Storm panted. The oxygen level was dropping in the cave. She set her teeth against the pain and rasped her hands against the cave wall. It was harder and harder to tell where the rubber was. This last swipe hurt enough to take her breath away. She leaned forward and gasped as if she’d been running.
The cave, as it filled, was becoming darker. Storm rested her forehead on the surfboard. Her wrists felt as if they bled; if she used her imagination, she could feel coolness running down the palms of her outwardly turned hands. She rested for a moment and fixated on the sensation across her poor, abused wrists.
And that whining noise must be from the lack of oxygen. Was she just going to drift off? She was so tired, she could probably go to sleep. Would she wake up when she fell off the board? She hoped not.
There was that whining again. If only her one shoulder wasn’t so painful. It was because her one hand lay palm up, beside her on the surfboard. Moving that shoulder had hurt like hell.
Wait, she’d done it. Her hand was free. That last swipe against the vicious, sharp lava had cut the leash, and she’d been so numb she hadn’t noticed for almost a minute.
The notion of freedom brought improved mental clarity. Not only were her hands prickling with renewed sensation, her shoulders, which had been pulled and strained, felt as if knife blades were imbedded in them. Blades of liberation, though. Storm jerked upright and clobbered the back of her head against the ceiling of the cave.
The whining was not part of her disorientation. It was an engine, heard as if from underwater. She drew deep breaths and looked around the small space as if she might notice other changes. Maybe Hamlin was outside, looking for her. He had to be frantic by now, didn’t he?
“Hamlin,” she screamed. “Hamlin!”
A man’s muffled voice answered, but she couldn’t make out his words. Too much water and rock between them. She couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t sound like Hamlin. Still, Hamlin would have gone for help. It could be City and County lifeguards on a jet ski or boat. They’d be looking for her, wouldn’t they?
“Help! I’m in here.”
The whining sound got closer, then dropped to a lower pitch. The man’s voice sounded again, but she lost most of the words in a crashing thump and a surge of water. “….dive…entrance…out…”
Storm braced herself on the rocking surfboard. Both her hands were still numb from being bound so tightly, and she shook them to get the blood flowing.
What did he say? Dive? Storm eyed the only place where light still seeped into the darkening cave. It was underwater, below the little holes that had let in the air she so desperately needed. How much had the water risen? How deep was the hole? It had disappeared below the surface of the water before she’d regained consciousness. How long ago had that been?
She had to try. After all, what did she have to lose?
Storm was terrified. She swallowed hard and took deep, methodical breaths while she talked to herself out loud. “Can’t be that deep. He got you in here, right? Even if it’s five or six feet down, it’s nothing. You do that all the time.” Right.
Storm floated the surfboard toward the imagined entrance. Her hands were still tingling clubs, and they made clumsy paddles. Her fingers were barely functional, though sensation was beginning to burn through them.
She heard a shout from outside the cave, and the pitch of the engine rose. It got loud, and then faded, as if he’d headed away. Hadn’t he heard her?
“Stop!” she shrieked. “Stop! I’m here!”
That was it, she had to go. Slipping from the board into the cold water revived her more, and she took a desperate last gulp of air before she dove.
Storm felt her way down the bumpy rock face. Her numb fingers were just able to grasp protrusions on the wall, enough to pull her deeper into the water. The cave wasn’t completely dark, and she knew the faint glow had to come from beneath the surface of the water. There wasn’t enough light to see clearly, and all she could make out were light and dark shapes. But none was a beacon of escape.
Storm felt along the wall, pulling herself deeper by grabbing onto jagged knobs of lava. Her lungs were on fire, and her diaphragm began to convulse with the need for air. With a cry of anguish, she let go of the wall and kicked frantically to the surface.
The cave seemed even darker, and when she broke surface, she almost hit her face on the nose of the drifting surfboard. It took up most of the remaining space, and she hung on for a minute while she wheezed for whatever oxygen was left in the diminishing room.
She leaned her face on the board, and tried not to give in to despair. She had to dive again. And keep thinking. If the entrance involved a short tunnel, it wouldn’t necessarily let in enough light to be visible from the surface of the water. She’d have to go deep to find it. That must be what the person outside was trying to tell her. But she had to find it this time. There wasn’t enough oxygen left in the cave.
Hyperventilating might help, especially in this thin air. She knew free divers who’d died from the practice, but it was a chance she’d have to take. She was going to die if she didn’t.
Ten breaths. Ten deep, slow breaths. Storm actually used her fingers, splayed on the surfboard, to count. And she dove again, straight down. When she’d surfaced before, she’d been surprised to find that she’d only been about four feet down, though it had felt much deeper. She didn’t grope along the wall this time. Instead, she kicked and stroked as hard as she could, down, down, until her ears popped. Where it was dark, and there was still no bottom that she could see.
She grabbed the wall, crabbing along sideways, head toward the bottom. Around the perimeter, if she had to. No, just along the wall where the light had come in. That was her best chance.
Storm actually surprised herself with these thoughts, glad that her brain still functioned on some level. She had very little time. Already, she’d guess that twenty or thirty seconds had passed. How long until she passed out? Two minutes? Three? Don’t think about it.
Her eyes were getting used to the diminished light. She could just make out the bottom, sandy and scattered with black rocks. There was even a little fish, a reef triggerfish, common to anyone who enjoys swimming or diving along Hawai‛i’s shoreline. In fact, it was a humuhumu-nukunuku-ā-pua‛a. Storm giggled, which sent a few bubbles to the surface. Oops. The humuhumu with a snout like a pig, her own pua‛a. Little pig-fish. Uh oh, she was getting silly. That was oxygen deprivation again, wasn’t it?
Where’d that fish go? There he was, two feet from her, and heading into the wall. Into the wall. Storm grasped a bulge in the rock and pulled herself toward him. She kicked hard, rounded a corner, and peered ahead, where a halo shimmered.
It was a tunnel, more of a long arch, about three feet wide, but deep. It extended to the sandy bottom. Lots of room, if she could go two or three feet deeper. And if it wasn’t too long; she couldn’t see the end.
Storm’s diaphragm shuddered with need, but there was light ahead, only six or seven feet away. There was the little fish again, nibbling at something on the wall of the tube. Good little pig-fish. Wished she had gills, like he did. Pull with her arms, use ’em like he does his little pectoral fins. Kick, kick. Feeble feet, not nearly as good as a tail fin.
Wished her eyes were letting in more light; she was getting tunnel vision. Black on the sides. Pull with those pectoral fins. Maybe use a dolphin kick. Her vision was fading, but she could still swim. Follow the little pua‛a. Helpful little fellow, finding that tunnel for her.