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Sharks scare the hell out of me. This one wasn’t big as sharks go – about two metres. Big enough to take a leg off at the thigh, or a chunk out of your stomach. And where there is one, there’s bound to be a couple more.
I tapped the others on the shoulder and let them know what I had seen. Sonia crammed in against me. We formed a tight bunch; shoulder to shoulder; hips together; each one watching the other’s back.
He came in once more, circling closer. I waved the crowbar at him. The long black rod of steel had more uses than levering stair-rails out of the way. He veered off and then rushed in again, swerving away at the last minute, beady eyes fixed on the crowbar. I handed it to Steve. The shark would come in from his direction on the next pass.
But he didn’t. He circled around, and then around again; watching us, as though sniffing a scent. He must have seen us many times as we had hung on the chain, but never this late in the day, never this close to his feeding time.
What was going through his tiny brain? Were we edible, or were we trouble? I knew the answer to that one. It was us that were in trouble – big trouble! If he brought his friends we wouldn’t stand a chance. He circled once more, moving further out into the haze until he became just a shadow behind the cloud of plankton.
And then he came in! With a rush; with a speed twice that of before!
I turned to meet him as Sonia grabbed my arm. The grey twisting shape rolled over onto its side, opening its ugly mouth, the jagged teeth ready to rip into us!
Steve thrust the crowbar at him; more by reflex than anything else; the point lancing straight into the topmost eye socket, guided by the slope of the sleek head, ripping into his brain, ramming the crowbar from Steve’s grasp as he smashed through us, flinging us from the chain.
The powerful tail slashed across my tanks as he convulsed and thrashed, the water swirling. One last crashing slap of the tail and he disappeared away into deeper water; perhaps to die, perhaps to be torn apart by others of his kind.
I looked around, praying he hadn’t managed to sink his teeth into any of us; searching for a cloud of blood. None.
Steve was three metres below me – knocked there by the force of the collision – making his way back up the chain.
Where was Sonia? She had been holding on to me when the shark had struck. She wouldn’t have gone down. I spun, searching, but there was no sign. Then a moving flipper touched the upper corner of my vision.
She was striking for the surface, petrified. She wasn’t the only one. I lunged out after her, grabbing her by the ankle, tugging her back down. She let out a scream, bubbles bursting forth, nearly losing her mouthpiece; fighting to escape, thinking the shark had attacked again. I pulled her over to the chain and spun her about, letting her see that it was me, and not some coarse-skinned monster from the dep. She threw her arms around my neck, crushing her face-mask into mine, fear mirrored in her eyes, terrified, confused.
She had to come back down. Climbing back on to the yacht would bring about the same result as losing the fight with the shark, but more painful – death from the bends.
Steve stayed with us throughout the remaining eons of our decompression. He could have gone up long before we finally surfaced; Sonia and I still with the residual time from the morning dive. We hung on the chain, counting the minutes, counting the seconds. We used up most of the air from the three reserve bottles strapped to the chain; watching and waiting, our senses alert for another attack. But we spent the hour alone. Even the normally ever-present Angel fish had deserted our company.
I staggered from the duckboard over the stern and onto the back deck; exhausted and drained. Sonia dropped her gear on the deck; looked at me, ashen-faced, and stumbled down to her bunk, collapsing in a heap.
Steve and I started the backbreaking task of lifting the heavy power cable back up onto the yacht. Was it all worth it? I was in no condition to answer. Tired, confused, and a little lonely. There was still work to be done down below. I set the compressor going. We would need fresh tanks in the morning, and most of them were now empty. Steve looked up at me as he finished connecting the first bottle.
“Why don’t you hit the sack for a while? I’ll give you a nudge when I’ve filled two of these twin-packs and you can finish the rest.”
I gave a nod and dragged myself to my feet. “Smartest thing you’ve said all day, old buddy,” I mumbled as I crashed my way through the hatch. “See you in an hour or so.”
He called me at nine. I rolled out of the bunk, not knowing where I was at first; then grabbed a glass of water and climbed out on to the deck as Steve disappeared into his cabin. My eyes kept closing. It was a battle to keep them open; the rhythm of the compressor calling for sleep even though the racket it was making would wake the dead. I thought of Artie and Jack. They would sleep forever.
I left the last two single tanks. We could do those in the morning. I didn’t even remember dropping back down into the saloon, or the softness of my pillow.
––––––––
Daylight. The smell of freshly made coffee. Someone shaking me by the arm. Long blonde hair cascading into my mouth, my nose, my eyes.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” the voice said. “The new day is awaiting!”
“Come here, you lovely creature,” I whispered. “The day can wait, but I’ve got something here that can’t!”
––––––––
There was no-one to be seen on the beach or on the water. We sat around on the back deck, watching and waiting for a Police launch to appear around the bend; but there was nothing.
“What do you reckon, Steve?” I asked. “Do we take a chance and go down for the coins?”
“The longer they stay down there,” he replied. “The more chance there is of somebody finding them, whether it be the cops or somebody else. For all we know, with the way our luck’s been lately, there might be a diving party landing at the airfield right now. You know, one of those big organized souvenir-hunting tour groups.”
I laughed at his suggestion. I could visualize twenty or thirty divers struggling down the beach, across the rocks and into the water; all searching for lucky gold-pieces.
“He’s right, Mike,” Sonia said, interrupting my thoughts. “We’ve pushed our luck far enough as it is. Let’s get them up now!”
“Okay,” I said. “Who’s coming down with me?”
Sonia looked anxiously at Steve.
“It’s all right, Sonny,” he said, smiling at her. “I’ll go.”
She reached over and took my hand. “Be careful, Mike. Please be careful!”
Steve showed her where to bash on the side of the yacht’s hull with a hammer, sending down a vibration to give us warning of any boats moving in the channel – or anyone on the beach.
We got the three iron boxes on board and hidden in the chain locker just before noon.
We dealt with the boxes one at a time, carrying them down into the saloon, emptying the coins onto the table, counting them and rolling them up. The three hoses in the lazaret became heavier and heavier. By evening the last of the coins had been concealed. Steve took the Zodiac well out into the middle of the channel and dropped the boxes into the deep, letting them fall to the bottom to join the others he had taken out earlier the previous morning.
It was a relaxed table that evening, as we shared a bottle of chilled Riesling; the feeling of a job almost finished and the rewards collected. For only the second time that week we got to bed at an early hour.
––––––––
Our last day on the Coolidge. I went down and dragged the lighting cable back onto the side of the wreck, our deception a complete waste of time. Those Frenchmen back at the Gendarmerie were probably sitting on their soft backsides waiting for the tide to bring in the other two bodies.
Back on deck, Steve and I hauled the cable up onto the duckboard. Sonia helped us to coil it and drop it carefully into the lazaret, right on top of those lengths of hose. Then it was down again for a final check on the Sea Post Office; if I could get in, that is. I gave up after the second staircase. Our efforts at blocking the passages had been better than we had thought. The only thing I found was one of the cutting rods. I dropped it into the silt.
By evening we had the big arc-welder back through the skylight, repeating the procedure that had gone on before. We would dismantle it and throw the pieces overboard as we sailed along.
Steve was all for getting into the champagne, but I was still cautious. “Not until we’re out of territorial waters! We haven’t succeeded until we’re safely away from the place.”
“Okay,” he replied. “But a bottle of Moselle wouldn’t be out of place would it?”
We succumbed to temptation.
“Tell me, Steve,” I asked. “You seemed to have organized everything else. What arrangements have you made for converting the coins into cool crisp dollar notes?”
We sat hunched across the dining table as he went through what he had planned: the bank; the dealers; the country; the rewards.
––––––––
Next morning I went down and let go all the mooring lines, and we swung on the anchor chain until everything was neatly stowed away; then headed for Luganville, for water and fuel.
“Right!” I called to Steve. “Full speed for Santo! Let’s get that local clearance and get the hell out of here!”
He laughed and pushed the throttle full forward. I turned around, taking a last look at the resting place of that once great ship. We would be passing her on the way out; but from the middle of the channel. It wouldn’t be so personal. I looked at the others. They felt it too. It was as though we were leaving a friend behind.
––––––––
Develac was in the Harbour Master’s office when we arrived to have our papers stamped.
“What, mes amis!” he exclaimed, the surprise lighting his face. “You are leaving already? You have completed your assignment?”
He had reason to be surprised. We hadn’t said anything about leaving. Maybe we should have, but by leaving it to the last minute, we hadn’t given them time to think, time to arrange a detailed search of the Belle.
“Well, Captain,” Steve said, a smile on his face. “It’s partly your fault, if you must know.”
Develac was taken aback. “Pardon?” he blurted out.
“Yes,” Steve continued. “All that talk of missing divers. You’ve put a jinx on the area.”
“Un jinx?” he mumbled. “Qu’est ce que c’est un jinx?”
The Harbour Master spurted off a couple of quick sentences in French, no doubt explaining the meaning of the word. He turned back to Steve.
“Mais, er, what ‘as ‘appened?” He sounded perplexed.
Steve told him about the shark, stretching its length by another metre; and then about the panic I had experienced when I had run out of air. It made no difference that they had happened days apart. He simply joined both incidents together, compounding the dangers.
“You should see the tear in my wetsuit,” Sonia added, lifting the hem of her miniskirt. “Look what the brute did to me!”
The Harbour Master nearly fell off his chair trying to get a better look. The both clicked their tongues in horror at the bruise the shark had caused to her thigh. They weren’t to know she had bashed it on the side of the welder whilst trying to beat me to the shower.
The Harbour Master called for coffee and biscuits. We were stuck there for the next half hour, itching to get away. The whisky bottle came out.
“No thanks, gentlemen,” Steve said, shaking his head. “We never drink at sea.”
“But you are not yet at sea,” Develac said, taking the top off the bottle. “One glass. It can’t do any harm.”
“No, perhaps next time,” Steve replied. “We have to be clear of the reef before dark. If we had radar it’d be no problem. You wouldn’t want us to come to grief now, would you?” There were shakes of both heads. “No, we must go now if you don’t mind.”
“Certainement!” the Harbour Master agreed. “But first we must have a little look on board your yacht.”
“What for!” Steve exclaimed, as though his integrity was being questioned.
“It is a mere formality, I assure you,” the Harbour Master answered quickly. “The authorities have become most concerned about divers removing valuable items from the wreck. I am told that nearly all of the lights have been stolen and even some of the makers’ plates from the engine room. It is terrible! But I am certain that you have taken nothing. No?”
He waved his finger at us as it we were naughty boys caught with our hands in the cookie jar.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied. “No problem at all. But could you get someone to do it straight away, please. We are in a bit of a hurry. If we don’t leave within the next hour, we’ll be stuck here for another day. Not that we wouldn’t enjoy your company for dinner, it’s just that we’re ready to sail and everything’s stowed away.”
I didn’t want them offside. So far they had been co-operative. It would be a shame to spoil a perfect friendship, and be stuck here for a week or two while they stripped the yacht, looking for artifacts – and finding the coins.
“Of course, certainement,” the Harbour Master said with a smile. “We too, would have enjoyed dinner. They serve a very fine meal down at Le Relais Bougainville. But, no, you are eager to go. I can understand that. I will come myself and check your boat personally. Come, we will go now.”
The five of us – Develac included – strolled down to the wharf. The yacht had been fuelled in our absence and the fresh water topped up. Steve hauled a bundle of notes from his pocket and settled the account with the wharfinger.
The examination was cursory to say the least. They walked into the saloon, poked a head in Steve’s cabin, and had me lift up the steel hatch of the lazaret. Nothing in there but the compressor, tools, diving gear and some lengths of spare hose. They even glanced into the chain locker. They were looking for artifacts. We hadn’t so much as souvenired a single port-hole, hadn’t taken a single thing. Well, not so much as you would notice.
“And that hatch over there?” the Harbour Master asked, his foot pointing at the sail locker just aft of the chain locker, his question hanging in the air.
“It’s where we keep the sails,” Steve answered. “Not the place for stowing dirty old pieces of brass from that fine wreck. Would you like to look inside? It’ll mean pulling all the sails out.”
The catches weren’t latched, although I was certain I had fastened them before we started our run down the channel. Perhaps the Marine Department had already started to search the yacht. It would explain their efforts to get us to have a drink, delaying our departure. The Harbour Master interrupted my chain of thought.
“No, Monsieur,” he said. “I am sure it is not necessary. Here are your papers. We look forward to seeing you on your next visit to Santo.”
There would be no next time, mon ami!
I cast off the lines, fore and aft, and Steve conned her out into the stream. We waved as we drew away from the wharf, leaving the two Frenchmen oblivious to their ignorance, smiles on their faces. Little did they know of the golden eagles to which they were waving farewell!
They presumed we were bound for Vila, for final clearance from Vanuatu. They were mistaken. Vila would never see us again. As soon as we were out of sight and swallowed up by the darkness there would be a drastic change of course, a ninety degree turn to the east; heading for South America.
By the time the sun rose in the morning we would be as far away as the engine and sails could take us.