Wooden Pier

Leah: part 1

I've never felt I needed to tell my life in order. I've chosen to start telling the present. This is my account of recent events.

Thick, humid air carried with it a subtle fragrance of sea, salt, distant flowers, and the ever-present smell of boats. A steady breeze kicked up a salt spray from the bay and dampened her skin, leaving behind its thin, briny covering. Afternoon rains had ended and left the air thick. The sky was a magnificent mix of towering cumulus punctuated with bits of brilliant blue sky.

She walked the wood pier out to ‘Sunray Jubilation’, or just ‘Sunny’ to those of us who sailed her. A converted shrimp boat, her 70 feet would ply the waters slowly, but her construction was rugged and she would do well in heavy seas. She was a good, sturdy ship.

Over her shoulder was heavy dive equipment: twin tanks and regulators, buoyancy compensation vest, and regulators. Behind her Frederick seemed to effortlessly carry the large locker over his shoulder, body slanted in one direction to center the load over his six foot, 3 inch frame. Frederick ran the dive shop and had supplied the dive equipment that was not brought in from Europe; after all, tanks are heavy and ubiquitous, why ship them when they are easily rented in every popular dive spot on the face of the earth.

In the locker was the personal equipment that could not be rented: cameras with underwater housing, both still and movie; a mask that was specially made to fit her face. Off-the-rack masks too uncomfortable to wear for any length of time. She had paid an exorbitant amount of money to have a specially-made mask from Bowstone.

The locker also contained dive watches, a film camera, a stock of batteries, re-chargers, memory cards by the gigabyte, and assorted other necessities for the task at hand.

A second trip back down the pier would be required to grab the duffels of clothes she would need.

“Ms. Sheffield?” the questioning voice came from a tall, slim, weathered man of about mid-forty. He wore a hard-billed, soft cap typical of skippers through the ages.

“Mr. Packer?” Leah queried.

“No ma’am, I’m Stanley, skipper of the boat.”

Of course. His deeply tanned and sun-worn skin spoke of life at sea. Mr. Packer would surely be a softer-appearing man, likely without all the sun. Perhaps soft hands and soft muscles, as befits an older man, an owner of this company.

“I’m sure when Mr. Packer realizes you’ve arrived he’ll be up straight-away to greet you.

“Your cabin is below, just aft of the fo’c’sle. A bit cozy, but I think you’ll find it comfortable and functional.

Frederick lowered the locker to the deck easily, a locker that Leah found difficult to lift, much less toss around.

A sea gull landed on the bow rail, stretched her feathers, delicately tucked them to her sides, and proceeded to gaze toward Leah. Other gulls circled in a noisy cacophony of calls and cackles.

Frederick finished the second trip with the duffels, setting them on deck next to the locker.

“Shall I help get them below ma’am.”

“No, thank you, you’ve been so very kind to bring them this far.”

“Very well ma’am. Enjoy your sail. We’ll see you when you get back.”

Frederick gave an informal salute, a smile, a nod of the head, and then turning, he jaunted back to the dive shop.

“You must be that European photographer,” my voice boomed out from the open bridge above.

Leah looked up. I stood there, hands on the rail, ball cap worn slightly back on my head. Not soft-looking at all, but a hardened veteran of adventuring. Of course, she recognized me now from pictures she had seen. Only in this setting, and viewed from below, she would tell me later, I seemed ever so much bigger than life.

Giving a bit of a scowl I started, “It might get rough out there. Got sharks in the water in this part of the world. You sure you’re up to it?”

My tone was penetrating and questioning.

“I’ve dived the Adriatic, the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, The Maldives, the coast of Madagascar, Tahiti, Leyete Gulf, Palau, the Great Barrier Reef, and the North Sea in a full heated suit. I think I can handle Belize.”

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of changing my expression but continued to study her.

“Most days we’ve got two good hours in the morning and two good hours in the afternoon. Outside of high and low tides the current runs so fast we’ll have to send a powerboat after you if you get caught in one. And when the current starts to run, the Makos come in to feed. Just don’t get cocky and think you know these waters.”

“I’m not so arrogant that I would refuse local knowledge of the waters, nor am I so inexperienced that I need a lecture on the basics.”

Her words bit.

“Very well. I trust you’ll be able to get your work done. Truth be known, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t highly recommended. Where’s your assistant?”

“He’s on a different flight. Coming from Atlanta. Should arrive this evening.”

She paused momentarily then added, “You do have separate accommodations for him, I trust? We’re not bunk mates.”

“Exactly as promised, Ms. Sheffield, exactly as promised.”

Our eyes locked. From the way she described it later, my face had a gruff demeanor which said one thing, but my eyes spoke another story. They had a hint of humor, a touch of warmth, and they held indications of secret knowledge, of stories untold and secrets closely held. I gave her a wink.

“Welcome aboard, Ms Sheffield. Dinner is at 6:00.”

I spun and disappeared from the bridge.


Faithfully submitted,
Teddy Packer