Alive
By: Aviantei
8 mph
The water closes around me in a cold cocoon of liquid sensation, but I keep my eyes open. Making sure to breathe through my mouth and not my nose, I can see the well-lit waters blur into near black below. Cunningham plunges down into the water beside me, taking a moment to stabilize. I flash him an okay signal, than point a thumb up to the surface—a reminder that we need to move out of the way for the rest of our party and reconvene above water for further instruction.
Cunningham's hand starts to form a thumbs up, then he remembers to make the "okay" signal instead. He kicks his legs and I do the same, making sure to keep my pace even and not too rushed. Water pushes resistance against my flippers, but soon my head's back up in regular air. Cunningham breaks the surface a few feet away from me, and we join the group gathered around our guide several meters away from the ship.
A few more splashes follow behind us, the last being the second dive guide. The two employees ask about how everyone's doing so far. I notice a teenage girl looking nervous. The kids from before seem okay, their small hands clasped underneath the water. Cunningham nods his steady condition, looking just as home in the water as he does driving a massive robot at two-hundred miles an hour. It would've been funnier if he couldn't swim well.
I tread water and let my body adjust to the feeling. Though it's been some time since I went any form of swimming, let alone diving, my arms and legs keep just the right pace to not strain themselves against the water. Seagulls cry as they fly overhead. The ocean is at peace, but it's not any means boring. It's a place full of potential dangers, ready to tip over any second.
Out of consideration for many of the first-timers' already frazzled nerves, the dive guides don't list as many worries as they could. They give reminders to keep an eye on our air level again, to stick with at least one partner, to not touch any wildlife, and to not wonder too far from the dive area, marked with underwater buoys.
"Anyone who wants to adjust a little more to being underwater can stay here with me," the male instructor is saying. "Those with a bit more experience can go and head down with Jennifer." His colleague waves and swims a bit away, leaving space for the groups to separate. "If she sees any complications, she may send you back up for a bit, but you'll all be able to check out the ship. We have a couple of hours here, after all, so let's make sure we're all safe and have a good time!"
The small pair of children almost swim to Jennifer's side, but their guardians keep them back. The teenager stays behind with who I guess is her girlfriend, keeping a reassuring arm around her shoulder. My first instinct is to dive under already, but I glance over to Cunningham. He has the less experience here, so it's his call, as much as I hate to admit it.
Cunningham's long arm cuts through the water as he swims towards Jennifer. My reach isn't as long as his, but I keep pace without much trouble. Jennifer counts our heads and moves us farther from the practice group so instructions don't overlap. "Okay, the Emerald R. is about one-hundred feet down. You should know you'll have to adjust to the pressure. We'll circle the outside of the wreck first, then head inside the accessible chambers. Everyone, check your lights real fast." She flashes her own dive light once. A few button clicks later and all party members have blinded the person next to them. "Right, we're gonna head down slow, so get ready."
There's a rustle as everyone adjusts their gear one last time. As soon as Jennifer's head disappears beneath water, I head below, too, adjusting my body to the change in rhythm breathing. My airflow sends loud tremors through my ears as ocean fills them. The image of ocean peace is not an accurate one, at least until your brain stops registering the sound of your breathing.
I sink down a bit deeper than Jennifer's set depth but no further. Our collection of nine divers all acclimate to the water at their own paces, highlights in their wet suits helping them stand out against the water. Cunningham takes a few wobbling kicks before he gets the hang of downward motion and comes to a rest beside me.
Another okay signal. So far so good.
I spin in a slow circle, trying to make sense of the layout. None of the dive area markers are in sight, which means we have a decent amount of space. Underneath the gloom of the water, I can see the Emerald R. sitting at the bottom of the ocean. I may not know a lot about old military boats, but it looks impressive enough, though I know it's not the biggest ship this dive site has to offer.
Cunningham taps my shoulder and points to Jennifer and the others, already sinking deeper into the water. We trade off thumbs down motions and follow. Bubbles stream from our rebreathers, releasing unusable air. Cunningham's wild hair looks like a clump of swaying seaweed as he swims.
The deeper we go down, the water gives way to light very easy. A school of small, shiny fish race past our left-hand side. Sand and ocean flora blend in a dark-light contrast on the ground, all overshadowed by the naval haul, sunken to the floor over a century ago. The online brochure mentioned that it's not even two-hundred feet in length, but it's hard to stare down a boat that could cover half the length of a football field and consider it small.
The paint job would have been a bright white back in its glory days. Now, time and rust and sea life make that impossible, anemones of every shape adorning the surface, from the prow to the decks to the masts. The whole boat has been transformed into a living creature, no longer bound to the aboveground concept of inanimate.
Without any peripheral vision, I have to turn my head to see Cunningham, still in the water. His own goggles block me from reading his eyes, but I can recognize a stunned awe in his relaxed body language. I itch to move closer to the ship, but I'm not stupid enough to head deeper underwater without a partner to spot me.
Jennifer points one finger to herself and moves it in a horizontal line, then points her other hand at us and trails it after the first—follow me. I stop watching Cunningham before he notices and keep up with instructions. As promised, Jennifer draws us around the boat in a slow circle, making frequent pauses for the group to gape at a particular plant arrangement or passing sea animal. Eels flick past us in dark streaks, crabs scuttle across the deck, and we even catch a glimpse of a turtle, far in the distance.
Once done on the outside, Jennifer leads us to the crack in the hull that sunk the ship in the first place. Currents have pushed the gap open further to whole wide enough for us to pass through in pairs. Higher in the water, the practice group is descending to our level.
Everyone's lights turn on as the windows are too clouded with plants and algae to let in any sunshine. There are a number of shells near the entrance, and some retreat as we approach. I've long gotten used to my breathing and the water gives no sound other than us moving through it, too slow to make much of a racket. I want to reach out, to press my palm into the waiting moss on the walls, but I keep them to myself.
A lot of the furniture and doors are deteriorated beyond recognition, wood that was never meant to be submerged under water for decades. Metal structures, such as the engine rooms downstairs, still hold their shape but none of their power. What was once a protective vessel built for speed, now nothing more than a quaint and stationary underwater tourist attraction.
I hope I pass long before I become so unable to move all I'm good for is getting stared at. But at least it's pretty.
And Cunningham's just as into exploring the crevices of the ship as everyone else is, so I'll count today as a victory.
I take pity on Cunningham and allow him to pick the food for our post-underwater snack. He chooses fast food sandwiches, and I'm amazed again at how ordinary he us. Then again, I order cheapo take out due to sheer habit myself, so maybe I'm being silly.
It could just be me, but I think he's trying really hard to act like he's not rich.
Even so, with food in our bellies and a few hours until our return flight, we have time to kill. Cunningham passes on the offer to head underwater again, so we take up one of my childhood pastimes: wandering around unfamiliar territory without the slightest idea of where we're going. I lead the charge through dirty alleyways, across beachside boardwalks, and residential neighborhoods. My spoils for the day include several pictures of passing animals, plus having taught a kid how to not fall over when attempting flips on a skateboard.
It's all rather mundane, but anything is more interesting than the walls of my penthouse, over and over. Cunningham seems a bit more relaxed than the morning when we board the plane home, and I decide to not out his identity to the stewardess when she brings us our portions of glorified snack mix.
I'll be damned if the pretzel and nuts don't taste divine, though, served in their little glass bowls. First class is the way to go, no doubt.
"You look pleased with yourself," Cunningham remarks, peeling open a banana from the fresh fruit platter. "Over confidence is most often a talented person's downfall."
I wonder if he's talking about his losses from the past two seasons—all at the hands of Team Satomi. I put on a humble smile (which is harder than it should be) and gush, "Oh, you think I'm talented? You honor me."
"Oh, you're something alright," the man deadpans, dropping a stray banana string onto his napkin. "I just can't decide whether ridiculous or eccentric fits better."
"I've always preferred unconventional." Finished stuffing my face with the best trail mix I'll ever eat, I press my nail into the peel of my orange, cutting out a circle. Juice starts to ooze over my fingers and the citrus smell hangs around me, covering up the sea salt embedded into my hair. The first order of business upon returning home is to take a shower. "What about you? Do you prefer stubborn or hard-ass?"
"Determined." Well, someone doesn't miss a beat. He adjusted to the water far better than I expected, too, for someone who's never claimed to have gone diving before. His first tenures in IG-3 and IG-2 were both undefeated, too, right, not to mention all the accomplishments in his education records.
What an over-talented guy. Can you really be so bored when you're good at so much?
I enjoy competition, but it's never been about winning for me. The rush of the action is more than enough, when it comes. Sure, skill helps you enjoy yourself more, but as I've never stuck to one thing long enough, maybe I can't emphasize with his condition.
Not that I want to. Monochrome is enough of an issue for me.
I dump the assembled orange peels into my now empty drink cup and pop a slice in my mouth. "Well, now that I have a decent idea of what you're capable of, I have some good ideas for next time. You're free in three days, right?" Cunningham gets caught up in the decision of asking what I've decided and how the hell I knew that. I'll let him wonder on both counts. "That being said…"
I lick orange juice from my fingers and toggle with my phone, purchase receipts from today on the screen before I toss it to Cunningham. He manages to catch it with a single hand, banana still aloft in the other.
"…I'd like reimbursement for your entertainment fees today," I say, "though if you're a gentleman you'll cover the both of us."
[Author's Notes]
This closes up the first major excursion here. For the record, the Emerald R. is based off an actual sunken US Military ship off the coast of California. It, too, is currently in use as a scuba diving location. I did my best with some research to capture scuba diving even though I've never done it myself, though I would like to try it someday!
8 mph marks the last update for April, but there's still several chapters in the queue, so the weekly updates will continue into May. That means next chapter, next Saturday-I'm sure you know the drill, so please look forward to it!
-Avi
[04.23.2018]
