Saving lives at sea is a noble charge. Killing them at sea tends to come easier than it should. The wedge between both worlds deserves to be thicker. Alas, that's not to guarantee that they'd both be better off if it was.
Ah, the beaches of Florida... There's little that can compare. Whatever can tends to occur at similar latitudes; and those would be very small numbers. Small ratings, though, they're all certainly not. Margaritaville, in fact, is never too far away. And in Florida, it's just as often 5PM in Margaritaville as it is spring break... Better thing, though, that the teens steer clear of the margarita cantinas...if only a teen were so capable of such restraint.
At present, the guest roster is virtually non-existent. Midnight has just happened. The beach's regular hours don't begin for hours. One thing's for certain; it'll be dawn before they do. Conservative men can be savage beasts...but there's nothing revolutionary about the hours that their women and children keep.
This is a barracks, of sorts. A Red Cross has been painted on its biggest wall. It's not the Swiss's; but then, most of the locals wouldn't likely think it was. It's certainly no Trojan horse; in fact, word has it that the UN pays good money to make sure that such symbolism never finds its way to the hides of Trojan horses...or anything used as such.
Out from a barracks hatch, someone makes her exit. Her feet are bare; the chance is large that she's in a swimsuit. The chance is just as large that her swimsuit is her uniform, from work. But then, this facility is a virtual barracks. Alas, it lacks the construction crews that an actual naval base would be staffed with...if not garrisoned with.
Down cement ramps and sets of steps, she creeps her way down into the beach sands. Her step, she must watch; crabs and cone snails are not strangers to these beaches...as aren't ran-aground jellyfish. If her toenails are polished, one can't tell; it's too dark. It's just as well that they aren't; the sea's waters, after all, are only compatible with nail polish when it's dried. And while swimming, it's also a potential shark liability, depending on how reflective one's nails are without polish.
Up ahead, there's a chair. It's built within the top of a tall wooden tower. The tower is mostly forged of crossed planks. Good thing high tide never leaves any barnacles in its undercarriage...or anything less friendly to the human butt.
Up one side of the tower, there's a ladder. One step at a time, they mystery woman ascends it. Once she's surmounted the tower, she turns, and parks her very-insured ass into the topside chair.
From her neck, a whistle hangs. It's got a great view of her boobs...or rather, it would, if it was human. Her boobs are very large; she might very well owe her recruitment to them. Since then, though, she's become more than just a sight for sore eyes. She does, in fact, have male coworkers who value her as a teammate...as well as a pain reliever. (A reliever of emotional pain, of course.)
To many, these might seem like awkward hours, for being on beach watch. And these are not, in fact, this lifeguard's regular hours. She's been put on special assignment. Sinister types have been skulking these beaches, of late. This lifeguard is here to look out for them...and to report them, if she senses that their presence is a potential liability. At this hour, though, she might as well report them anyway; this beach has hours, and if anyone came to visit, then depending on how close they'd get, they'd be breaking the law.
Atop a nearby tower, a radio sits. Among other gadgetry, it's got a surveillance camera built into it. It sees everything in black-and-white. It also has an IR lens, too, though; i.e. it can see in the dark.
This way, it can see the female lifeguard...from above. From up here, it's got a fair view of her downblouse. A lot of men and lesbians would kill for such a view. Such a man or lesbian, alas, might very well be embedded within the camera's robotics...if they aren't pulling this puppet's strings...
Someone senses this. Hence, they attempt to have the camera zoom in, to where her downblouse is more prominent. Ah, that is a very nice view, for a certain man or lesbian who dares to play a voyeur...
Alas, with one of her hands, she covers her boob-crack. With critical eyes, she turns her head, and looks up at the camera. She scoffs, and flips it the bird, with her other hand.
Seemingly let down, the camera withdraws its wares. It does, however, keep its IR monitors running. Either way, it lowers its resolution, so that the temptation to look down the keyhole of her neckline would be smaller.
Downhill, the sea's waves pound. With them, they bring immigrants from all over the sea. With luck, none of them will be the remains of Arabic sailors...or worse, Somali pirates.
Down the shores, a coastal highway runs. The state maintains it...despite the fact that parts of its northern reaches reach up into Georgia. The two states haven't sued each other yet...but one never knows. They're both red states, after all; and hence, are likely rivaling fascist dictatorships in an alternate reality where fascism gets better press. Better press, understand...
On the shoulder, a black crossover car is parked. Its lights are off. If anyone mans it, one can't tell. Good thing a passing car doesn't crash into it, because a black car against a black night is rather indecipherable; elementary photo-physics.
Downhill, beneath a windbreaker overgrown with grasses, vines, purslane, and honeysuckles...there's a beach here, too. Here, there's no lifeguard. And as far as most should be concerned, it's illegal to swim here. But of course, the youth are always going to seek out scuppers through which to escape the ordinary. And they'd just be the amateurs who'd try.
Someone's here. He's in blue-green trunks...if they're not speedos. He'd dare not wear tighty-whities, if he didn't want to become a reflective beacon to passing traffic...or worse, a coast guard cutter.
Mitch hears traffic coming. Hence, he'd better make his move soon. He's not too visible down here...but he also can't guarantee that no one can see him.
Outward, he wades. As soon as he likes his chances...and also as soon as he senses that that traffic is too close to feel secure about...he leaps forth, submerges, and dives. Now, he's at the mercy of the elements. Now he will more likely die before the law learns of his presence down there.
In a semicircle-like motion past the shores, the traffic's headlights revolve. They keep going; they probably would, even if they did see the trespasser before he vanished. That's not to say, though, that they wouldn't have reported him. It's also not to say that none of their relatives were cops.
Down here, the Atlantic eel is often in-season. Whiting, large-tooth flounders, and stingrays are, too. Bottom-trawlers should come here more often... They probably don't, though, because not too far from these shores, there are trailer parks who've more than a few anti-bottom-trawling activists living off their...portable hearths.
Up ahead, there are highlands. They're made of rock. Their highest point, despite its elevation, is far beneath the sea surface. They're submarine. They might, in fact, be the product of a hot spot within the Earth's crust that died about three days after it was born.
Within some of their canyon and cave walls, there are fossils. These are mostly ammonites (i.e. nautiluses) from the Lower Jurassic. The skulls of certain coelacanths, sea sturgeons, bowfins, gars, tarpon, and eels, too, can be deciphered...as can the cartilaginous skulls of certain blind carpet sharks, frilled sharks, cow sharks, ratfish, and rajiform rays.
Mitch is here. Via a re-breather, he blows occasional clouds of bubbles. He's not bringing cakes; fish-edible or otherwise. He is, more likely, here to take something. And odds are, the state would want it more than he would...or does.
In a cave, a leviathan slumbers. She's a cow shark; a six-giller. She might not be as old as the Lower Jurassic...but she might, in fact, be surrounded by several of her anaconda-like ancestors. She doesn't really sleep, of course; fish don't do that. She does, however, spin her own fins in hypnotic, constant, circular, rotary-like motions, keeping herself just above the cave floor. For most fish, of course, this is as close as they ever get to being idle.
In another cave, there are chests. Inside, there are many pieces of eight. Silver Sterling jewelry, too, rests within them. If Uncle Sam knew this stuff was down here... But then, they must not. Otherwise, there'd be more dangerous things than cow sharks protecting it.
Among the highlands' canyons, he dives. No one would know he was here, if they didn't know... Then again, there are creatures and gadgets in this world that are programmed to perceive what most of humanity wouldn't...
Farther offshore, a naval frigate makes way. Its crew, no doubt, is in night-watch mode. It seems unlikely that they're expecting an attack from Africa or the Mediterranean. Either way, there's no assurance that enemies of this country won't get any ideas, if word gets out that there's a little less security on the coast than usual.
Up ahead, a cave opens. Its opening isn't too terribly big. Nonetheless, some humans could fit inside. Some creeps of the deep, in fact, could too...
Up to the cave opening, the mystery man dives. He stops and looks around. Through his IR goggles, he sees nothing but rock, fossil, and an occasional bait fish. He doesn't see the cops, though; and for him, that's perfect.
He turns and proceeds to dive into the big black hole before him. Alas, he's shocked...by a frilled shark that spontaneously makes its exit, moments before he can make his entrance. Wow, if he'd tried to enter that hole seconds sooner...
From above, something grabs his shoulder. Fearing that he's been pounced on by a creep of the deep, he spontaneously over-reacts...
He takes one look into the face of his molester, though...and sees that he's blared a false alarm. Oh yes; very false indeed...or so he hopes.
The first thing he notices, surprisingly, is her big blue eyes. They mesmerize. He need not feel shame, though; he's hardly the first man to fall for her eyes' inner spell. It's a rare thing, after all, for a blonde woman's eyes to be so impressive, that they'd distract the average man from her boobs if she was a DD cup size or larger... (DD is probably as big as hers get. Then again, they might be an F...or a G... Probably not an H, though. Christina Hendricks isn't an H, and hers are the biggest in Hollywood.)
He sees her bathing suit...and panics, at first. Nonetheless, she's not slapping cuffs on him... So, for the time being, he decides to go along with her will...which, it seems, would be for both of them to surface, and swim to a place where they can talk.
He'd hate to give up on what he's doing; he's so close, and he's missed more than one opportunity to come out here, as things are. Nonetheless, red-handed though he might be, he is not without his civility. So, he does what CJ beckons. Besides, he anticipates following her there. Her butt is hardly the thickest in all of Florida...but he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy ogling it from behind.
So, away from these submarine highlands, they swim. It's just as well; it never takes long for such caverns to give even the most hardened of divers the creeps. But at least they haven't yielded any zombies yet. Or at least, not as far as the local law knows...
Once again, this is the beach watch's beach. By now, the sky is dimly-lit. Late night, it seems, has finally become early morning.
Up the beach, and alongside one another, diver and lifeguard walk. All around them, the sand is rather expansive. They're both thankful the tide isn't up. They're both just as thankful that it hasn't recently lowered.
To her, Mitch reveals that he has interest in the area. Usually, though, he frequents Wichita or Oklahoma City...or spots, otherwise, up its ways. He also has contacts who're into oil; investing in it, that is. Alas, he can't say that he's too invested in oil; or at least not materially.
CJ's bare arms are crossed. But then, they're both still wet from the far-fetched swim they've both undertaken. He has yet to express curiosity, as to how she became aware of where he was...or, come to think of it, how she doesn't seem warier that he and the law might not have, shall we say, an ideal background...
She confesses her confusion, as to why he, or anyone, would ever want to go diving among those creepy lodgings. It's not unheard of, after all, for people to go down there and not come back. Frankly, when she was a girl, she'd have nightmares about diving down there, only to get sucked into a portal that takes her to the Lower Jurassic...where her nightmare would end with her getting eaten by a T-Rex.
At this, he grins, and corrects her by telling her that the T-Rex didn't come to being until a period and a half after the Lower Jurassic ended. He elaborates and tells her that depending on which part of the Lower Jurassic you consider; the lands' apex predator would've been either a tetanuran (from the last part) or a ceratosaur (from the last part). Plus, if the portal let out in the seas, then the chances would be higher that she'd run into a variety of sea monsters of the era, long before she met the first theropod; with the first examples coming to mind being either a temnodontosaur (a kind of ichthyosaur), a rhomaleosaur (a kind of plesiosaur) or a thalattosuchian (i.e. a sea croc).
Apparently confused, she studies him. He smiles and admits to her that he once went through such a phase, when he was younger. And in some ways, he's still going through it... But not so much, though, that he can't keep a job that'd have nothing to do with it. Most wouldn't, of course. And it's just as well; most jobs, after all, have nothing to do with what a person's interested in.
She shrugs and admits that she wouldn't know. She didn't really take the job she has at present because it piqued her interest.
He scoffs, and begs her pardon, if it's way too hard for him to imagine why else she'd take a job that didn't remind her of her favorite thing. But then, of course, Florida is a red state; and hence, red states are notorious for having a chronic pandemic of women who rely way too much on their parents' judgment to do literally everything...and not to mention how unlikely said women are to deviate from this behavior, regardless of how much they outlive their own parents.
She doesn't respond to this. She's worried that she might make things worse, even if her intent was benevolent. She's certain, though, that in the grand scheme of things, this guy just wants to do what's right. She just...can't promise him that it'll lead to that, if he keeps following the path that he is...whatever the hell he's using as figurative path-markers.
Sensing the tense air, Mitch attempts to relieve it, by asking CJ about her career as a lifeguard. His intent is two-fold; with the less apparent half of his intent being reconnaissance, in an attempt to size her up, and decide whether she's a lawwoman that he should lend a wide berth, or one he should barely lend a berth at all. But then, it's just as well that he give her a wide berth regardless; she might not be the beach watch's strongest warrior...and especially not its smartest...but women like her are notorious for ending men's careers when they've barely been born. Most such women don't even have to try too hard...or try, period, for that matter.
For many beach walks, they bond. For both of them, it's a very easy thing to do. For a prolonged moment, it almost feels like they've nothing better to do. For a prolonged moment, they both actually believe that.
Aloft, though, a naval UAV makes its rounds. Several times, it sights the unlikely couple on the beach. It also recognizes her uniform...and that she seems too far away from her job for anyone's pardon. It never gets a good look at the man she's with, though. Then again, if he'd never been arrested before, the law wouldn't know anything about him.
Atop the pole back at the chair she was atop of hours ago, the mega-radio still hangs. Spontaneously, a lot of lights flash. It seems that it's receiving a transmission. The radio only takes a moment to acknowledge the transmission's contents. From itself, it forwards the message to the beach watch's brass. (Good thing they don't wear that brass while swimming; while most of the world's military forces might not attack a human wearing a Red Cross...sharks, alas, would never put such symbolism over a bright jewel, if they thought it was the scale off a fish they liked to eat.)