasn’t a quitter.
On the first day of competition, Ashley dove to 75 meters, just 2 meters behind the leader, Misuzu Hirai Okamoto of Japan, and Nick nailed his dive easily. If he had been patient and managed to hit 100 meters in training, perhaps he would have been tied with Alexey, who dove to 100 meters, for the third-best depth. That’s how tantalizingly close he was to the top athletes in the sport, and he’d been diving along a line for less than a year. But instead of appreciating the possibilities before him, he was embarrassed and upset that he wasn’t allowed to compete to his potential. He threw his computer and lanyard on the floor of the dry boat and sulked, infuriating Ashley.
Aside from Ashley’s performance, it was a forgettable tournament for the Americans, who finished in the middle of the pack in both the men’s and women’s standings. Nick made one more run at Ted’s Dynamic record on the last day of the comp, but blacked out after a 156-meter swim. The Croatians, led by the world’s best pool diver, Goran Colak, won the men’s draw, and the Japanese women took gold.
Nick’s best day in France took place away from the water. Iru Balic had turned up to compete as a one-woman Team Venezuela and at the closing party, they found each other. They danced, drank, and talked. She told him he had to get his emotions under control if he wanted to be a successful athlete. Ashley had told her about his tantrum after his 65-meter dive. “You are a really nice person, but when you do those things it all goes away, because the only thing we see is Nick being childish.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll do better.” Nick stared into her eyes. He had this way of lo
oking at her that made her feel completely transparent. She’d had a tough competition too, partly because she had family drama at home—her parents were on the verge of breaking up, and she couldn’t concentrate. He listened and showed her some of his own childhood scars.
Once again they connected. After the party, Ren, Ashley, Nick, and Iru slept it off, on the floor of the Team USA condo, and the next day Iru and Nick took a long walk through Monte Carlo. It was one of those spectacular afternoons bursting with magic and color, all the beauty and harmony in the world at their fingertips. They strolled through gleaming plazas, past high-dollar fashion boutiques, and snapped playful photos with parked Ferraris and Maseratis, pretending they were rich and famous, too.
They drifted up and over rolling coastal hills, pausing in silence to absorb the bobbing boats and a series of deep blue bays. She confessed that she had felt rejected by him in the Cayman Islands and that she was embarrassed. He held her in his arms. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We’re friends and we kissed. It’s normal,” he said. For him it was. Not for her, but she let it go. It was time to forgive and be forgiven.
Soon they realized they were lost, so they caught the first bus they found, with no idea where it would lead. They didn’t care. They reveled in the wonder and randomness of life, and as if to prove their point, the bus stopped at the doorstep of a perfect cove, with soaring cliffs on either side and a placid blue bay between. They hopped off and ambled into a beach club called L’Eden, grabbed a table, sipped mojitos, and took a long swim. The sunset was marbled fire with purple aftershocks yielding to a navy night sky.
One Breath Page 18
