The Deep

They fell silent, watching the glassy night water and the twinkling lights on shore. Sanders took a deep breath, exulting in the salty freshness of the air. He could not remember feeling so good, so alive. He felt as if he were living out the dreams of his youth, and, like a child, he was pleased-almost proud-to be alone with Treece. He was mildly ashamed to recognize that he was glad Gail was not with them. This was something special, an experience that would be his alone. He reprimanded himself: Don’t be a middle-aged adolescent. The best reason for not bringing Gail along is that this might be dangerous.

He contemplated the possible perils and, as usual, found himself ambivalent toward them: nervous but excited, afraid of the unknown but impatient to meet it, eager to do things he had never done. As he looked at the dark water, a shiver of anticipation made the hair on his arms rise.

They traveled southwest for another few minutes.

“See up ahead,” Treece said, pointing. “That’s Orange Grove. You can tell by the lights: four in a row close together, that’s the dining room. Then a dark spot for the kitchen, then a long thin one-the picture window in the bar.”

“What do you do on a foggy night?”

“Stay home.”

Treece kept the boat at three-quarters throttle until they were directly off the Orange Grove lights. Then he turned toward shore and slowed to a speed just above idle. He peered through the cabin window at the water ahead. “Could use a bit of wind,” he said, “and a bit of cloud cover, too.

In that moonlight, we’re going to stick out like the cherry on a cream pie.”

“How much do you draw?”

“Three feet. We should get through with nothing more than a scratch or two.”

“Will I be in your way if I go up forward?”

“No. Sing out if you see anything that wants to dent us.”

Sanders walked to the bow. The dog was still blocking the way to the pulpit, and Sanders nudged her aside and went to the end of the pulpit. The bow cut through the water with a sshhhh noise that, from where Sanders stood, was as audible as the low chug of the engine. Sanders looked at the streak of moonlight ahead. Something broke

water-a flash of silver crossed the moonlight and splashed into the dark. Sanders looked back at Treece, who said, “Barracuda.”

They crossed the first line of rocks, and the second.

Twenty or thirty yards in front of the boat, Sanders saw rings of water spreading away from a center, as if some unseen hand had thrown a stone from above. “What’s that?” he said.

Treece raised up on tiptoes. “Bejesus!” he said, and he swung the wheel hard left. “That bastard would’ve stove us clean.”

“Reef?”

“Aye. We’re in the third line now.” Treece aimed the bow toward shore and turned off the engine.

The boat continued to drift, then finally settled, nearly motionless. Treece jumped up onto the gunwale and walked forward. “No wind, no tide, no nothing. One hook should keep us here.” He threw an anchor overboard and let the line run through his hands until it fell slack. He tugged it twice, securing the anchor in the coral, and tied it to a forward cleat. “Let’s get dressed.”

Followed by the dog, they went aft into the cockpit.

As Sanders attached his regulator to the neck of the scuba tank-holding the regulator up to the moon, to make sure he wasn’t putting it on backward-Treece went below. He threw two black neoprene wet suits-boots, trousers, jackets, hoods-through the hatch onto the deck.

“Is the water that cold?” Sanders asked.

“No, but the rocks’ll flay you at night. Brush up against something you can’t see, it’ll give you the chills.” Treece ducked below again, and returned, carrying in one hand a metal strongbox, in the other a large battery-powered light in an underwater housing. He showed Sanders the on-off switch on the light and said, “We won’t use it any more than we have to. It’s a bloody beacon down there.”

“How will we see?”

“Still see,” Treece said, pointing to the strongbox.

“You stick next to me.” He opened the box.

Inside, cushioned with rubber, were a mask and a pistol-grip flashlight. “Infrared stuff. So I can find the rock you left.”

When they were dressed, they sat on the starboard gunwale. “Look at your watch,” Treece said.

“After half an hour, you come up, no matter how much air you’ve got left. Don’t want to run out of breeze at night. There may be a current down there, and it’s no fun to swim five hundred yards back sucking a dry tank.”

Treece reached beneath the gunwale, found a Ping-Pong paddle, and tucked it in his weight belt. The dog wagged her tail and sniffed at Treece’s flippers. “Guard the boat, Charlotte,” he said.

He looked at Sanders. “Set? We’ll go down together. When we hit bottom, turn on the light and have a quick look-around. Make it as short as possible. Soon as you see something familiar, so you know where we are, turn off the light and head for it.

If I’m lucky with this”—he held up the infrared light—“we won’t have to use that light too much.”

“What makes you think anybody’ll come out after us?”