The blow always put things into perspective.
Wind, Michael had told me, wind is free!
I didn’t see him snorkeling at the outer reef. But I did see an ulu with two figures in it. I waded out as far as I could, thinking I might ask them, but they were too far upwind to hear my voice. I watched them for a moment, scanning the surface, until Georgie writhed to get down and the two of us slopped back to the beach.
Hey, Michael said.
He was sitting right there, his back against a palm, his flippers stacked beside him.
What the hell, I said. Where the hell have you been?
What? His expression changed, contracting around my voice. Snorkeling, honey. I’ve been snorkeling.
Where, in fucking Cartagena?
He lowered his eyes to his sand-encrusted legs, then squinted back up at me. The sky had clouded up with a hazy brightness. He looked uncomprehending. I softened.
Why didn’t you tell me, Michael? I said. You should have told me. I was scared.
I sent Sybil back. Didn’t she tell you? I saw you. I thought you saw me.
You didn’t. She didn’t.
George squatted down to stare at his father’s sandy leg.
Deh, he said. Deh-deh.
That’s right, buddy, Michael said. Daddy.
What’s wrong? I said.
Nothing, Michael said.
Nothing?
Nothing. I just feel—
Sybil crashed through the palms. She had shucked her swim shirt and stood with her arms crossed over her naked chest, in a huff.
I told you not to move, Sybil, I said.
I don’t have nobody to play with. Play with me.
What, Michael, I said. Talk to me. Are you hurt? You feel what? Sick?
He looked up.
Changed, he said. I feel changed.
February something-or-other. LOG OF YACHT ‘JULIET.’ Have you ever seen the way water lights up near the breakers? Because of the bubbles. It’s like a night sky during a snowfall. I drifted out today. Far out. I couldn’t see anything but the bubbles & my own stark white arms. Couldn’t see the bottom. Just some shapes that changed w/ my imagination. Eventually I saw a shadowy bulk below, smooth.
I’ve already swum over the stern before I piece it together. Foredeck, cockpit. I half expect to see the crew walking on deck, mopping in slow motion. The light gives the whole scene a supernatural glow. Suddenly my heart is pounding. I can’t regulate my breath. I have to lift my face and spit out the mouthpiece, kicking to get high enough out of the water, which this far out bites my face with salty chop.
Then I hear voices. Nearby, two Guna sit in their ulu. A man and a teenage boy fishing. They appear to have been there for a long time. But the current does things like that. A shell game of near and far.
The boy lifts a hand and waves.
Hey! I shout. I’m hysterical, relieved to see two real people—my first in days. Hola! Qué tal!
Qué tal, says the boy, wiping his forehead with the inside of his wrist.
The man smiles and just looks at me. I am close enough to see sweat on his temples. Neither of us says anything. He pulls on a rope a couple times, leans over, and checks his pot or cage. I don’t remember how to say “lobster” in Spanish. After a while, I realize they are watching me again. I feel an alertness, a reminder of all that I cannot see. Something shudders below me.
I know what it is before I put my mask back in the water. In the valley between the sunken boat and the sea shelf, moving like a corporation of shadows, swim a pod of reef sharks. They pace back and forth over the wreck.
I swim a little closer to the ulu. But I can’t look away.
For a long time, I don’t.
* * *
—
I sat under the open hatch.