by Gina Cresse
When they arrived at the wreck site, Roy cut the engine and dropped anchor.
“Here we are,” Roy announced.
“This is it?”
“Yep. Ready to gear up?”
Kent nodded. “ I’m just gonna use the head first.”
While Kent went below to use the facilities, Roy pulled one of the newly-filled tanks from his rack and checked the gauge. It didn’t indicate full. “Hmm. Leaky valve,” he speculated.
Roy opened his equipment trunk and laid the defective tank on its side, then closed and locked the box. He hung the ring of keys on a hook just inside the cabin door.
Kent returned to the deck, drying his hands on his jacket. “You’re out of towels down there.”
“Sorry. I’ll stock up when we get back.”
As Kent sorted through his gear, he glanced at Roy. “I didn’t bring my camera. Think we could use yours to take some more shots? I’d sure like to get a few pictures.”
“Out of film. I meant to pick up some rolls last night when I dropped off the film, but I forgot.”
“Too bad. What kind of camera do you use?” Kent asked.
“Nikon. F3, I think. Pretty nice piece of equipment.”
The two men squeezed into their wet suits and hoisted the heavy tanks onto their backs.
Roy recited a brief set of safety guidelines that he expected all his customers to follow. Kent nodded, understanding the rules, and then followed Roy over the edge of the Little Maria.
Within three minutes of the dive, Roy knew something was wrong. His vision blurred and he felt lightheaded. He was nauseous and knew he needed to get to the surface. He touched Kent on the arm and pointed up with his thumb. Kent shook his head and continued down. Roy, about to pass out, signaled again. Kent refused to follow. He continued descending on the wreck.
Roy watched him momentarily, then the world went dark. He shook his head to clear his vision. It can’t be the bends, he thought to himself. He tried to release his weight belt, but his arms and legs were limp. He coughed out his mouthpiece and took his last breath.
Kent watched, unmoved, as Roy lost consciousness. He checked his watch and began his ascent to the surface. He knew he had little time to get Roy’s boat to the pre-arranged rendezvous to meet up with the others.
At first, Kent was barely startled by the light bump he felt on his back. His line of work demanded nerves of steel in tense situations. He was preoccupied looking at the frayed ends of the line dangling from above. Something had cut or chewed the rope and freed the Little Maria from its anchor. He turned to see what had run into him in the dark water—just in time to witness the open jaws of a great white shark, ready to clamp around his body.
Chapter Two
I ‘d set out at the crack of dawn yesterday morning on a mission…no…more like a pilgrimage, to the Long Beach Harbor. My destination: Tex and Clancy’s Marine Salvage—Pier S, Berth 19.
I’d read a notice in the legal section of the San Diego Union-Tribune last Sunday. Tex and Clancy’s Marine Salvage posted a notice of intent to apply for title to an abandoned vessel they’d found six months ago. I wasn’t interested in claiming the boat. What intrigued me was that this Tex and Clancy outfit could just take ownership of the vessel, providing no one showed up to claim it. What a sweet deal. They’d scout around the Pacific all day, treasure hunting, the same as me—only I generally focused on probate sales, foreclosed storage units, yard sales, flea markets, and swap meets.
When I’d read the notice, my eyes lit up and I got all excited—like the time I bought a Taylor guitar at the Saugus Speedway swap meet for one hundred and twenty dollars. The next weekend, I sold it for fifteen hundred. This marine salvage could open up a whole new avenue of potential revenue. I just loved this business.
My name is Devonie Lace, and if you haven’t guessed by now, I belong to a special group known as self-employed treasure hunters. I chose this profession after discovering that I’m a square peg in a world that consists of nothing but round holes. The world kept trying to file off my edges to make me round so I would fit. It didn’t work. I decided it would be better to go in search of some square holes.
The Plan C is a sixty-five-foot sailing yacht that I absolutely adore, except when I have to maneuver her in and about other boats, docks, piers, islands, or continents. Someone once told me I couldn’t sail a boat this size by myself. When I was six, my brother told me I could never climb the big oak tree in our back yard. That’s what I’d told the fireman as he carried me down the ladder to my worried mother’s arms. Never tell me I can’t do something.
The Plan C is a beauty, but steering her is like trying to push a cooked spaghetti noodle through a bowl of oatmeal. I sweat bullets every time I come within fifty feet of another boat—heck, within fifty feet of anything.
It’s what I’d failed to read in the paper that had my stomach in knots. Today, of all days, would be the first-annual Long Beach Amateur Sailor Regatta, with floating parade to follow. I couldn’t believe my luck.
As I approached the Long Beach Harbor, beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I counted the huge freighters I’d have to get around and what looked like about a thousand boaters out for a day on the water. I wondered if I could feign mechanical trouble and convince the harbor patrol to tow me in with one of those cute little tug boats.
When I passed the small concrete lighthouse marking the mouth of the harbor, I dropped my sails and assessed the minefield in front of me. My first obstacle would be a huge freighter off to the left—I mean port—side of my boat. That shouldn’t be too hard to miss—it’s only about a bazillion feet long and weighs just as much. Hitting it would be like running headlong into Iceland or Tasmania.
I started my engine and inched the throttle ever-so-gently to the little picture of a turtle, which I had pasted to the console.
People in small crafts persisted in crossing my path, completely oblivious to the fact that I had very little—okay, absolutely no—control of this wide-body, super-sized, double-length, Greyhound-bus-like vessel of which I claim to be the skipper. I waved my arms frantically and yelled, “Not so close! I’m carrying nuclear waste!” to a party boat that wandered into my trajectory.
They all smiled and waved back at me, holding up their beers and hollering, “So are we!”
I held my breath as they inched out of my way just as I crossed their wake.
The big red-and-white public transportation boat to Catalina Island—the cattle boat, as the locals like to call it—headed directly for me. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the rule here. Do I yield? Or do they? Do I pass on the port or starboard side?
I put my hand on the throttle and pulled it back. Not a good move. Now I drifted, unable to steer at all. I’d either have to drop my anchor or start moving again. I pushed the lever back up to the turtle and jumped when the on-coming boat’s alarm-like-horn blared at me. Apparently, I’m required to yield to them. I turned the wheel starboard, hoping that would be the correct action. The pilot of the cattle boat shook his head as we passed within feet of each other.
“Why didn’t I just drive my Jeep?” I asked myself as I smiled and waved to the aggravated boat pilot. He waved back, but he wasn’t smiling. Actually, I’m not sure you could consider the gesture he gave me a wave, but more of a fist-shaking.
Flustered, I returned my attention to the challenge at hand: getting from point A to point B without hitting any of the moving obstacles—and the stationary ones—in between. I checked the signs marking the piers and searched for the correct one. Finally, I spotted “Pier S” and turned the wheel toward it.
I studied the size of the openings on the dock and peered down the length of the Plan C. Biting my lip, I shut one eye and looked again.
“Oh, heck. I’ve got that perfectly good dinghy. May as well use it,” I convinced myself. I cut the engine and dropped my anchor right where I sat.
I went below to get my purse. The scent from a dozen red roses sitting o
n the galley table, beautifully arranged in a Princess Glass vase, wafted to my nose. I stopped and gazed at them. What would I do about those roses? I sat down for a moment and played with the petals that had dropped to the table. They felt soft and velvety. I pulled another from the blossom and held it to my nose, then I squeezed my eyes shut. “Darn you, Craig,” I whispered. “Everything was so simple. Why’d you have to complicate it?” I tossed the petal in the trash and climbed back to the deck.
A group of sailors on a nearby fishing boat watched with amusement as I struggled to start the little outboard motor on my dinghy. I yanked the cord. Nothing. I pulled again, lost my balance and almost fell overboard.
Finally, one of the smart alecks called over to me. “Did you switch on the gas?”
I smiled at him as I slid back off the edge of the dinghy. “Yeah. It’s just cold.”
“You sure? Need some help?”
“No, thanks. I’ll get it,” I insisted.
The crew watched me for a while. I sat on the small bench and worked diligently at tying my shoes, filing a snag on my fingernail, removing a loose thread from my shorts, inspecting an old scar on my knee, and cleaning my sunglasses. I glanced over at the fishing boat. They’d tired of waiting for me to take a graceful swan dive into the drink and turned their attention to some other form of amusement—a baseball game on the radio. I nonchalantly reached over and flipped the fuel switch to the “On” position, then fired up the motor and proceeded toward the dock. I passed close to the group of sailors. One smiled and winked at me, holding his finger over his lips. My secret was safe with him.
I eased the little craft to the dock and tied up next to another boat—about a forty or forty-five-footer, I guessed. Looked like some kind of commercial boat, probably for fishing or diving charters. Nothing fancy, just practical.
I made a mental note of the workhorse’s name—Little Maria.
Chapter Three
A huge golden retriever came trotting down the dock to greet me, tail wagging and happy as a kid with a new best friend. A red bandana was tied around his neck and a collection of round metal tags hung from his collar. I reached down and patted his big head.
“Well, hello there.” I fingering through the tags on his collar in search of his name. “Los Angeles County Dog License, Long Beach Veterinary Clinic rabies tag, Fishing License?” I chuckled. “Let’s see, here’s one. Texaco. Is that your name? Texaco?”
The big dog wagged his tail even harder and let out one affirmative bark, then he turned, ran up the dock, retrieved a yellow tennis ball from a bucket, brought it back and dropped it at my feet.
“Oh, you want to play. Okay.” I picked up the ball and tossed it a few yards up the dock.
“What kind of sissy throw was that?” A gruff voice came from inside a small shack-like structure with a beat-up sign designating it as the office of “Tex and Clancy’s Marine Salvage.”
A salty old codger meandered out into the sunshine as he scratched the gray stubble on his face. The large man wore an old pair of denim overalls with a thread-bare T-shirt underneath. A logo, barely visible on the faded blue shirt, showed the image of a whale and some words I couldn’t make out. His gray hair was cut in a butch with a top so flat you could probably sit him in my dinghy in a storm, balance a shot of whiskey on his head, and never spill a drop. A large hole in the toe of his red-and-white-plaid deck shoes revealed that he didn’t wear any socks. A red bandana, like the one around Texaco’s neck, hung out of his back pocket. He pulled the cloth from his pocket and wiped some grease off his hands, though too late to keep the black smudges off his face where he’d rubbed it.
“Ain’t you ever thrown a ball for a dog before?”
“Well, yes. I just didn’t want it to go in the water. Then he’d lose it.”
“Aw, heck,” he grumbled, and then he picked up the ball and threw it eighty feet out into the harbor. Texaco took off at a full gallop, made a flying leap off the dock, and swam for his prized toy. Once he grabbed it in his big mouth, he turned and made a beeline for a ramp-like structure at the end of the pier that allowed him to get back onto the dock. I watched as the hundred-pound animal barreled up the walkway toward us, water flying in all directions. He stopped dead in his tracks at the man’s feet, dropped the ball, took one step back, and shook four gallons of salt-water out of his coat, drenching the man.
“Dang it, Tex! You know I hate when you do that.” He dried the spray from his arms with the bandana. “That’s enough swimmin’ for one day. You go put your toy away.”
I watched, incredulously, as the dog picked up the ball, trotted up the dock, and dropped it in a bucket next to the office.
“That wouldn’t be Tex, of Tex and Clancy’s Marine Salvage, would it?” I asked.
“It most surely would. Who’s wantin’ to know?”
“I’m Devonie Lace. You must be Clancy?”
“Bright girl. Better cover you up so the sun can shine.” He held out his half-dried hand for me to shake. “Clancy McGreggor, at your service. What can I do you for—Devonie, you say?”
“That’s right. I read your notice in the San Diego paper—the one about the abandoned vessel you found.”
He scrutinized me. “You the owner?”
“No. Just curious about the boat—and your business.”
He squinted at me. “Devonie. What kind of name is Devonie? Don’t believe I ever heard that before.”
I flashed him my most charming smile. “My grandfather’s name was Devon. After he died, my parents wanted to name their next son after him—only I came on the scene with all the wrong parts—so they added the ‘ie’, and there you have it. Devonie.”
“Huh. Whatever. Sure you ain’t with the Marshall’s office?”
“No, sir. I’m a treasure hunter, just like you.”
Clancy burst out in a loud laugh. “Treasure hunter? What gives you that idea?”
“Don’t you scout around all day looking for stuff that others might consider wrecks or junk and try to turn a profit on it?”
“I do that, some. Mostly, I go out looking for non-skilled, half-wit, common-senseless sailors who get themselves up to their eye-brows in salt-water predicaments and need to be rescued, towed, and slapped silly.”
I bit my lip and stared down at the toe of my deck shoe, which was busy tracing the seam of a plank. I hoped he hadn’t witnessed my entrance into the harbor and my near collision with the cattle boat. “So, you rescue these people, and they pay you?”
“Yep. Most of ‘em, anyway. Sometimes I gotta convince ‘em my services are worth the fee. Sometimes I can’t convince ‘em. Sometimes, I keep their boats,” he said, a wide smile spread across his face.
“Is that what happened with this one?” I pointed to the Little Maria tied next to my dinghy.
Clancy looked at me through those squinting eyes, again. “You kidding? A boat like that? Person could make a darn good living with that boat. No one in his right mind would let some marine salvor claim it for a measly salvage award. Ain’t a thing wrong with her. Just found her, abandoned, out about ten miles off Catalina.”
I looked the boat over from bow to stern. He was right. Not a thing wrong with it that I could see. “Isn’t that a little strange? Why would someone just up and leave it?”
“Got me. I’d bet the guy was out diving alone and ran into a school of sharks. Gotta be crazy to dive alone. Never know what you’re gonna run into out there.”
“How awful. Sharks, you think?”
“Could be. Probably never know for sure.”
“So you just find a boat like this, out at sea, tow it in, and if no one claims it, it’s yours?”
“Well, sort of. Ain’t quite that simple. Lots of procedures you gotta go through.”
“What sort of procedures?”
“First of all, you gotta wait six months before you can do anything. Then, you gotta make an honest effort to find the owner. That’s what the notice you read in the paper was about. If no
one shows up after thirty days, you apply for a certificate of title. You pay any fees that are due, and providin’ you ain’t made anyone mad at you down at the Commission Office, you become the new mamma.”
“Cool.” I felt the rush of treasure-hunter blood race through my veins. “I guess no one has shown up to claim this one?”
“Not yet. Got one more day before I can file my application. Had me nervous when you showed up asking about her. Thought for sure you were gonna tell me your name was Maria and she was named after you.”
“Sorry I scared you. Mind if I take a look at her?”
Clancy scratched his stubbly chin and eyed me again. “S’pose it couldn’t hurt, if you just wanna look. I better show you around, though, so you don’t get in any trouble.”
We climbed over the rail and toured the deck of the boat. There were no frills. Just a no-nonsense, practical vessel with a job to do. No fancy drink holders, no elaborate stereo system, no polished brass or chrome, no plush reclining deck chairs, no sleeping quarters. Nothing like my Plan C.
A large trunk, shoved under a bench in the corner of the deck, caught my eye. A big rusty lock secured the latch.
“What’s in the trunk?” I asked.
Clancy scratched his head. “Don’t know. Ain’t looked.”
“You haven’t looked? How can you do that?”
“Just ain’t looked yet. No point. Not till it belongs to me.”
“I could never do that. I’d have to know what’s in there.”
Clancy snickered. “That’s a woman, for ya. Gotta stick your nose in everything.”
“That’s right. I’ll give you fifty dollars for it, just as it sits.”
Clancy coughed as if something went down the wrong pipe. “Fif—fifty? You don’t even know what’s in it. Could be empty.”
“Will you take fifty?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and studied the old trunk. “Ain’t really mine to sell yet. Probably wouldn’t be right.”
