A Dolphins Dream (3 page)

“Jesus,” was all Billy said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, it was quite an experience.”

“What about the second time”, asked Bernard.

“Pretty much the same as the first. I penetrated deeper into the ship, was a bit more relaxed. Recovered some silverware that polished up nice. But as they say, the most important thing you bring back from the Doria is yourself.  One guy lost about 60 minutes of decompression when his guideline broke and was swept off the wreck in the heavy current. He had to swim hard to recover his position and used up a lot of his air. In the confusion, he didn’t deploy the reel and lift bag he was carrying. He ascended without a line and completed his 50-foot stop, but ran out of air and had to surface. He was hit pretty hard with decompression sickness; puking, dizziness. They choppered him out and he spent 40 hours in the chamber. Got out with a bit of a gimp in his right leg. He was lucky.”

“Looks like we got a real pro diving with us,” announced Billy. “The Andria Doria is big time diving, brother. Big time!”

Jennifer turned to John Scott, the host, who was a quiet, internal man, craggy faced with a deep sea tan, in his mid-forties, thinning hair turned platinum from long days in the sun. He possessed the old, wizened eyes of a mariner who had his share of beatings by the sea and has thus made few errors in navigating the man-made shoals of daily life. “Are there any shipwrecks around these waters, Captain Scott?”

Scott brought the napkin to his mouth and hammered at its corners. “Not really. There’s an odd skiff and fishing boat that went down, but nothing of real interest.”

“God, I’d love to dive a big wreck,” she said wistfully as if referring to something other than diving.

“You can dive my big wreck anytime you like,” Billy lustfully replied, eliciting laughter all around.

Bernard remained conspicuously quiet but caught Compton’s eye and observed a deception in its shift.

Allison was still smiling when she stood. “I should think we’d probably better end the evening right there. Morning starts early here. Breakfast at sevenn.”

Everyone rose and as Compton passed John Scott he pulled him aside as the table emptied. “Are you all set for the dive tomorrow morning?”

Compton nodded confidently. “Yes, I am, thanks.”

“Just checking. This will be your first dive with us and I wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”

“I appreciate it. I’m all set and looking forward to it.”

Bernard overheard the exchange and stopped, preventing the rest of the party from leaving. “You sound pretty confident. You don’t think there’s any risk in diving tomorrow?”

Compton was clearly taken aback and instinctively became defensive. “I didn’t say that.” He then regained himself. ”In this sort of diving you just need to pay attention to one simple thing.”

“And what,” asked Bernard, finishing off his wine, “would that be?”

Compton cheerfully responded. “Look at your computer every now and again. What could be easier than that?”

Bernard had small eyes, black and dead as a reptile. Compton wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before. “Well, I know that someone with your vast diving experience would realize that when things go smoothly you are, of course, correct. It is only when things begin to go sour that one must be,” he paused for effect, ”more than casually prepared.”

John Scott, seeing where this discussion was headed, made an attempt to move the guests along, but Compton, with arm raised to deflect the interruption, responded. “I can only assume you must be speaking of your own ineptness. If you need some assistance in the water, I’ll be more than happy to help.”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” said Bernard, shaking his head in bemused disbelief. But before he could elaborate, Compton brushed by him and was out the door.  

Compton did not meander about the compound with the others, but went directly to his bure where, after closing the door and releasing a deep sigh, he shook his head in perplexed disbelief. What possessed me to do that? Why must I create those damn stories?  Stories, Michael? Out and out lies for God’s sake. That asshole Bernard, I let him bully me into it. People just can’t leave well enough alone. I wasn’t bothering anybody. Christ, what bullshit! He began to chuckle at the wildness of his story. He was always amazed when these elaborate deceptions would just spew out of him. Where did they come from? I’ve been doing it ever since I was a kid, he thought. My clever ways got me out of some serious jams. I never got caught and if they came close I would cover it with another, more outrageous story. I should have been a writer. Put this stuff to some positive use. I detest that part of me. It’s such a weakness.

His self-loathing turned him to the window where he stared into the last of a smoky sunset. I strive towards the truth in myself, he thought, and wind up telling lies. I want the truth. I admire honesty in others, but can’t find it in myself. Now all this shame. It always ends this way. I know the outcome before I start and yet I go right on, caught up in the moment of center stage. It’s self-destructive. I can’t go among these people, face them in the morning. Them believing I’m this mix-gas wreck diver who goes to 250 feet.  Christ, what was I thinking?

Visions of the white beaches of Australia circled his mind like mosquitoes on a sunburned tourist. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said aloud to the remnant sunset and began to absently repack his gear bag. I’ll leave on the first plane tomorrow. Tell everybody I’m recovering from chemotherapy treatments, doctor’s orders, shouldn’t have thought about diving in the first place. He shook his head, bewildered at this thing in his brain that would just take off like that and fabricate something other than the truth. The fact was, he silently mused, he couldn’t stand up to the truth. Never could when the stakes got over his head. It always had to be bigger and beer than the next guy. The realization was sobering. He longed for the truth in himself, but it seemed distant and unavailable. He always ran or lied, usually both. And he would run again and he loathed himself for these self-destructive flaws.

The decision to leave mortared itself into reality while he gazed sightlessly across a panorama of golden rays of an already sunken sun mirrored on the table-flat sea.

Across the pane of sea a single dolphin jumped.

It was a moment that shattered the endless chatter that filled his mind, leaving it as stilled as the water. The slick dolphin, plated in gold, suspended at the apex of its jump. The moment held, altered in time, as if to make eye contact somehow possible. Then slowly, the dolphin arched its body downward and reentered the water like freshly smelted gold pouring into a sea of platinum. He continued to stare out to sea watching the ripples where the dolphin had vanished, looking for it to break water again but it never reappeared.

Michael Compton did not believe in omens. He did not believe in astrology or palmistry or channeling, UFO’s or psychics. He had little use for symbols of any kind unless they were found on a set of blueprints. Yet he stood stunned, not so much at the obvious symbolism but at the absolute clarity of the message. Unable as the shoe in his left hand to conjure up a thought, he tried unsuccessfully to throw the shoe into his gear bag. It fell short and hit the floor. When finally his eyes left the sea, he collapsed on the bed, knowing at once he could not leave but not knowing why. The reasonless decision dropped him to his knees, which had suddenly gone weak. Perhaps he had glimpsed the truth and could no longer deny it. Perhaps he had no lies left in him. Perhaps it was here in this obscure place in the middle of the South Pacific that he had to finally make a stand. Maybe he was just tired of running from himself. Those thoughts did not enter his mind, could not enter. He only knew he could not leave, not just yet. The depth with which he knew this could not be fathomed or wrenched away from the reality of the moment. He only knew that he would not leave, could not resist the power of the idea, and certainly could not put a name to its source.

The breakfast call came at 7 AM sharp. In contrast to last night, Compton was the first to arrive and seated down to a freshly set table with cold papaya, scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon and Kona coffee, which the Fijian cook, Esther, poured from a fine ceramic pitcher. The others straggled in and said their “good mornings” in the polite and affected way of those who meant nothing of the kind. All were excited about the dive save for Bernard who continued to stare at Michael Compton with his reptilian eyes.

“All this must seen very small time to you,” remarked Billy to Compton. “What with the Andrea Doria, and all.” 

Michael looked up from his eggs feigning mild surprise, then shifted into a bout of false modesty. “No, actually I find these dives equally exciting, though less anxiety filled,” he replied, feeling the awkwardness of the lie creep into his voice, wishing above all else that the Andrea Doria would simply go away, at the same time knowing that it wouldn’t. Now, he realized, he would have to live with the lie in some form of purgatory for as long as he resided here at the resort.

“Well, I would love to buddy up with you,” continued Billy. “I’m sure I could learn a few things about deep dives, but the wife and I pretty much stick together. You probably don’t want a buddy, anyway.  I know a lot of experienced divers prefer to dive solo.”

“I suppose that depends on the dive,” said Compton, attempting to finish off the conversation.

“No, actually it depends on the diver,” chirped in Bernard, sneering out the remark as he sat down to his breakfast.

Compton, in almost a reflex response, pushed his plate of ha-eaten eggs away, grabbed his coffee and excused himself from the table. Bernard received castigating looks from Billy and the gay couple, Ian and Jason, to which he grinned in response.

The unease with which Compton now found himself with these guests was very nearly unbearable. He strolled the grounds finishing off his coffee, taking in the sights of early morning Taveuni, which were spectacular, his mind unable to let go of the realization that he had to leave this self-imposed torture chamber. He could not discern how or why the breaching dolphin might, in any way, have altered that simple fact. Sleep had, as it usually does, softened and nearly obliterated the impact of the dolphin’s appearance and now he was at a loss as to its influence at all. It became abundantly clear he would leave the island or, at the very least, change resorts upon his return from the dives this afternoon.

The call came to load up. Compton, along with the guests, gathered his dive gear and all were ferried by truck down to a small inlet five miles from the resort that served as a harbor, of sorts, as well as a safe port for the hurricanes that blew through these islands on a regular basis.

The boat was open for the most part and its forty-foot length easily accommodated the eight divers, who sat on aluminum benches as it skipped over the water pushed by twin Honda Nineties. Compton sat next to Ian who had become nervous and was twittering away in his anxiety. Seeking reassurances from Jason that although he would jump first, he would not leave him and they would descend down the anchor line together. Bernard and his wife sat across from Compton and were sharing a private joke that he believed was directed at him, for they both shot furtive glances through their giggles.

The boat ran for nearly half an hour and as it began to slow, John Scott stood and spoke. “We’re diving the Flower Garden this morning, spectacular white sea anemone filling an entire deep wall. Have you all had some wall diving experience?” He looked for responses and everyone nodded except Compton who felt no need to extend his lies further into this fine morning. Scott’s eyes flicked over the group and came to rest on Compton, but he said nothing and Scott continued. 

“This is the deep dive of the day, down to one hundred and twenty feet. Do we have anyone here who has a tendency to get narced at that depth?” Everyone but Compton shook his head. “Okay then,” continued Scott, “everybody check their gear and prepare their computers. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Compton had already hooked up his regulator and buoyancy compensator to the tank. The regulator had been serviced before he left the States and was working fine. However, the BC had apparently corroded somewhat and though it filled easily under pressure, did not discharge the air in single burps, instead seeping out slowly in a telltale whistle. Its high pitched squeak caught the attention of Ian and Jason, forcing him to abandon his tinkering with the air release valve to sustain his deception of the all-knowing superior diver.

The boat slowed and an Indian girl, Emily, the only crew member and a creature of singular beauty with large brown eyes, a full sensuous mouth and blue-black hair braided into a single strand that ran the length of her back, dropped anchor off the bow.  

The divers slipped into their rigs and while last minute adjustments took place, Compton once again tried to release the remainder of air out of the partially inflated BC. But as the air trickled out and the valve began to whistle and draw stares, he turned his attention to putting on his mask and fins. Now the divers were standing and inching their way to the stern and jumping in under Scott’s instruction. “Swim to the anchor line. There’s a light current running. Drop down the line and we’ll meet on the anchor at the edge of the wall.” 

Compton passed a box of weights and grabbed two of unknown poundage, placing them in his C pocket to compensate for the inflation, then jumped into the water and swam to the anchor line. He figured he could pull himself down until he hit neutral buoyancy and then the partially inflated BC would no longer be a factor. Also, at depth the additional pressure would discharge the remaining air and he could then dump the extra weight. He reached the anchor line with no difficulty and, along with everyone else, began to descend. The inflated BC was working directly against his descent. While others glided down with easy kicks, he was forced to pull himself down the line hand-over-hand. Halfway down to the forty-foot bottom he attempted to release the air from the still inflated BC, but it continued to dribble out in a slow stream of bubbles. The diver above, one of the Germans on her way to the anchor, passed him, giving a strange look, which seemed to fall somewhere between disbelief and disapproval.            Compton held onto the line to keep from rising and with his free hand attempted to work the BC, his movements beginning to slide into the frantic, jerky, gestures of the grossly incompetent. On the bottom, divers were pointing off over the edge of the wall where, swimming in the mid-water column, was a lone dolphin – silver gray, large bodied, with an ever-present smile. It seemed to hang in the water, casually eyeing the divers and their kaleidoscopic bevy of bubbles that rose to the surface, capturing the hidden light of the sea, dancing their way to oblivion.