A Dolphins Dream (2 page)

“Trying to take it day to day. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a scuba rig on.“ Turning again to her, he brightened. “But I’m looking forward to it.”

The road plumed with dust and out of the swirling haze skipped a raggedy, barefoot child in shorts leading an Indian woman dressed in red, carrying a bundle of wood atop her head and a load of laundry under a free arm. The image arrived and departed as in a dream to be replaced with a pair of Fijian men ambling along barefoot in flowered shirts and swim trunks, walking with the freedom of the unburdened, their arms swinging loosely. The truck weaved to the jungle side of the road where a drab, wooden shack grew out of vine and tree, and a woman leaned against the doorway holding a naked child in the crook of her arm groping for a loose beast under the blue flowers of her blouse.

As the jungle consumed the shack, the truck quickly turned and climbed a steep drive that plateaued into a beautifully manicured compound of finely cut grass, coconut trees and colorful beds of exotic flowers. The resort lay atop cliffs that overlooked what Compton later learned was the Somosomo Straits, and contained a number of two-room bungalows that Allison referred to as bures. He was shown a bure adjacent to the main house that opened to a sea view. The room was clean and well maintained, the linen fresh, and the water ran hot and cold, a luxury, so he had been told by the travel agent. The accommodations were superb, far better than he had expected, and upon settling into the firm bed, he considered staying longer than a few days. If the food is good, he thought, I could stay here for a month. Well, a couple of weeks anyway. Really get into the diving, see a little of Taveuni before heading out. I’m not expected for another six weeks, why rush off to work? He rose from the bed and walked to the window as if to survey his decision. Looking out over the winking sea, its startling blue triggered his memory of the dream. He realized that it was the dream that drew him to the sea when he first caught sight of it upon his arrival. Unlike most dreams that fade upon waking, this dream of six months ago remained vivid and easily recalled. He could still feel the sensations of moving beneath the water as if in flight, past clouds of fish that glistened like falling rain in slow motion against a cobalt background that was as endless as another sky. In the dream, he swam towards a silver light that appeared to be a very large fish or dolphin. Then it turned into the depths and disappeared into the gloom. He remembered his mother’s interpretation of the dream when he told her about it while still in the hospital, she insisting it was a dream of life, and he correcting her, ”No, more of a death dream.”

He turned away from the window, suddenly feeling weak and reclined on the bed. Death had been close. Prior to the dream, he was scarcely clinging to life. As if to delay a drowning by holding his breath, that to breathe was to drown, to die. In those last frantic moments when he could no longer hold his breath and death was imminent, he gasped and sucked the sea into his lungs. Yet death did not enter with the sea, but a new breath was found, extracted out of the viscid atmosphere. It was then, through those labored breaths, that the dream came. Anger welled up at the thought of it all. He could never quite let go of his certainty that it was the hospital rather than the complications that had nearly killed him. There was never any way to really know for sure. Still it galled him. Yet at this moment it seemed to be the best thing that could have happened, but he didn’t know why, just a feeling. All those years chasing what -- the Godhead of life, money? That’s what very nearly killed him, not the broken leg. No more risks, play it safe, take the cushy job, do the nine to five and have your own time to go play. Time to reinvent myself into… what?

Idle thoughts of himself whirled in his head, going nowhere. He could almost feel the pressure of them and turned again to the sea in an attempt to release himself from the endless chatter that his mind knew so well. Maybe mother was right, it was a life dream and it was telling me to get a new one. The old one wasn’t working, really hadn’t ever worked. Well, actually it did work pretty good for awhile. He blinked away the thoughts and refocused on the sea, and it occurred to him in an odd realization that he never felt more alive than when under the water. He wondered where that thought had been summoned from and tried to remember the last time he had actually made a dive, but the image was vague and unformed. He lay down again feeling a weariness that all but glued his eyes shut and almost instantly fell asleep, not waking until he was called to dinner.

Meals were served in the central house around a magnificent rosewood table. The hosts, John and Allison Scott, were seated at either end of the table and the guests, who included two Germans that did not speak English, four Americans, and two young male Brits, were scattered in pairs around both sides of the table. Compton arrived late and sat down between the two American men in the middle of a one-upmanship of where’s the best diving in the world, a sort of “been there, done that” exercise among the widely traveled guests.

“Bonaire is a must for wall dives,” insisted the effervescent blond American wife of the rail thin husband, who nodded agreeably.

“The Bahamas still have the most sharks and everybody knows it,” she concluded, reaching for the breadbasket to punctuate her authority on the subject.

“Well then, everyone hasn’t been to Dangerous Reef in South Australia,” said the overweight bearded American with the redheaded wife, who was just about as perfect as a plastic surgeon make a woman in her late forties.

The Brits were a handsome couple who, in their inbred politeness, began to rise when Compton appeared but he, with a wave of the hand, seated them in mid-rise, not missing a beat in the discussion. “Anyway, Dangerous Reef is history, an old story,” continued the Beard, correcting himself. “Everyone’s going to Cape Town for the Great Whites these days. My God, they jump clear out of the water down there, chasing sea lions in the summertime.“

Rail Thin nodded in agreement. “We’ve been thinking about going there next year.”

“First class expedition. The Boers know how to treat a fellow diver. As long as they’re white, of course,” this to mild laughter as the Fijian cook, black as a work boot, brought in the fish bouillon, the table going conspicuously silent.

In the awkward hush, Allison introduced Compton. “This is Michael Compton from America, who I understand is an architect.”

Nods all around.

“What part of the States are you from?” asked the Blonde, whose name was Jennifer.

Compton smiled and answered in a voice he scarcely recognized. “All over, southern Florida, and California, mostly.”

“Is that Southern California?” asked the Beard, introducing himself again as Bernard, as if announcing a Grand Duke.     

“Yes… well, no. I live along the Central Coast, actually. San Luis Obispo, Morro Bay, that area.”

“My God,” said the redhead, whose name was Vanessa. “That was where Kevin Munsen was based. He practically built the entire town of Morro Bay. I think it was Seaside Development, wasn’t it dear?”

Bernard nodded in bored agreement.

“Did you know him?”

Compton was unclear if she was addressing him until, wide-eyed, she stared him into a response.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Seaside Development, Kevin Munsen,” she said, looking at her husband, Bernard, as if whatever was miscommunicated did not generate from her, and who assured her by way of a noncommittal smile that the fault indeed did not lie with her.

“No, never heard of him, uh, it,” Compton finally replied.

“He was probably there before you arrived,” Vanessa said to round out the logic of what had become an abstract discussion with which she was decidedly uncomfortable. She quickly dove into her soup. The rest followed suit and commented appropriately on its delicate flavor, which Allison attributed to the Fijian flair for fish soups. Compton hid in his soup as well, avoiding eye contact with what he concluded to be a rather motley group of divers.

However Bernard, bored as he was, sought entertainment of some form and asked, “So what kind of buildings do you design?”

Compton lifted hesitantly from his soup, looked at Bernard, took a breath and, in its release, his countenance appeared to change almost entirely, his eyes narrowing and mutating into something between mischievous and menacing. His now smiling face held a charm and wit that heretofore was unrevealed. “Actually, I‘m on my way to Australia to oversee a design of mine for a state funded Shakespearean theater. I like to do different designs, sports arenas, office buildings. Theaters are always fun, you can stretch yourself a bit there. I keep busy.”

All but Bernard were genuinely impressed. “I rather imagine you make a decent living?”

“I do all right, thanks,” replied Compton, cheery as you please, ignoring the deliberate intrusion into his privacy.

Vanessa tugged at Bernard’s arm and pulled it to her silicone breast, smiling secretly. “It’s the indecent living that costs so much.”

Bernard broke into laughing agreement and allowed his arm to linger on the polymerized appurtenance.  

“I’ve always admired the great architects of the world,” said Jennifer. “Imagine creating something that will last forever.”

“Nothing lasts forever,” interjected Bernard.

That’s true,” agreed Compton. “But it will last well beyond our lives. And I suspect that in some realities, that would be forever.”

All laughed, except Bernard, who fully understood the implication of the comment and nodded in recognition of a clearly drawn line.

Bernard exuded a darkness that seeped from his eyes and seemed to conjure a shadow that descended over the table as the Fijian cook cleared the soup and brought the entrée of lamb loins with sweet yams and cabbage. Cordiality finally resumed with rave comments as to the meal’s presentation and then its flavors, as all dug in and carried on their previous conversation of the preferred dive sites of the world.        

In the spirit of inclusion, Billy asked, “Been doing much diving lately, Mike? Or is it Michael?”

Compton looked up from his lamb. “Michael is fine, and no, not much diving in a while. I am looking forward to getting back into the water.”

“Do we have a novice here?” asked Bernard, washing his question down with a gulp of wine.  

Compton smiled away the implication and to his lamb replied, ”Hardly,” in an awkward attempt to shift the focus elsewhere.

Bernard gazed at him as a predator might, sizing up a late night snack. The Brits, reading the remarks with the empathy of only those whose persecution is unremitting, very nearly spoke in unison, but Jason, the short haired blond with platinum highlights, beat Ian to the mark. “We’ve just been diving for a few years ourselves and are so looking forward to the Fijian experience.”

“Really?” said Bernard, barely managing to keep his sarcasm within bounds. Turning again to Compton, “So enlighten us, Mike, where has the diving taken you?”

Compton’s eyes narrowed again, his smile disappearing. “Far and deep.“

“That sounds more like a sex dream than a dive site. Come on, fill us in. Have you dove in places that would call for some experience, some courage?  Give us your story,” begged Billy.

Compton glanced around the table, all faces expectant. “The Andrea Doria. I made a couple dives on her.”

Billy whistled, “Whoa that’s the primo jump, man, the most dangerous of all wreck dives. Jesus, over two hundred feet! You using air or mixed gases? Tell us the story. Whoa! The Andrea Doria.”

Bernard acknowledged the feat with a nod. “Yes, by all means tell us.”        

“I’d be happy to.” Compton sat higher in his seat and in so doing took full command of the table. “Well, the wreck is an Italian luxury liner, 700 feet long and 11 stories high, and lays in 240 feet of North Atlantic water. In 1956, she was broadsided by a Swedish ship 65 miles off Nantucket. Next to the Titanic, it’s the most seductive wreck in the world to dive, and the most dangerous. Bone chilling water, currents so strong they can rip your facemask off, silt that can wipe out all visibility in an instant. Her corridors are choked with electrical wiring and debris and her exterior is spider-webbed with acres of monofilament fishing nets. The wreck is a nightmare.”

“Haven’t a bunch a people died diving the Doria?” asked Billy, thoroughly enthralled.

“Yeah, I’m not sure how many but at least a dozen. They generally get lost or disoriented in the labyrinth below decks and run out of air before they can find their way out.”

“God, what a horrible way to die!  Why would anybody take that kind of risk?” asked Jennifer.

“For the same reason they climb Everest -- because it’s there. And for artifacts worth great sums of money. One guy recovered a couple of ceramic friezes worth several hundred thousand dollars apiece. There are more down there, something like 16 safes with jewels, gold-rimmed Doria tableware, the list goes on and on. “

“So what was the dive like?” asked Bernard, mildly intrigued.

“Spooky, very spooky, and cold to the point of mind numbing. Fortunately e wasn’t a current running the day we dropped in. We were using mixed gas, exotic helium-based mixes and computer generated ascent schedules. The safety factors are quite rigorous. I went with an experienced diver and just stayed close to him. But the first sighting of the wreck in those dark waters, well it looked like what you might imagine a ghost would look like. Sort of half-eaten away, dark and foreboding, ominous, like this creature lying in wait. A nightmare, like I said. It was all I could do to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest. Once you penetrate the hull, it gets a hundred times worse. You are inside the nightmare. Creepy hoses and wires hanging everywhere, grabbing at you in the dark, trying to entangle you. Except where your light falls, the interior is as black as a coal mine. We had backups of everything, but I was always worried my light would go out and I wouldn’t be able to find my way out. In some places it really silted up and reduced visibility down to a couple of feet. Frankly, it was all I could do to hold it together. I had a ton of confidence in my partner. He’d made fourteen dives on the wreck. Still I couldn’t wait to get out. I picked up a small saucer that some other diver had found and dropped on his way out, so I was happy just to have a souvenir. When we finally exited the wreck we had to be careful because all that fish netting draped everywhere was just waiting to snarl you up. They had cut holes in it, but still, if you came out the wrong way and were low on air, you’d have to cut your way out. It was like death waited for you at every turn. One mistake was all that wreck needed to do you in. Deco was a drag too. So long and so cold, with nothing to do but wait, hoping the current wouldn’t pick up and rip you off the line or the seas wouldn’t blow the boat off its hook.”