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We had wasted a day and a half. Half a day drinking with the Frenchman, and a day filming. I was impatient. We all were.
We pressed on – Steve and Sonia alternating as my diving partner – clearing the rubble out of the way and slowly getting closer to the Sea Post Office.
Clearing the tangled mess at the bottom of the stairs on the Upper Deck took longer than expected. The stair rails had become entangled with each other into a rusted solid mass, blocking our way entirely. It took two days to make a space big enough for us to get though without getting caught up, as Steve had been.
But the going was easier after that. By lunchtime of the following day we were almost to the door of the Sea Post Office. I could just make out the doorway, a dark rectangular patch in the dim light of our torch beams.
“Hey, that’s fantastic!” Steve yelled as we gave him the news. “I can’t wait to get down after lunch! What time do we dive?”
He was even more ecstatic when we got down there, giving me the thumbs-up sign as soon as we spotted the doorway. We worked feverishly, ripping the webs of rotten wiring out of the way and hauling them back down the corridor, letting them fall down past the foot of the stairs, well clear of our exit route.
There was only one more obstacle in our way and with that removed we would be into the Sea Post Office and know whether the Specie Room had been raided or not. If it had, it would have been the Navy divers; for nobody had been through that corridor for at least forty years.
There was a tap on my shoulder, startling me. In my concentration I had forgotten about Steve. He pointed to his pressure gauge: six hundred pounds. We always left when the first diver’s air pressure was down to seven hundred. It took a hundred and fifty to get out of the wreck, following the yellow line; and two hundred to get back to the chain leading up to the yacht. One hundred was more than enough to get up the chain to where the spare tanks were tied. It left a safety margin of two hundred and fifty pounds; more than enough, even if there was a strong current running. I usually finished up with two hundred pounds more than the others did. I didn’t waste as much energy.
We had become so engrossed that we hadn’t stuck to the rules. But we were nearly finished. I nodded to him as he turned and headed off, and went back to what I was doing. If he had six hundred then I should have eight. Simple calculation. I didn’t bother to check. It would mean letting go of the heavy bracket I had almost pulled clear. It was only caught up at one point, and another minute or so and the whole thing would be free and our way in to the Sea Post Office clear!
I tugged at the bracket, my fingers jammed against the bulkhead, my torch wedged between the wall and a pipe, the beam lighting up the focus of my attention. I bent my back and gave one last heave.
The bracket burst free with a cloud of dust, spinning out of my hands, knocking the torch sideways, flicking it into the Sea Post Office. I saw the beam swirl down into the room on the other side of the doorway, swallowed up by the cloud; and then blackness as it bounced and went out. I didn’t know where it had finished up. It was no place to search. I didn’t know what might be in there. It could be a tangled mass of cables – a death trap.
Pitch black darkness! I couldn’t see my hand, my gauges, the glass on my face mask; nothing. With a terrifying rattle in my ears, blasting the back of my head, the sonic alarm went off.
Four hundred pounds of air! Enough to get out, but only enough, and only if I hurried. I reached out blindly to where the safety line was tied on. But where was that? There should be two: one tied to the pipe where the torch had been; and one back down at the foot of the stairs. I knew what direction was up and what down, but that was all. Left and right, north and south? I had no idea.
I felt around the walls, panic setting in as the air kept heaving through my lungs, surging from my tanks. I found the doorway and felt around for the pipe. It was gone! The falling bracket had smashed it from the wall, sending it to the bottom, taking the yellow line with it.
Why the hell hadn’t I turned and gone with Steve? Why the hell didn’t he wait for me? Because I had waved him off, that’s why; like I had on every dive, always coming out last, not leaving anyone behind to get into trouble.
Steve had followed instructions. He had swum out without hesitating. He would be up on the chain now, hanging under the yacht, sucking on cool fresh air from the reserve tanks, watching the sunlight dance on the ripples above his head, counting the colourful fish as they swam up to investigate.
It was warmer up there. Peaceful.
No! Stop! I had to try to think clearly. My air was low, the narcosis starting to get to me. Me!
Drop down, not up! My head was bobbing against the side of the hull. There was water out there, and light. Drop down! Down to the staircase and the way out.
With shaking limbs I started downwards, dropping down the corridor, down towards the stairs. But were they behind me or in front? Might I go straight past them, down to the other side of the wreck, down past the sixty metre level, into the narcosis zone?
I had to find the line!
My hand touched something. I pulled it out, feeling it with trembling fingers: a piece of stair-rail, the end fractured and broken; a piece we had snapped off the previous day. I had gone down too far, passing the foot of the stairs! I wanted to tear the mouthpiece free and scream, scream to Steve to bring me fresh air, scream to God to show me the safety line, to put it in my hands. It was all I wanted in the world – a safety line.
But I would be dead if I screamed. Dead if I tried a stunt like that. I would be dead anyway if I couldn’t get out in a hurry. I was probably dead now. I had no chance of swimming back along the hull to the ascent chain. There wasn’t enough air. There mightn’t even be enough to get out of the wreck. If I got out I would have to go straight for the surface, taking my chances on the bends; hope they could fly me to a recompression chamber, somewhere. But there wasn’t one close enough. I knew that, but I still hoped.
And then I hit another projection. This one heavier, solid, still fixed to the wall – more stair rail. But if it was fixed, then we hadn’t removed it! Simple logic; but reasoning is twisted at forty-five metres.
The stairway! My hands flew around it, caressing, stroking. Tears filled my eyes, the salt stinging. The seconds ticked away. I could see a coffin, people dressed in black, people crying, Sonia crying. I swung my arm, a reflex action to wipe away the tears.
In my panic I almost missed it; the twang as my fingers flicked against something drawn tight across my path. Vibration, memories of bow-hunting as a boy, the arrow flying through the air.
The safety line! The one we had tied to the stair-rail. My hand snaked back, snatching at it in the darkness, but careful not to pull it free.
With one arm in front of my head, protecting my mask and mouthpiece, and the other curled around the line, I kicked off, flippers pounding as they had never moved before. My fingers trailed the line, refusing to leave its protection.
I had been this way more times by torchlight than I could remember, but this time I couldn’t see a thing. The blackness preceded me at every turn, down each corridor, over each separate stair-tread. I was moving through the Bridge Deck Lobby. It had to be! I knew the narrow corridor past the Beauty Shop. My flippers bounced off both sides. One last stair-well to go, then the small lobby and I would be out onto the Promenade Deck. If only I had enough air!
And then I saw light; not daylight; not the water outside the wreck. A wavering light, flickering from side to side; searching.
A torch! I struck out towards the beacon; dazzled as the brilliance of the beam hit my mask. I grabbed the hand and spun it around, throwing the light on the black figure.
Steve! I held on to his hand, the hand holding the torch, refusing to let go. Relief. Exhausted. Saved.
He pushed my hand away, and reached for my pressure gauge, shining the beam onto it.
Empty; but not yet empty. There was still air. It was hard to draw, resisting my lungs, but there was still air. There had to be!
He nodded, pointing along to the stair-well, to the way out; beckoning, telling me to follow. He kicked and turned, heading away, leaving me; the weaving torchlight bouncing off rusting grey walls as he began to take the first twist in the staircase.
I dragged in the last dregs of air, the tanks now an empty balloon, deflated, spent.
The terror struck again and I thrust off after him, after the fading light. He knew the risk he had run, knew that if I caught him I would snatch the regulator from his own mouth, knew that I would fight him for his precious air, his lifeline – my lifeline. We raced on, careless of light-fittings and other projections, disregarding the thuds as we hit the walls, the rails, the rubbish so carefully placed to one side. Up into the lobby, that tiny lobby, the walls brighter now, redder. I looked up.
Daylight! A rectangular burst of light shining down into the wreck. I only had to swim through and then straight up; forty metres to the surface, to the fresh air my lungs were screaming for. Another two minutes; maybe only a minute. I must remember to breathe out on the way up; mustn’t let the stale air still in my lungs swell up and burst those lungs.
A hand grabbed my tank harness as I shot through the opening, my eyes fixed on that point far above me, at the calm surface and fresh air. I struggled, hitting out at him with my fist. A weak blow; no counterpoint to support the force. He was holding me back! And then I saw the pointing finger, faint through the red haze before my eyes, a haze of fear, disorientation, and terror. I followed the finger, followed it down to the side of the hull, down beneath the lip of the doorway, down to the diving tank.
A tank! I rushed at it, spitting out my own regulator and cramming the reserve one into my mouth, sucking greedily, savouring the taste of air, its body, its richness, its fullness. I closed my eyes and lay there, crying quietly to myself, thanking God for His deliverance; dreaming of a warm bed, soft and comforting; my nervous system shutting off after the shock, relieving my brain of the trauma.
There was a hand on my shoulder, shaking me, not violently; just enough to stir me back to the present. Steve pointed along the hull, towards where the chain would be rising up to the yacht. I looked up to the surface, so far away, nodded tiredly and followed after him as he swam quietly along the lip of the Shelter Deck, back to safety, back to sanity.
––––––––
Decompression was a prolonged affair that afternoon; our planned stops shot to hell. I had been down much longer than I had thought possible, and far deeper than I should have, over the sixty-metre level, but how far I wasn’t certain. Steve had been up, then back down again to bring me the air and the light. It was impossible to work out what time we needed.
We stayed at the twelve metre mark for five minutes, a stop we hadn’t needed before. Then twenty minutes at nine metres and half an hour at six. By the time we were ready to move up to the three-metre mark, all the tanks except the last reserve were empty; and there wasn’t much left in that.
We hung on the chain, buddy-breathing, taking turns on the one regulator. Sonia would be getting worried. We should have been out of the water by now, if things had gone as planned. A mask appeared on the surface of the water, three metres above our heads. Steve waved her down. A minute later, flippers broke the surface as she stepped off the duckboard. One twist and she kicked down to us.
She saw the empty tanks strapped to the chain; unclipped a single and headed for the surface. Within a minute she was back with a fresh tank, my regulator in place and the air turned on, then grabbed another empty and shot back to the yacht. I heard the compressor start up and she came down with a tank for Steve; then left us once more to our silent thoughts.
I sent him up five minutes ahead of me. There wasn’t much to be said when I surfaced. I had been stupid. They knew it and I knew it.
“You’ve been working too hard,” Steve said, passing me a cup of that damned tomato soup. It tasted delicious. “Let’s leave it alone for a day.”
I didn’t want to; we were so near the gold. But he was probably right, and I didn’t feel like arguing.
“Why don’t you two take the ute and go for a picnic somewhere?” he added.
“Why don’t we all go for a drive?” Sonia cut in, busy washing my regulator in fresh water. Maybe she didn’t want to be left with a moron who couldn’t follow basic rules.
“Because, my dear,” he replied. “Someone has to look after our investment. Someone has to stay on the yacht. It can’t be you, and Mike needs a break.” He handed her his empty mug and bent down to the compressor – laboring as it struggled to fill the bottle. “Besides,” he continued. “It’ll give me a chance to do some maintenance on this little beauty. No, you two take off on your own. Take some of the camera gear. Take some location shots. Pretend that you’re film stars or something.”
He may have been feeling generous, but I think he just wanted to be on his own for a while. The three of us had been living in each other’s pockets for a bit too long.
––––––––
We headed off bright and early the next morning, waiting only for the sun to clear the hills and stretch over to the yacht. Steve ferried us across in the Zodiac and helped us carry the cameras and our picnic lunch up the beach to the utility. It gave a few coughs, and spluttered into life, surprising us all.
“Well, that’s a bloody miracle!” Steve exclaimed.
“Maybe our luck has decided to change for the better,” I said, stowing the cardboard carton in the back, watching as Sonia placed the two cameras carefully on the floor between her feet. She looked up at me.
“It would have to after yesterday!” she snapped. “It couldn’t get much worse.”
“Okay, you guys,” Steve interceded. “Take it easy. Go off and enjoy yourselves. I’ll see you back here some time this afternoon. Give a couple of blasts on the horn.”
He stood watching as I backed the vehicle around and started up the track. I kept one eye on him in the rear vision mirror, seeing him shake his head once or twice before turning back to the beach. I lost him as we rounded the corner on the run up to the road.
“Okay, sweetness,” I said, still smarting at her words. “Where would you like to go?”
“You’re the tour guide,” she snapped back. “I’ll leave the whole day up to you. Anything you say will be alright with me.”
She sat expressionless, hair softly billowing around her face.
“Anything?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, my thoughts made evident in that one word.
“Just drive, peasant,” she laughed, relaxing against the seat, the earlier tension released.
“Yes, ma’am!”
I pulled the utility to a halt at the top of the track. Should we go left, or right?
“See if there’s a map in the glove box,” I said. She rummaged around amongst the clutter. “It’s bad enough driving on these bloody roads without having to worry about getting lost into the bargain.”
“Here you are!” she cried triumphantly, unfolding a torn and creased sheet of paper. “It’s not very detailed, but good enough for what we want.”
I put the handbrake on and leaned over to have a better look at the map, surprisingly printed in English.
“There’s that beach Develac was talking about,” she said, pointing to the northern end of the island. “He did say it was a terrific place to spend the day.” She folded the map around, leaving the route we would have to take uppermost. “How about we drive up there for lunch?”
“Right, you gorgeous girl. Let’s go!”
I let the handbrake off and threw it into gear, spraying gravel into the bushes as we skidded across the road, broadsiding into the direction that would take us north.
“Hang on for the ride of your life! Frogs and others, stand aside. We’re coming through!”
I gave a whoop and reached again for the gear stick, my left hand thumping the side of the door.
“Wrong hand,” I cried, reaching out with my right, grabbing her knee by mistake, feeling the shudder travel up to her thigh. “Sorry, wrong knob.”
“Concentrate on the driving, Mike. I’ll look after the legs. And get over to the other side of the road before we hit something.”
I slewed over to the right hand side of the roadway, and kept my mouth shut.
The crushed coral and gravel road wound along through plantations of coconuts, with straight rows of the tall palms stretching away into the distance; and past broad open areas, empty of large trees but covered in low bush and creepers. The Americans had cleared hundreds of acres during the war, planting huge vegetable gardens to help feed the thousands of troops billeted on the island.
Develac had said that it had been a huge base, almost a city, with a population reaching to upwards of a hundred thousand men. There had been a telephone system with seven exchanges and a teletype network; a radio station; a PX department store; four large hospitals; forty-three movie houses; and even a complete Masonic temple.
Champagne Beach was the name the locals had given to the place we were heading for; named for the champagne parties a rich French planter used to hold there in the old days. It was marked as Hog Harbour on the map, but Champagne Beach sounded so much more romantic.
We passed a number of concrete emplacements: bunkers – massive concrete constructions built to withstand the onslaught of enemy planes; and stopped four times, taking footage of the larger structures: like Mayan temples, their walls cracked by the roots of creepers penetrating deep into the reinforcing; heavy iron doors hanging from twisted hinges, rusting and creaking; the reminder of a war not so long ago and yet far away.
Sonia played the professional. The angle of the sun had to be right; the distance paced out; light-meter read and notes made. I paraded around, making speeches to unseen persons, striking poses worthy of a Gielgud or a Burton; the centre of attraction, but bored to tears.
We reached the beach as the sun was climbing high into the sky, the heat shimmering down through palm leaves; shrieking off the brilliant sand. The track ran almost down to the water’s edge, stopping amongst the palms and dune grass.
This wasn’t the tropical jungle which ran along the rocky coastline where the Coolidge lay. This was picture-postcard South Seas: crystal clear water lapping the sun-drenched shore; the bay spreading out before us; white sand squeaking underfoot; seagulls high in the air; a gentle breeze swaying the palm fronds.
Sonia made for a clump of bushes on the other side of the utility, taking her bikini with her. I stood where I was on the deserted beach, dropping my shorts to the sand and sliding into my togs.
“Come on!” I shouted. “The water won’t wait for ever!”
I raced down the beach and into the shallows, diving when the water reached my knees, into the crisp clean water of the ocean, letting the dust and the cares of the day wash away. I surfaced, squeezing the salt water out of my eyes, smarting at that first sting.
Sonia lived in a bikini on the yacht, except when she was working on something. I had seen her countless times, and admired her the same number. But there was still a tug in my chest as she strode down the beach, dropping her towel next to mine.
“Look out!” she yelled, racing down towards me, knees pumping high, her golden mane tossing in the breeze; plunging into the water and twisting as she surfaced at my side.
“Hey, Mike! It’s beautiful! So clear and fresh.”
She sank back down again, only her nose and eyes out of the water. There was a muffled cry and she leapt up, eyes fixed on the water.
“Those little fish were nibbling my toes,” she laughed.
“Lucky little fish,” I answered and then, after a pause: “Maybe you should wash your feet more often.”
It scored me a face full of salt water as she slapped through the ripples. I splashed back with both hands, cascading her with a shower of crystal droplets. We moved closer, pounding the water, creating a maelstrom; closer and closer until we fell together. She grabbed me and hung on. We struggled to the shallows, collapsing at the shoreline, laughing and panting.
The laughter subsided, but not the panting. I looked deep into her eyes. She smiled up at me, shyly, showing quiet happiness, endearment. The smile faded, faded to tenderness, a wetness misting the blue of her eyes, sparkling in the sunlight.
“Oh, Mike! I was so worried. You took so long to come up yesterday. You both spent so long on the chain. I was angry, and scared.”
The single tear slid down her cheek.
“Mike, darling. Please don’t frighten me like that again. Please, Mike!”
I brushed her lips with mine. She lifted her face up to me, her tongue caressing my lips and then darting into my mouth, fencing with mine; our faces crushing together, our hands pressing, feeling; our bodies moulding as one.
We rolled together, her fingers clawing into my back; my left hand stroking her silken hair, now damp and gritty; the other hand kneading her thigh; the intensity building. I slipped her top off and then reached for the pants, my fingers looped into the flimsy white material.
“No, Mike. No.”
But it was not a cry from the heart. There was no refusal as the brief bikini slid down her long legs.
And then I too was naked, hurting, bursting.
We moved together, our lips meeting once more. She reached down to me, taking me in her hand, moving me, helping me.
Her head rolled sideways, then back again, her wild eyes staring into mine. “Now, Mike! Now! Now! Now!”
She was ready and I moved into her with an ease I had not expected. She was waiting for me. Had been waiting for me. Had wanted me, as I had wanted her.
The panting increased, the thrusting more urgent. We moved together, trying to melt the one into the other, both to become part of the whole; our bodies merging only to tear apart and then unite once more. Her teeth sinking into my lips. The tangy taste of blood on my tongue.
“Ahhhhg! My God .....! Oh, sweet Jesus! Oh, Mike!”
And then the tender kisses. My mouth, my eyes, my cheeks, my ears and mouth again. Long and tender. I raised my head from hers and whispered: “I think I love you.”
She smiled up at me, tenderly, shy again. “I know I love you, Mike.”
I bent down and kissed her again, still hard within her, but quiet, loving her, moving gently, stirring upon her body, then thrusting, enjoying her; the pressure of fingers running down my spine, her back arched to me; the rising intensity, the urgency which could not be denied; trying to deny it, knowing there was no way, no way to prolong the pleasure.
A headlong rush, reaching for the heights and then, with a silent scream, I achieved the plateau she had gone to only moments before.
We lay in the shallows, side by side, replete in our contentment; water lapping our thighs; sand running through spread fingers.
“Mike, did you mean what you said?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“I was holding back.”
“Yes?”
“I was wrong when I said I thought I loved you. I just don’t think it, I know it! I’ve loved you from the moment I first stepped down into the Belle and just missed catching you with your top off.” It sounded corny to my ears, and flat. But it was true. “And you,” I breathed. “Did you mean it too?”
“Oh yes, my darling!”
I took her hand in mine, drawing closer to her, lifting her head on to my shoulder. We stayed there, staring up at the blue sky, oblivious to our surroundings, to the world, to the little fish nibbling our toes. One fluffy white cloud marched his solitary way across the heavens, sending down his blessing.
“Come on, Mike. Let’s eat. You’ll have to get your strength back if you want to go diving tomorrow!”
She sat up; reaching for her bikini pants, now floating on the water, then got to her feet and went striding up the beach.
I jumped up and went racing after her, slapping her cute little bottom as she tried to leap out of the way.
The rest of the day passed in an aura of blissful happiness. We laughed and chatted, petted and kissed. The next time would be somewhere private, where we could lie together, not caring about prying eyes, little sharp-teethed fish or lonely clouds; or sand.
Sonia drove the utility back, making as many mistakes as I had. But we laughed and missed the farm truck coming around the sharp bend, taking more care on the next.
We decided to hide our feelings from Steve. It wouldn’t be fair to him, alone on the yacht, knowing our closeness, the intimacy we would share. But the glow that shone from her soul, the calmness upon my face; they told him everything.
“Took the pair of you long enough,” he said as he met us on the rocky beach, the inflatable bobbing in the spent wake. “Why the hell do you think I’ve kept my bloody cabin door shut at night?” He shook his head in wonder. “Talk about a pair of bloody teenagers. You two would take the cake!”
We both burst out laughing; glad that it was out in the open.
“All I want to know, Steve,” I said, trying to look serious. “Is whether you intend to keep it closed in the future?”
Sonia went a deep shade of pink as she bent to examine something of immense importance at her feet.
“Only if the pair of you behave yourselves during the day,” he said with a smile on his lips. “We can’t have you walking around, hand in hand, tripping over everything in sight now, can we?” And then, before I could think of a smart reply. “Come on, you pair of bloody lovebirds. Get that gear into the Zodiac and let’s get back to the yacht.”
We jumped in as he pulled the starter, shooting off towards the Belle. It would be home now, not just a place to rest my weary body.
The yacht had been in a mess when we had left in the morning, but now it was sparkling; decks scrubbed; clothes washed and hanging out to dry; the galley spotless.
“You’ve certainly been busy, Steve,” Sonia murmured as we climbed aboard.
“Yes, and by the look of Mike’s back,” he replied. “I haven’t been the only one!”
She turned and fled down into the saloon, his laughter following her as she made her escape. A minute later one of my shirts came flying up through the hatch, the implication clear.
“Tell you what, Mike,” he said, passing up the last of the three tins of film from the rubber boat. “Why don’t we all go out on the town and celebrate?”
“But we can’t leave the yacht unattended.”
“We won’t have to,” he said. “We’re getting short on fresh water, and I was thinking of motoring her down to Luganville in a few days, in any case.” He looked up at the sky. “There’s still a few hours of daylight left, so why don’t we do it now?”
“Great!” I replied.
“There’s supposed to be a motel with a good French restaurant down the channel past Luganville. We could anchor the Belle off the motel and keep an eye on her while we eat. You could rig up that alarm you’ve been fiddling with.”
I had found an old fog horn in the lazaret and had toyed with the idea of wiring it to the battery bank, with a trip switch connected to the main hatch. As soon as the doors were opened, she would boom out. The only way to turn it off would be by disconnecting the battery – which would take a few minutes – or by flicking a concealed switch. I already had most of the wiring set up.
“Okay,” I said. “You’re on. I’ll give Sonia a shout. She can give us a hand with the moorings and anchor chain.”
The mooring lines were no trouble. It only took a few minutes to untie them, fix buoys to the ends and toss them into the water. The chain took a little longer.
Nobody was likely to go poking about the wreck. They would be decompressing in the dark if they did. I haven’t met many people who will go diving at night. The enveloping blackness hides too many unknown terrors.