X-Ray Vision Ch. 13: Ever After

Unreeling the cable, he had extra weights to make it play out without a hitch. I'd not wanted him tethered to it, nightmare scenarios playing out in my mind of Tito stuck underwater, attached to a fouled cable. He'd taken a torch on his belt, a concession to me, could cut himself free if need be.

He was down now, only 50 feet to the bottom, cable unreeling flawlessly. I directed him to Nick the same way, his arm describing an arc in the darkness, me saying Stop! when it was right, the water still a little cloudy from the just-quiescent current.

They met, finding one another by their headlamps, still pretty dark down there. Nick unhitched her tether, had left it attached in case Tito needed it to guide him in.

The cable ends un-hitched flawlessly, Tito handed one off to Nick and kept one. Dropped his extra weights; he'd abandon them there.

Circled the crate, found the hooks, snapped the cables on, tightened the fallback clamps. Checked the hooks for rust or corrosion, but I could see they were sound, stainless, told them so.

The sling had unwound and spread as they drew the cables apart, on the seaward side of the crate, resting on the bottom. Tito operated a gizmo, tightened it a bit, snug against the crate, Nick helping spread it to cover one whole side, took up the remaining slack with a bungee.

I congratulated them, scanned the horizon again, gave the all-clear. They started up, each dropping more weight to speed their ascent.

I directed them slightly to avoid the boat, didn't want to come up right underneath, bang against it. Once their heads broke water I hailed them, waved, got their all-ok signal back.

They boarded the diver-lift, turned the handle and it raised them to the deck.

And that was it! For now.

I wanted to help here, assist them climbing aboard, take their tanks but they'd nix'd that. They would help each other, keep me in the cockpit, safe from stupid accidents, tripping or falling in or breaking something. Didn't reflect on me very well, but they were the diving experts, and I was a simple landlubber. I'd swallowed my pride, had agreed.

And they needed me safe and sound, to make the rest work! Not injured or drowned in a dumb accident. Tito thought of everything, had backup plans for his backup plans.

They racked their tanks, unbuckled equipment belts, stripped off their diving suits. Looking like two seals, half-naked, strong and lean, wet and oiled (to make the suits go on without binding). Smiling but still careful, methodical with everything they did, no wasted motion, practiced.

Tito came to the pilothouse, relieved me at my watch. Nick was attaching a buoy to the cable standing end, double-checked the fitting, then cut the cable loose. We would find our way back using a combination of the buoy, Tito's recorded GPS position and my direction. Triply redundant, so the cargo could be reliably recovered even under multiple catastrophic failure scenarios.

One of which was me, I couldn't help thinking.

Wound the tether she'd left below, we would need it again for the second dive, the retrieval.

"Fancy some fishing?" Tito was half joking. We'd decided early on, we would actually go ocean fishing so any GPS tracking would indeed show us offshore at a believable site for sporting.

"Never caught anything! But I won't let that stop me now!"

As Nick disappeared below to clean up and change Tito got us underway. Setting a bearing calculated to bring us out of the harbor to a shoal he'd charted, I reviewed in my mind the protocol for fishing mahi-mahi. Apparently, we were after that, though I wouldn't know one if it jumped out of the water into my lap.

I was required by unanimous decision to wear a significant personal safety device whenever I left the cabins, meaning a great honking inflatable life-vest. Couldn't swim, and paddling in ocean waves was no laughing matter, not for a novice. I didn't like it, but I'd promised Jill I would so I did. Honestly it made me feel safer too.

It took forty minutes before Nick cut the engines and dropped the sea-anchor at our chosen spot. Tito had surrendered the pilot's post so he could also clean up and dress for the sporting portion of our escapade.

He was now lounging on the forward deck under the ten-ton winch, on a plastic lawn chair beside a garish cooler containing a brick of sparkling water. Wearing something he called his 'lucky fishing kit' which looked like canvas pants and an S and M leather harness. It held a fishing pole in a socket in the midsection, though it looked like something meant for deviant sexual acts.

I joined him, much happier now the slap-slap-shimmy-surge of the boat cresting waves had stopped. Another ten minutes of that I'd have been bent over the rail, losing what breakfast I'd reluctantly eaten this morning. I knew from experience that ocean waves didn't much agree with me, from that long-ago whale watching cruise. Riding comfortably at anchor, I was feeling much more relaxed.

Nick bounced up the stairs from the cabins, joined us, raided the cooler, popped a can and handed it to me, got one for herself. I was unable to do much but sit in my safety gear, incapable of the bend required to reach into the cooler.

Sitting for now, admiring the view, which was spectacular, blue blue sky, high sparse clouds scudding before a southerly wind, Nick raised her can. We touched it with ours, took a long pull. Burped as one.

"Take it easy! We have all morning to spend out here. I radioed a greeting to the wives; they know we're all safe and settled."

That was our code phrase for "Sling successfully set. Fishing now." Having code phrases was cool.

Tito was in no hurry to get started. Deep-sea fishing was apparently hard work. We'd only do a couple hours then take a break, maybe cook our catch, fish some more later. Not unusual for fishing expeditions, the tradition was more beer got drunk than lines cast. Though we'd skipped the alcohol, wanting clear heads for the second act of our play.

After a good half hour relaxing from the dive, Nick asked "How's it look?"

I turned my head, found our box and buoy, just a couple miles away over clear water, this spot chosen not just for fish but to give me an unobstructed view. A little hard to distinguish from the litter on the bottom, lots of similar blocky shapes, a century of flotsam and jetsam, I could just make it out by the buoy.

"Set and secure!"

The real test was once the tide finished going out, our tackle buffeted by constant strong outgoing currents before our next window of still water.

A marlin breached a few hundred yards to our left, that's the port side if I remember right, that got Nick's attention. She brightened, smiled, got up.

"This is gonna be fun!" She was new to sport fishing, been reading up for weeks.

Tito fitted her with another of his fetish suits and they unshipped their gear from a locker on deck.

A set of special seats were already fixed to the deck, padded swivel chairs with attachments for mounting the rods, a padded bar attached to the rail. Didn't make any sense to me. I figured all would become clear once they began.

My part was observing and cheering them on. No way I could wear both my water wings and that harness. I didn't mind much; I didn't figure it was fair to the fish doing it my way anyway.

Still, I could give advice, tell them when a pod approached, whether the fish seemed to be noticing their lures, what was on their line when they got a strike. Not fair either, but ultimately it would be their skill with the rod, playing the fish, controlling the tension on the line, knowing when to reel and when to let the fish run. Getting a fish on the hook was only the beginning.

I learned by watching, the way it worked was they did some elaborate casting motion with the ludicrously long flexible rods, then set the heel of the pole in the seat attachment, leaned it on the padded rail. The rest of the time was just drinking and talking.

Just my speed.

I'd say "Marlin approaching on the port side!" or "Sixteen mahi-mahi cruising under the keel!" and other nautical-sounding things. They'd nod and do nothing, or reel and recast, or switch sides as needed to get a better chance of their lure getting the attention of some hapless marine creature.

"What's marlin taste like? Can you eat it?" I was curious. It looked spiny and nasty, bones throughout.

Tito was equivocal. "You can, you can eat anything. But it's not great. And marlin stocks are depleted. Still a fine sport fish but catch-and-release only."

Nick didn't mind, she was in it for the thrill. A stim-junkie according to Kelly, built for excitement, stimulating experiences, fear and joy mixed in her in a wonderful cocktail.

Some mahi-mahi wandered our way, in no hurry. One noticed Tito's lure, diverted.

"Mahi-mahi about to..." but my warning was too late, his line tightened with a twang! and his pole bent an unlikely distance. I thought it would surely snap but no, it was some graphite composite, made for this. Cost a pretty penny, but still nothing compared to the other gear. Had to bring good stuff to make the fishing cover believable!

Tito tethered to his pole, took it from the seat-holder, put the butt into that socket in his harness. Let it reel for a bit, quite a bit, a hundred yards! Then when the marlin slacked off, he began to reel.

Alternating reeling with heaving on the pole, the butt a fulcrum in that socket over his stomach, he reduced the distance from fish to boat, halving those hundred yards before it rallied, took off again!

Third time through this dance and Nick had a strike! I'd been completely distracted by Tito's struggle, so could give no warning.

Nick lit up, grabbed her pole, went through the drill, tethered, mount it in the harness, let it play out with resistance set low.

Now we had two fights going on! Fights to the death since both were mahi-mahi, destined for the grill. I knew we could eat these, thick meaty white flesh. And I'd had it before, at the Cancun Mexican place, in a taco.

Tito's was tiring, taking longer between rallies, coming closer to the boat with each reel. The poor fish didn't look like it had much left, just intermittently struggling, no longer any fight in it. Tito raised the resistance on his reel, making it that much harder for the exhausted fish.

Nick's was a different matter. Two rallies and it was nearly at the end of her reel, getting further with each attempt. She could not make as much progress between rallies as Tito, just didn't have the same arm strength or speed.

No problem, we had spare reels, she could snap the line onto it and keep paying out, it would eventually tire.

But she waited a moment too long, just as she was snapping the second line on, the first reel came to its limit and Twang! it parted. Not at her pole, but after the leader near the fish, designed to part first so you didn't leave the escaped sportfish trailing a quarter mile of line.

"Dang!" I paraphrase here, as she actually had more colorful language at her disposal, used it all, berating herself.

Disappointed, she re-racked the spare reel, began bringing in her line.

Tito's was at the endgame, and he stepped to the diver-lift to land it. Nick saw, racked her pole, grabbed the net. Like a butterfly net but bigger, stronger, a very long pole, like those things pool cleaners use.

The fish was just under the pole tip now, cruising in a circle, spent. Timing it perfectly Nick did a sweep and had it!

It gave one last desperate thrash, but Nick wasn't having any of it, her shoulders and torso swelling, kept her grip, hefted the sizeable fish onto the platform.

These things could grow to enormous lengths, as big and heavy as a person but this was a medium schooling fish, maybe three feet from tip to tail. Still plenty of meat on it.

Tito had racked his pole, was ready with pliers. Put a hand through one gill, worked the lure hook out with the other. Nick had gone to the pilothouse wall, opened the cold locker set into the deck, ready.

Tito raised it from one arm, got one last wriggle! that made him smile, dumped it into the locker.

I bent, examined the now-quiet fish laying on ice, instantly sedated by the cold. It would easily feed the five of us, and Billie too. Maybe stretch as far as Khang and Phuong but I knew Khang wasn't all that fond of fish.

Nick looked up with flushed face, bright eyes. "Man! What a fighter! Great job, Tito!"

Tito was normally immune to praise but this was all for fun, got a pleased look out of him.

"There's more fish in the sea!" and they went back to their seats. Tito re-cast while Nick refitted new leader and lure, then cast her own.

The school was some distance off now, I gestured in the general direction, got nods and they re-set.

Wasn't long and they each got another strike, almost simultaneously. Both these were landed successfully, taking a bare twenty minutes this time. I did the honors at the cold hatch, bracing myself against the pilothouse wall to be able to bend down that far.

Looking at the three monsters in the ice, Nick shook her head, grinning.

"Kind of like shooting fish in a barrel, when you have your own long-range fish-finder on board!"

"You still have to do all the same work! We just save some time this way."

I got slapped on the back in any case, a real member of the team! Felt good.

The school had moved on. We could have followed but didn't want to get too far from our chosen spot, lose sight of our real target.

Didn't take long and a stream of bluefish came by. Only Nick got a strike this time, and when it circled the boat it fouled her line in our sea-anchor chain, snapped it.

We broke for lunch.

"Break down one of your fish? Or eat the packed lunch?"

They were unanimous, save the fish for a celebration onshore with the family, a fish fry. We'd eat our tinned meat, fruit salad, get back to fishing quicker that way.

But after lunch and a rest in the lawn chairs, fishing had lost its luster. Talk turned to the bay and the buoy.

They cast a couple of times, but their hearts were not in it. Fidgety, thinking of raising the salvage, going over the plan again in their minds.

We had two hours before our scheduled return and I called it.

"Let's go back! If we meet someone, are asked about it, we'll just say I was getting seasick, you are giving me a break."

They nodded, happy to stow their gear and get out of those harnesses. The straps left red striped on their bare skin, but they didn't seem to notice.

Not ready to get into diving gear so soon, two hours to kill, Nick didn't bother re-dressing, just lounged in a deck chair while Tito raised anchor, set a bearing and tooled us back into the bay.

She looked like a different person from the skinny kid we'd met last year. Swimming is the best possible sport for developing core strength, and it showed.

Bare from the waist up, she had a very visible six-pack, pectorals that made her modest bust into something significant. Shoulders that swelled every time she turned to say something, to grab another drink from the cooler. Thighs like no tomorrow!

She saw me watching, glanced down at her torso, grinned at me. "You should try it! Swimming is the shits for fitness!"

I agreed, it had done a number on her.

"I'll stick to my walking exercise! I need the ground under my feet!"

Months of weekly practice, then daily training under Tito's guidance had hardened her. Jill had despaired of ever seeing her at work again, had actually replaced her on the phone bank with an Auntie. Said it was temporary, but I don't see her returning to the office. Not her thing, not any more.

We sat, said nothing while the headlands approached, flanked us. Best friends, totally at ease with our own company, no need to fill the air with chatter.

Tito was sitting bolt upright in the Captain's chair in the pilothouse, scanning the horizon, checking the gauges, looking behind, consulting the GPS. Repeat. Like a machine, Tito on the job was a marvel of discipline. Never mind the unbuttoned shirt, the Captain's cap, he wasn't fooling anybody, he wasn't on vacation. He was working.

On GPS he found the spot ok, but the current had shifted the buoy. I did a little fine adjustment, got us overhead and Nick dropped anchor, a little seaward which was our plan.

We meant to use the winch to tip the box onto the sling, then bring it up in that attitude, in case a cargo hook failed or the box breached, the sling would contain it all. Almost literally, belt and suspenders.

The current was still too strong to get in the water. No matter, we sat and admired the bay, the sky.

Tito radioed we were 'taking a break' which was code for 'over the target'. Kelly asked if we were tired of fishing, which wasn't code, and Tito responded with our line about me needing calmer water. They believed it, even giggled which damaged my ego a little.

At least they were over their worries.

Some pleasure craft were out on the water, mostly close to shore or if they got near, they were just leaving the bay or returning. None close enough even to hail them. We felt very private.

Nick waited impatiently; waiting wasn't her strong suit. But finally, Tito checked his watch, stowed his empty can and stood.

Nick sprang to her feet, got busy. Pulled the tarp off the racked tanks, covered so we didn't have to explain to anybody why they were there. Greased herself up, shiny as an otter, pulled on her scuba suit. Checked with me one last time, buoy just under the surface, below pleasure-boat prop depth so no risk to the public.

Got into her tank and mask. Didn't have to help Tito, she would be going down alone this trip.

Attached two tethers, one for buoy recovery, one for herself. Hooked two splice jigs onto her belt, a torque wrench. Pulled out enough winch cable, let it drop into the water, looked at me.

A little more! so she hauled again, Good! Enough to reach the buoy, do the splice.

Regulator check, onto the diver lift and down she went. Checked with Tito, got his thumbs-up and sploosh!

I saw her re-orient, sort out her tethers, find the winch cable, working against the current, gentle now but still took effort.

Did the arm-sweep, got my signal and swam cautiously toward the buoy.

Once she had it in sight it went easier, she was in her element now. Attached one tether to the buoy but didn't free the buoy - it would hold the cable up until the splice was secure.

Clipping the splice to her own tether through a ring, in case she dropped it, it wouldn't get far. Fitted it to the cable under the buoy, to the winch cable end she'd brought down, tightened the screws.

When she was confident, brought the torque wrench to bear. Cranked on the screws alternately, added a bit to each gradually until they were both at the precalculated torque, adequate for our salvage weight and then double that for a margin of error.

Hauled on the winch cable, seemed secure so she unhooked herself from the splice, tripped the buoy release and got clear as it bobbed up, the cable dropped down, slack now.

We'd discussed, should she drop the second backup splice, the torque wrench at this point? Return to the surface, stow them before continuing?

Our conclusion: the less time in the water the better. So, she let them alone, dove, working against her tether and the current, enough force to make her work.

I gave Tito a play-by-play, clearly, he'd have rather been the one down there, but the winch work was gonna be tricky, he had to be up above to make that part safe.

Nick didn't really have any role down there. Nothing she could do if the crate had problems - one and a half metric tons! No human could shift that, nor should they try. She would stay clear of the cable, the sling, the box, out of harm's way, just monitor progress. Ready to reattach should something break free, give us maybe one more chance before the tide turned again.