to rest there in the mud on the bottom it had been nearly upright, or tilted in that direction, and as air escaped from the tank and water forced its way in, the water naturally pushed the fuel up into the top of the tank, where it was escaping now, drop by drop, and might go on indefinitely.
I had been trying to evade it in my mind, dodging around it and never coming face to face with what I knew; but now, with all other escape cut off, I turned and faced it. I had to go down there. But could I? I could feel the weakness and revulsion take hold of me at the thought. He had been down there a little over twenty-four hours, in that warm water, and I knew that by now he wasn’t alone. I shuddered. I just couldn’t do it.
Was there any other way? I knew there wasn’t. The water was twelve feet deep and I couldn’t reach it with an oar. Trying to drag the anchor over it would be a futile waste of time. It had to be that way or not at all. It wouldn’t take four seconds, I thought. All I would have to do would be to locate the valve, make sure it was shut, and then tip the motor down so the water and fuel inside the tank would change positions. I could do it in one dive. And it’s either that or go away and leave it the way it is, knowing that sooner or later somebody is going to get curious about the source of all that oil bubbling out of the bottom of the lake. I stood up in the boat and started unbuttoning my shirt.
The water was warm. I lay in it, naked, alongside the boat, with one hand on the gunwale, trying not to think of anything except the motor. I can’t wait all day, I thought. If I don’t do it now I’ll lose my nerve. Shutting my mind to everything, to all thought, I took a deep breath and dived. I seemed to go on for a long time, pulling myself down with powerful strokes of my hands, wanting to turn back but forcing myself to go ahead. It must be twenty feet deep instead of twelve, I thought wildly, and then I felt the soft mud under my arm. I was against the bottom. This was the terrible part of it now. Pulling upward against the water with my hands to keep myself flat against the mud, I groped around with them, feeling for the motor. There was no use in opening my eyes to try to see, for at this depth in the discolored water there would be no light at all. I swung my arms around wildly and felt nothing. My lungs were beginning to hurt and I thought of the boat above me, knowing I had to come up carefully as I approached the surface or I might bang my head into it. I couldn’t wait too long. Putting my feet against the mud, I sprang upward, bringing my arms up over my head to feel for the boat. I missed it and came out of the water gasping for breath.
I can’t give up, I thought, my mind still focused with that terrible intensity on just one thing—the motor. I gulped a deep breath and dived again. When I was against the bottom I started sweeping it again with my arms, and then my left hand brushed against something just at the ends of my fingers. I turned toward it, feeling my skin draw up tightly with revulsion. It was a shoe. Bringing my right hand around, I groped with it, moving a little, and felt the canvas coat. I was fighting desperately now to keep from being sick here twelve feet under water and drowning myself with the retching. I had my hands on the frame of the motor, and with some detached portion of my mind that still hadn’t quite given itself up to the wildness I was able to orient myself. It was tilted against his doubled body in an almost upright position, just as I had thought it would be. Fighting at the panic, I ran my hands along the frame, feeling for the valve, and found it. It was tightly shut. Bringing my feet under me, I squatted upright alongside the motor and lifted, rolling the whole wirebound and terrifying mass of