The Deep

“Look, dammit…” Sanders was annoyed at Treece’s needling, wanted him to stop, but was not eager to provoke a confrontation, nor to beg.

“Don’t get all fired up,” Treece said.

He snapped his fingers at the dog, and she jumped from the boat onto the dock. “Lead the way, Charlotte. See if there’s any brigands lurking.” The dog trotted happily toward the path, sniffing at the underbrush.

Treece pulled the two empty air tanks from the rack and set them on the dock. “Best fill these tonight.”

When they reached the house, they saw a paper-wrapped package outside the kitchen door. Treece picked it up, smelled it, and said, “Supper.”

“Fish?” Gail asked, queasy from the recollection of the fish box on the dock.

“No. Meat.” Treece opened the door and held it for them.

Gail said, “Don’t you ever lock your door?”

“No. Like I told you, only the Spanish have faith in locks.”

Inside, Treece said to Sanders, “Fix me a bit of rum while I throw this beast on the fire.”

“Sure.” Sanders said to Gail, “You want anything?”

“Not yet. I’d like to take a shower. I feel like a week-old bass.”

“Know how to work the heater?” Treece said.

“Heater?”

“There’s a gas heater next to the stall. Turn the valve half a turn clockwise and wait about two minutes. That’ll start warming it, and by the time you’re finished showering, it’ll be nice and hot.”

“Thanks.” Gail left the kitchen.

Sanders handed Treece a glass of rum and sipped at his scotch. “Anything I can do?”

“No. Rest your bones.”

Sanders sat at the table and watched Treece light the stove, pour oil into a frying pan, drop in the meat, and dust it with herbs.

When he was satisfied that the meat was cooking properly, Treece turned away from the stove and looked at Sanders. “What’s pecking at your shell?”

“What?” Sanders didn’t understand.

“With the shark business. What are you looking for?”

Sanders thought: Oh Christ, here we go again.

“Nothing. It was stupid. I know that.” He hoped his admission would end the conversation.

“I think there’s more,” Treece said. “I think, inside you, you think you did something ballsy.”

Sanders blushed, for Treece was right. Beneath the knowledge that he had acted stupidly, impetuously, dangerously, there was a little-boy’s pride at having stabbed a shark. Though he would not say so, he had even fantasized about how he would shape the story for telling to friends. He said nothing.

“It’s natural enough,” Treece said. “A lot of people want to prove something to themselves, and when they do something they think’s impressive, then they’re impressed themselves. The mistake is, what you do isn’t the same as what you are. You like to do tilings just to see if you can. Right?”

Though there was no reproach in Treece’s voice, Sanders was embarrassed. “Sometimes. I guess…”

“What I’m getting at…” Treece paused. “The feeling’s a lot richer when you do something right, when you know something has to be done and you know what you’re doing, and then you do something hairy. Life’s full of chances to hurt yourself or someone else.” Treece took a drink. “In the next few days, you’ll have more chances to hurt yourself than most men get in a lifetime.

It’s learning things and doing things right that make it worthwhile, make a man easy with himself. When I was young, nobody could tell me anything. I knew it all. It took a lot of mistakes to teach me that I didn’t know goose shit from tapioca. How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“That’s not young, but it’s not next door to the grave.

You could start now, and spend another forty years learning about the sea without running out of new things to know. That’s the only hitch in learning: it’s humbling. The more you learn, the more you realize how little you know.” Treece drained his glass and stood to refill it. “Anyway, all that’s a long way around saying that it’s crazy to do things just to prove you can do ’em. The more you learn, the more you’ll find yourself doing things you never thought you could do in a million years.”

Sanders nodded. He didn’t know whether Treece’s attitude toward him had changed, or his interpretation of Treece’s attitude had changed. He felt curiously privileged, and he said, “Thank you.”

Treece seemed flustered by the remark. He snapped his fingers and said, “The tanks. I almost forgot. Better get that monster fired up now, or she’ll be chugging away all night.”

Sanders followed him out the door and stood with him while he started the compressor and attached the two scuba tanks.

When they returned to the kitchen, Gail was making herself a drink. Her feet were bare and she wore a cotton bathrobe. Sanders kissed her neck; it smelled of soap.

“You taste good,” he said.

“I feel good, all but my sinuses.”

“Headache?” Treece asked.

“Not a real headache. Up here.” She touched the bones above her eyes. “They feel stuffed up. It hurts to touch them.”