Three Dreams

Calling it a mid-life crisis would over-simplify; Ravi Rockulz is materially set and does not lack in self-esteem. He’s seen more adventure and romance than a convention of dentists or insurance agents, yet he feels bound as Icarus in his reach. So why is he sleeping, all the time sleeping? Because refuge occurs where it’s found. A shrink might call him depressed, and sleep is a form of self-preservation, but that analysis would explain the mechanics of the process rather than the cure. He sleeps more than he should, grappling with what he can’t quite bring to the surface.

The first dream seeks justice. Ravi reconciles with Oybek, a misguided, misunderstood friend who brought security and comfort to Ravi and his family. It begins on a visit, with the children jumping in childish glee at the peg-leg thump announcing Uncle Oybek. Oybek comes to make things right. Oybek usually brings something for the kids, but he forgot; he was so distracted by falling out with his friend. So he peels a twenty for each kid because a ten won’t get you too far these days. Nearly toppling, he swears off the Long John Silver show he inflicted on himself. He’ll go today for a modern prosthesis. The crutch bruises his ribs. It’s painful but doesn’t hurt as much as Ravi leaving without a word. “You would not say goodbye to your friends?” You wooduntz a leave and no goodbye frienzyu?

Oybek shrugs. Ravi shrugs as well and says that a house on Maui will take time to pay off, and a man needs money. “You said forty-five dollars per fish.”

Oybek laughs, “That is still some very many fish, my friend.”

“How many fish is it?”

“You must pay for the fish first, and many die in transport. The bastards who want to shut us down have no idea how hard it is. You average only thirty dollars each after some die—sometimes only twenty dollars. You go ahead and ship the dead fish too, but it doesn’t always work. That’s why I say charge money for the fish guy photo and give fish for free, no guarantee. See? If fish die, is not on us.”

“Look at this. Have you heard of masked angelfish?” Ravi shows him a photo of a pale fish with subtle trim on the tail and a golden mask. “Five thousand dollars each, wholesale. Ten thousand retail. Thirty thou for a mated pair.”

Oybek stares at the fish, then at Ravi. “Where you get?”

“We catch.”

“You catch?”

“Look.” He pulls another photo, from which the first was a detail. It’s a coral head with dozens of masked angels. Some are mated pairs.

“You know this place?”

“I took this picture.”

“Where is?”

Not so fast, my fine, fat friend, but the images lead to a plan: Ravi can charter a lobster boat for the trip. It’s only a few days out of Honolulu. Boats are available and cheap since the Northwest Hawaiian Islands got fished out. And a lobster boat has holding tanks and seawater pumps. No more lobster up north, but plenty of masked angels. The Northwest Hawaiian Islands were unprotected when the lobsters got wiped out. That starved out the monk seals, so the Feds budgeted millions to protect the biggest marine ecosystem in the world. Not to worry—protection is mostly bureaucratic, leaving the ocean free for poaching. It’s patrolled, but they can’t possibly cover twelve hundred miles by whatever.

Call it an adventure. Patrol vessels are rare. Besides, flying a Korean or Taiwanese flag makes a lobster boat look foreign. They won’t pursue to the west, to avoid an international incident.

The dream roils when the Chinese guy at the warehouse in Southern Cal argues that angelfish can’t take the slosh and roll like lobsters, and most will die. And he sure as hell can’t send out most of them already dead.

Oybek says a little bit dead won’t matter at five or ten or fifteen grand each. You take a few more to make up for dead. Fucking fish bringing this kind of money? Fuck. And the potential for a book—and a movie!—on such heroics, bringing fish to where people can see and raise their awareness should be worth as much on the back end.

The Chinese guy cannot resist the logic of money but soon pukes over the rail and is led to the lee side, where puking is more acceptable.

The others are glum, as seas build northwest of Honolulu with Ni’ihau an intermittent speck off the stern. They want to know the target and why only one fish? Why can’t they know? Why is it fixed pay with no bonus for three weeks at sea? Is it masked angels? Nobody can catch that many of a single species, so maybe bandit angles, too, and dragon morays. They only bring a grand each but sometimes aggregate, so maybe bandit angels and dragon morays are part of the plan. Like sailors through the ages, they demand to know and have their say. They’re more confident at sea, less sensitive to language skills. They can ride big waves and gather gems that would go to waste otherwise. The Chinese guy handpicked these guys, rebreathers no problem. So? How much is the best team worth?

A rebreather allows dramatic depth and downtime, reducing nitrogen and reverting CO2 to oxygen. A rebreather can accommodate tri-mix—oxygen, nitrogen, and helium—to eliminate narcosis and maximize workload. But chemistry can be hazardous, and oxygen changes at depth. Too little O2 causes hypoxia, also known as suffocation. Too much O2 causes hyperoxia or convulsion, which is easy on deck but causes drowning at depth in 100 percent of incidents. At seven grand each, rebreathers seem premature. Oybek says chickenshit on the front end gets chickenshit out the back, and this should be the first of many great outings for dollars at depth—and more dollars at greater depth. But rebreathers will come later for this bunch. Better to dive three, five, six times a day for now. “Get a little bit flowing cash, you.”

You want the big bucks; you soak up a little more N.

At long last they suit up. The helmsman enters the waypoint on the GPS, and Ravi calls, “Oh, shit!” He’s knockin’ on cotton but don’t worry, this won’t take long. He goes below but passes the head on his way to the engine room, where he takes two turns on the stuffing box nuts, increasing the drip to a flow. Back in the head he opens the seacock along with the intake valve, filling the toilet for another flush and a few hundred flushes, or a purge—or an exorcism. He comes on deck relieved, and over they go.

Surfacing from a hundred feet, they see the vessel riding low and listing. The helmsman in a life jacket works on the life support unit that won’t inflate because it’s punctured.

Adrift, the divers ditch their tanks and inflate BCs manually. Their eyes burn from salt and glare, except for one, who brought sunglasses and a hat. The fuck? How did he know?

All day and night and day and night again, the tiger chases its tail, as Little Black Sambo watches the butter churn with blood. They hold hands or tie off till strength and bindings fail, and they drift apart. Sixty masked angels with a few bandits and dragons in a catch box are tethered to the lead diver and wants to sink, heavy as gold. He scans for a bottom and when a pinnacle comes into view, he opens the catch box on a downward flurry and a murmur, “Papahānaumokuākea.” Masked and bandit angels and dragon morays writhe free of market value to blend with the blue haze and another coral home. Other oneness is brief and merciful with Mano’s help and gratitude.

The dream ends on blessed suffering, on sun and salt, fear and death with bleeding, drowning, and regret—and fulfilment in one who gives life.

A scene bobs to the surface like flotsam from the hulk: At the galley settee in rolling seas, a young diver slides in beside the fish guy with a few fish prints. Ravi takes a look, as the kid says, “Not as good as yours, but… Do you think I can make a book?”

“Why not?”

The young diver shrugs. “They’re aquarium shots.”

“Aquarium shots?”

“Yeah. I let them go. See: it’s the same corals in the backdrop.”

So the dreamer wakes in a cold sweat and, alas… Justice becomes difficult. It’s always been difficult, and this kid who let his fish go is imagined, not real.

But are these guys any worse than Oybek? Would you kill Oybek by mayhem?

It’s 5:45. No way I’ll get back to sleep with forty-five minutes to go. But I’ll lay back, close my eyes, and breathe slowly…

•

The second dream is a sequence, beginning with a man walking into the ocean. He swims out. He descends. He’s headed farther out and down, till he blows his last bubble.

That’ll teach ’em to mess with the fish guy. He’s out and down, not down and out because he’s not broke and can make plenty more money anytime he wants to. He welcomes depth, distance, and current picking up to five knots, good thing because down and in are coming on strong. The dream fails to satisfy, given the choke and glug coming on as well. A dreamer can breathe between the water, with care and caution. Still he wakes with a half hour to go.

•

Dream three drifts like a speck. It looks like a copepod or cephalopod. Some crustaceans are tiny at maturity, while giant squid grow to forty feet in two years. Both begin microscopically and feed all the time.

Ages ago, in showbiz years, the fish guy was a hit, with striking good looks, natural flair, compelling communication skills, and manners. His tall tales of primal forces felt honest and richly filled the anecdotal interviews. Ravi back-rolled into unknown seas more times than he told stories to a national viewing audience and isn’t sure which is scarier. Yet his calmness attends him like a narcotic. Water moves fast and turns dark, yet he makes it enticing as a shallow reef.

The hosts felt it, more than one saying, “Gee, it’s been great. Stop back anytime. Let us know what you’re up to. I mean down to.” Signs overhead lit up for LAUGHTER and APPLAUSE—cut to commercial and prep for the next segment, as Dave or Jay or Jon, Stephen, Jimmy, or the great one, herself, recognized the fish guy himself, right there on the sound stage, as a thing of beauty. Or they blew smoke up his ass, offering sincerely: “I mean that.”

Or: “I envy you.”

Or: “We’re lucky to have you.”

Or: “I’d like to trade with you—for a while.”

Or: “Anytime.”