own shower, and that had looked pretty shabby.
Chris watched Mark on the aft deck. He was already at it, unpacking and checking the diving gear. He worked with a quick, silent efficiency, laying out the apparatus carefully in a deliberate order and fitting together the regulators and tanks with a precision that reminded him of a marine assembling his trusty M15.
‘Just like those ol’ navy SEAL days, uh?’ joked Chris.
Mark carried on oblivious, focused on the pre-dive drill.
Chris watched him for a while longer before making his way forward to the pilothouse. It was dimly lit by a single bare bulb in a wire cage that rattled with the vibration of the engine. Will had the helm in one hand and held a mug of something hot in the other. Ahead through the window he could see the foredeck brilliantly lit by a searchlight on the roof of the pilothouse. It cast a thick beam into the night ahead of them picking out the white suds on the water.
‘Hi,’ said Chris. ‘I assume you know which way the buoy is?’
Will turned and scowled at him. ‘I been fishin’ these waters for nearly thirty years. I know every nook and spit along this shoreline for twenty miles either way — ’
Oh boy, I’ve hit this guy’s squawk button.
‘- I can tell you. Hell, I could even tell you how far out from shore we are right now just by listening to the rhythm of the water.’
Will slapped the engine into neutral and turned it off. The boat drifted silently for a while.
Chris was a little bemused. ‘Uh… are you going to turn that back on now?’
‘Shhhhh… Just listen to that, do you hear it?’
Chris could hear nothing but the sound of Mark outside working on the aft deck and the gentle slapping of water on the hull. He saw Mark stand up and come forward to the pilothouse. He opened the door and stuck his head in. ‘What’s going on? Why’s the engine gone off?’
Chris shook his head and shrugged. ‘I think Captain Salty’s listening to the water,’ he said quietly.
‘You hear that?’ Will said eventually. ‘You can tell by the ditty she sings just how far out you are. I reckon we’re about a half mile out.’
Chris was impressed. ‘You can tell that just from the lapping sound? Sheeez, that’s pretty cool…’
Will smirked and shook his head; he turned the engine back on and slammed her back into gear. ‘Of course, it helps if you got one of these little babies.’ The old man pointed to a small digital Nav-Sat display beside the helm and snorted with laughter.
‘Oh, I see. Very funny.’
Mark slapped Chris on the shoulder. ‘Reckon he got you a good one there, buddy.’ He headed back outside to the aft deck and resumed checking the gear.
A little after ten o’clock, Will dropped the engine into neutral and panned the searchlight over the still water until he spotted the buoy that marked the wreck. He brought the boat slowly over towards it and let it run the last few yards on momentum only as he left the pilothouse and leaned over the side to scoop up the buoy with a gaff and bring it aboard. He tied it off on a cleat, wrapping it round in a figure of eight and a half hitch for good measure.
‘Here you are, boys, delivered safe and sound.’
Will had been quick finding the buoy; it had only taken them half an hour. A straight beeline out from Port Lawrence, Chris guessed they were about five miles out.
Chris and Mark sat on the aft deck in the neoprene dry suits Mark had brought along. Chris winced as he adjusted the tight-fitting rubber; it was pulling on his leg hairs.
‘Christ, Mark, it’s like going for the world’s worst waxing.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Ah well, you know what it’s like, gotta keep the bikini line nice ’n’ tidy.’
Mark snorted, typical Chris. The guy would last about five minutes with the sorts of ex-navy jocks he spent a lot of his time with, before being branded a faggot, or a geek, or maybe he would just get off being branded ‘weird English guy’. Mark liked that about him, though, you got a little bit more than just locker-room humour out of him.
‘These are smart,’ Chris said, picking up one of the diving helmets.
‘Yeah, I thought you’d like these, rather than the usual. This way we can talk to each other instead of sign. I think this’ll be better for you. If you lose sight of me you’ll still be able to at least hear me.’
‘Not planning on deserting me down there, are you?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be on your back all the time, watching you do your thing.’ Mark gestured towards Chris’s underwater camera.
Will finished up in the pilothouse and joined the two men on the aft deck.
‘You got a lot of expensive-looking toys there,’ he said.
Mark absent-mindedly rested a defensive hand on one of the helmets. ‘Yes, some of this stuff is pretty expensive.’
‘How much are those funny-lookin’ space hats, then?’
‘The best part of five thousand dollars each,’ said Mark.
The old man pursed his lips in surprise. ‘Lotta money for a goldfish bowl.’
‘Hang on, that reminds me,’ said Mark, ignoring the jibe and delving into one of his canvas kit bags. A moment later produced a small black box and handed it to Will.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have, it’s lovely,’ the old man said sarcastically. ‘What is it?’
‘Radio receiver. It’s just for safety. You can listen in on us talking. This way, if something does go wrong, you’ll be ready when we surface,’ he said. Chris looked up anxiously. ‘Just a precaution,’ Mark added.
Will turned the black box over in his hands. ‘How does this damn thing work?’
‘It’s just a receiver. Switch it on at the back,’ said Mark. Will did so and grimaced as he was met with a warbling shriek.
‘Damn thing’s broken.’
‘No it’s not. It just needs to be tuned in. Give it to me.’
Will passed it back to Mark. ‘So, this plane you’re goin’ down to see… old wartime bomber, eh?’
Chris nodded. ‘One of your B-17s.’
‘You reckon on findin’ any of the crew?’
‘Don’t know the story yet, whether the crew bailed out or went down with it.’
Will nodded. ‘Well if you do find them, treat them with a bit of respect, eh? The waters here have claimed a lot of souls. Ain’t just your plane down there. There’s a lot of older wrecks, sailing ships and the like.’
‘Uh-huh, we’ll be respectful, Will, okay?’
‘They say when a squall whips up, it’s the dead below reminding the living to tread careful.’
Chris looked at Mark and gave him a discreet wink.
‘Look, Will, uh… you’ve caught me out once already with the ol’ salty sea dog routine — ’
The old man glanced sternly at him. ‘I don’t joke much about dyin’ at sea. There’s many a bad story from this stretch of water, without me making stuff up to add to it.’
They were preparing to go down to the graveside of some poor souls, and despite the photographer’s assurances, they were going to disturb it, poke it and prod it. He was uneasy. It felt a little too much like grave- robbing.
‘Let me tell you something that happened out here.’
Chris looked up at Mark, who was smiling.
Here comes the ten-cents tour.
‘- there was a ship come over from England, this is way back… eighteen hundred an’ something, back when England was as tainted with the slave trade as we were. This ship was called the Lady Grey; she was due for Charleston, but winds had blown her up north a ways.’
‘She was carryin’ a few dozen payin’ passengers and two or three hundred negro slaves. She hit ice comin’ in. She was only half a day’s sailin’ from shore. They had a small hole, but water was comin’ in faster than they could bail it out. She was goin’ down all right, but slowly. Still, they got within a mile from shore when they decided to call it a day and abandon ship. The crew, the payin’ passengers, even pretty much most of the more expensive items of cargo, were ferried in row boats from the sinkin’ Lady Grey to the shore. All the while she’s slowly goin’ under.
