Angler double-checked his cargo, which didn’t take long. All he had on board the Otter was a set of dive gear and his waterproof bag full of cash, passports, phones, and papers. Settling into the pilot’s seat, he began his preflight checks and the tedious task of clearing for takeoff from the water. Directed by the air traffic control tower at Owen Roberts International, he would taxi out into open water, before turning and taking off into the easterly wind, which would aim him back at the island.
As he idled from the harbor, Angler keenly watched the boat traffic for potential obstacles. His mood had lightened since all went well at the bank, but this was no time to let his guard down. Hell, he hadn’t even started the op yet—this was all logistics and preparation. The cruise ship hadn’t moved, and a tender looked to be delivering a handful of people back to the behemoth at anchor. Beyond that, he spotted a local fisherman’s skiff motoring into the harbor and not much else except for a few sailboats anchored to the north.
By the time Angler turned the Otter to face the harbor, he was over a half mile offshore. He had more than twice the water he needed to get airborne, and the control tower had given him permission to take off, then vector over the North Sound for his departure from the island. Easing into the throttle, the seaplane bumped and rolled over the heavier chop of the open water. The wrap around swell from the southwest tip of the island created following seas despite heading into the wind, so the plane glided over the peaks and eased down the troughs.
His palms were sweaty from the heat and a few jitters, if he was honest with himself. The landing had been nerve wracking, but the takeoff was no walk in the park either. As the Otter picked up speed, the floats began to rise in the water, planing across the ocean, jerking slightly from one side to the other as the floats dug into the tops of the waves he was overtaking.
Angler quickly checked out both side windows before returning his attention to the front as he felt the seaplane begin to pitter-patter across the water, reaching takeoff speed. He squinted as the next trough came into view. What the hell is that?
Everything happened at once. He recognized the profile of a man paddling a large kayak just as he was about to pull back on the stick.
“Idiot!” Angler yelled at the exact moment he felt and heard the crash of the starboard float hitting the hefty plastic vessel.
Thrown forward into the belts like he’d been hit by a train, Angler sensed the seaplane lifting into the air, yet all he could see out the window was water. The roar of the engine abruptly stopped, replaced with the sound of ripping metal and water thundering against the Otter. Though the crash was over in a matter of seconds, it felt like it went on forever. Every thump, jolt, and wallop feeling like the last he’d ever know. Just as quickly as the impact had started, all became still, and Angler slumped against the belts.
Water slurping in and splashing his face revived his senses, and he looked around him. He could barely see the ocean surface through the top left corner of the windshield, as the rest was under water. A large tear in the roof above him where the right wing had been ripped away was letting the ocean in at an alarming rate, and he instantly knew he had little time.
Unclipping his belts, Angler wriggled free of the pilot’s seat and staggered in the swaying cabin, clutching at seat backs to pull himself up the slope. He turned and looked at the windshield. It was solid blue water. Grabbing the waterproof duffel, he slung it along the floor of the cabin towards the rear door before hauling himself the few steps to the cabin exit. He reached for the handle, and paused. The door opened outwards, which meant he’d either let more water in, or he wouldn’t be able to open it at all.
“Damn it,” he muttered and twisted the lever, shoving the door.
Water poured in through the crack he’d opened, then the pressure slammed the door closed once more.
He was trapped inside until the plane completely sank and the pressure equalized on either side of the door. Angler had no clue how deep the seafloor was where he’d crashed, but he knew the island was an underwater mountain which barely peeked above the ocean. You didn’t have to go far from the coast before the famous walls dropped to thousands of feet. The thought of plunging to the depths sent a shiver through his whole body.
Around him, the seaplane creaked, and the ocean slapped against the sides while the raucous sound of rushing water echoed around the quickly filling cabin. At some point the water weight would drag the nose down and the air pocket in the tail would dangle the Otter like a toy on a string. When or how the plane would finally sink all the way was beyond Angler’s comprehension, but he knew the fuselage was tipping at a steeper and steeper angle, and he wanted the hell out.
Next to him, something shifted and clattered against the back of the final pair of seats. The dive rig! Just as he reached for the BCD, the seaplane began swinging nose down, and clutching to the seats, Angler watched in horror as the water level rose quickly up the passenger windows, slowing one short of the exit door. When the movement settled, he was bobbing waist deep in seawater, his feet touching seat backs. The rushing of water had stopped, but the level outside the windows was still rising and his ears popped as the pressure inside the cabin increased.
Forcing down the urge to panic, Angler dragged the dive rig toward him, letting it splash into the water. He made sure to crank the tank valve open, then shoved an arm though a shoulder strap and fought to pull the BCD on all the way. There simply wasn’t enough room between the seats in the cramped, upright cabin. The water level now reached his chest, floating the dive rig and making it even harder.
Angler grabbed the door handle again and twisted. The door flew open without any resistance, taking him by surprise. Of course! He figured, the tail was in the air and the door just above the surface. To confirm his theory, seawater lapped over the edge of the opening. He let go and the door dropped closed. Angler scooped up the duffel, and opened the roll top. Crushing as much air as possible from the bag, he rolled it tightly once more and clipped it closed. Shoving the door open again with one hand, he wedged the bag in the opening then watched more water lap over the edge.
The trickle instantly turned into a raging torrent as the base of the door dipped below the surface. He’d just uncorked the bottle and the plane would be heading for the depths in a matter of seconds. Clambering and clawing at the seats, Angler shoved his body into the door opening, sending the duffel bag floating away.
“No! Come back!” he yelled, as though his bag of money were a Labrador he could command to heel.
The BCD and tank were still looped over one shoulder and now smacked against the side of the cabin, refusing to fit through the sideways door. Angler barely had his face above the water and flapped around like a wounded bird until he realized he had to drop back inside. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself backwards into the sinking seaplane, and yanked his arm free of the BCD. It was getting darker inside the cabin and his vision was blurry through the water which stung his eyes.
Taking hold of the tank, he rammed it through the door opening which was now fully immersed. The rig left his grip and began slowly floating towards the surface trailing the regulator and pressure gauge hoses like tentacles. The regulator he needed to breathe from.
Angler felt no sensation of sinking. Instead, it appeared like the light through the door which now held itself wide open against the fuselage was slowly fading above him. Grabbing the sides of the door opening, he wriggled himself through, and used his feet to push away and up.
He surfaced with a spluttering gasp, staring at the tail sticking straight up beside him. The dive rig bobbed a few feet away, so he pulled it to him and wrestled his arms through one strap, then rolled on his back to secure the other one. Now he could finally cinch the cummerbund and find the regulator with a sweeping arm motion in the water.
The white tail with a red stripe was rapidly sinking, and the last evidence of the seaplane was about to leave him exposed on the surface. The bag! Everything was in that duffle. The money for the operation, half his fee, and all his passports he’d use to disappear into blissful retirement. He swung around, searching the bright blue warm water and spotted the bag, bobbing five yards away toward the shore. In a few strokes he reached the duffle and turned to see the last four feet of the tail about to disappear—just like he needed to do.
Shoving the reg in his mouth, Angler lifted the dump valve above his head and pressed the release button. He heard a short pssst sound, then nothing happened. Weights! He realized he’d used the dive weights to sink the pilot’s body, and now didn’t have any ballast weight to counteract his own buoyancy, and that of the remaining air in the duffle. He was trapped, bobbing on the surface like a plastic duck in a bathtub. If he was rescued, there’d be far too many questions, and digging around in a bag which contained one and a half million dollars cash to find the right passport would certainly invite further scrutiny.
He'd figured he’d deal with the mask and fins once he was out of sight, but needing propulsion, he unclipped the mask, which was hanging from the BCD, and quickly slipped it over his head. Dipping his face in the water, he reached down and untied, then removed his tennis shoes, letting them drift away. Desperately fumbling, Angler unclipped the full-foot fins, slipped them on, one at a time, then used the same carabiner on the BCD to secure the duffle strap. Now, with both hands free, he ducked his head, inverted, and tried kicking his finned feet. Splashing and floundering on the surface, he finally managed to drag himself below, then kicked like crazy for the bottom.
As the water pressure increased with depth, his buoyancy lessened, and when he leveled off at fifty feet under, Angler was finally able to catch his breath. Below, at what he guessed to be 20-feet deeper, sat the Otter, now forlornly resting on the sandy seafloor, with one wing missing. Slightly overwhelmed by the fact he’d just survived a plane crash, Angler turned toward shore, and smoothly kicked away.