Over the Garden Wall

Mike imagined it would be different than this.

He stood on the dock, calling out names and bending his good ear to catch the "yo's" as he checked the list. His head was throbbing. His sinuses were killing him. And, in spite of the expensive shades, it wasn't another sunny day in paradise.

It was day 138 of Mike Talley's idyll in the Caribbean. From the deck of the Reef Marauder, this looked to be the ideal occupation for those passionate about the sport of scuba diving. He remembered feeling that way himself a year, maybe two years before. He was another pasty-white Canadian divemaster, tired of frigid weekends in Georgian Bay, and wondering how he might wangle his way into a warm-water gig.

So he asked around, attended some trade shows, made a couple of contacts, and then, the opening. A dive operation on the tiny Caribbean island of St. Basil's was looking for someone to keep an eye on boatloads of crazed Northerners and teach a few of them how to dive without killing themselves, each other or the critters down below.

Mechanical expertise, particularly a penchant for coaxing life out of the salt-corroded engines of the company's fleet, would be, and was, a definite asset. It gave him the necessary leg-up over the bronzed Bubbas from Florida and Georgia who contested the plum posting.

The illusions were chased right off. He got a six-month work permit, but the general manager told him the idea was that he had to train a native to do his job well enough to make him expendable. At the end of the permit he'd be out of there. Maybe.

The divemaster stuff came pretty easy to Finbar, Nelson and the rest of the local crew. The grease monkey part, squatting in the hull of a dive boat, up to your nuts in oily water, jerry-rigging the works when spare parts from Miami were days or weeks away, didn't.

A second tour seemed likely.

But now he had second thoughts about that. Mike had hoped the job would at least be halfway glamorous. The money was the pits, and the hours were outrageous -- he had exactly two days off since his arrival in October -- but he expected that.

He wasn't getting much sleep, either. At least once a week he'd make the acquaintance of a young lady all by her lonesome and looking for after-hours instruction. He almost felt like a gigolo but got off on a technicality -- he'd usually furnish the rum and the room.

Mike smiled as he helped this week's hookup, the fun-sized Michelle from Green Bay, Wisconsin, board the ship, getting a delightful aerial view of her twin tanks as he passed down her gear bag. Just hours before he had them in his mouth and she was a real screamer -- which happens when you've got a wicked sunburn, and your lover is pushing all the wrong red buttons.

"Michellllllle, my belle, these are words that go together well..."

Mike grimaced at the horrible warbling and turned around to find Finbar serenading the somehow flattered young lady from the Cheese State. His partner in crime wiggled his eyebrows and nodded toward Michelle who was bent over her gear bag and providing a spectacular view of her back 40.

"My my my!" he whispered, "You. Must. Tell Me. Everything!"

Mike groaned. Caught red-handed. He'd be teased for weeks back at the shop.

"You know what they say, my friend. Fucking a fat girl is like riding a moped... it's fun until your friends catch you doing it."

"Clearly," Mike muttered, "I have no friends in The Baz."

Finbar quickly leaned over and gave Mike an unappreciated peck on the cheek. "Oh, you always got me man!"

One-two-three-night stands aside, Mike quickly found you can get too much of a good thing. At first, jumping into the azure blue waters and conducting guided tours of the reef gardens and walls was a treat. But as the weeks rolled on, a number of irritations degraded the experience.

There was always at least one or two nuts in the crowd -- always guys -- overcome by the rapture of the deep and plunging over the walls into the depths. He'd had the pleasure of delivering six of them to the local decompression chamber, sitting with them for hours as they cried like babies at their stupidity.

Finbar's island-bred perspective helped him through it: "Sometimes, man, when they all go over the side, it's like you drop a bag of coins. They go everywhere and you try to pick 'em all up. Sometimes you lose one."

He liked Finbar. He was the guy who educated him on energy conservation. At the end of the first week, Mike was utterly exhausted from his undersea duties. That Friday night Finbar took him aside at the local watering hole and set him straight.

"You're one stupid white man, you know that Mike?'' he said, over a Beck's. "There you go all over the place, running around down there like a damned pup. No wonder you're whacked out. Tomorrow, you watch me."

So Mike did. Finbar was superb. He sank lazily to the bottom once everyone was in, descended to a shallow depth and just hovered there like a barracuda, circling oh-so-slowly to get a read on everyone. If he found that some of the guests were bored, he'd look up some reliable, entertaining eels or seahorses at their regular hideaways, or swing up under the boat and dance upside down on the hull. Everyone had a good time with Finbar -- especially Finbar.

For Mike there remained the matter of niggling, frustrating physical complaints. Before his sojourn to the islands, he was an uber-fit athletic guy in his mid-twenties who might get a shin splint every once in a while. Now he was a regular at the pharmacy counter. Today he had an ear infection -- his third since arriving. The local doctor wasn't much help.

"Why don't you dive with earplugs?" he offered helpfully. Mike sighed and gave the doctor a brief lecture on the physics of underwater pressure, and the inadvisability of putting things in your ears that you don't want in your brain. No matter what was prescribed, Mike was never out of the water long enough for the nagging infection to clear up completely.

And, oddly enough in the bathtub-warm water, he was chilling out. First he dove in his slinky Speedo, the better to attract extra-curricular students. Then he wore a lightweight "shorty" suit. Now he dove in a full-body 1/8'' suit. At the rate he was going, he'd need a helmeted deep-sea diver outfit by summertime.

All accounted for, the eager passengers assembling their gear, Mike fired up the engine and began the trip to a nearby dive site called Cathedrals. It was a ten-minute toot from the dock, and a popular spot for first-timers. It was a shallow dive, with a large grotto featuring a high, vaulted ceiling. A religious, and safe experience for an inaugural plunge.

Besides, as Mike noted the presence of four Germans on board, there would be time enough to worry about the deep-diving exploits of some in his charge. Europeans were notorious for their inability to resist alarmingly deep dives, sometimes to 200 feet or more. He'd long ago given up warning them against the practice or pointing out that healthy coral growth knocked off below 60 feet. He'd keep an eye out and put in a plug with the patron saint of foolhardy divers. One of his instructors back in the day said it best: "There are old divers and there are bold divers. But there are no old bold divers."

As he navigated the tricky turn through a cut in the reef, he was already wondering how he might finagle Finbar into taking his turn as babysitter. That was the drill with smaller group excursions -- one stayed up top, watching the surface for any emergencies and hoisting the soaked divers out of the water afterward, while the other went below to shepherd the flock.

"Finbar," he hollered over the drone of the engine.

"No."

"Aw, c'mon."

"It's your turn, man."

"I'll make you a deal."

"I can't. Not this morning."

Mike glared at him. "Why the hell not?"

"I've got a sore toe."

They both broke up. It was an inside joke, recalling an awesome display of one-downsmanship that took place on the same boat a few months before between Finbar and Mawbley, in a similar negotiation. Finbar had a cold. Old Mawbley hurt his shoulder hoisting tanks that day. Finbar returned with an unhealed fractured hand. Mawbley complained of arthritis in his knee. So Finbar put his tootsie in Mawbley's face.

"I've got a sore toe."

Mawbley bit it. Finbar had the last laugh -- the toe got infected and Mawbley drew his duty for the rest of the week. Served him right.

"Tell you what," Finbar said finally. "You give me Pearl the girl."

Mike frowned and looked over his shoulder. Pearl from Camden, New Joisey had flown in the day before and had already approached Mike for some one-on-one lessons. Boy, she needed them -- he watched her putting together her weight belt for the umpteenth time, still getting it wrong. And he wondered, also for the umpteenth time, just what they were teaching students in the YMCA pool.

With Michelle flying back to Packer country the following day, he had an opening in his schedule for a taut blonde Jersey girl and might be able to get past the annoying accent. But he owed his man Finbar.

"Deal," Mike said, and Finbar broke into a broad smile. It had finally come to this. For a morning's freedom on the deck, Mike kissed fifty U.S. bucks goodbye and some quality shag time. He wondered if he might be able to turn the bargain into a two-for-one favor. But the deal was done. Finbar suited up.

The next problem was finding a place to park. Once upon a time on the sleepy island of St. Basil's, when there were only a handful of dive operators, there were more than enough dive sites to go around. There was an informal arrangement between them not to monopolize the more renowned spots, so everybody got a shot at them during the course of the week.

That went out the window with explosive growth in the eighties and nineties and now, midway through the aughts, fast boats and early birds ruled. So Mike wasn't too surprised as he arrived at the announced site, to find two boats already moored and a few dozen divers flipping over the side. The alternate site, around the point, was equally engaged.

"All right, now what?" he muttered to his first mate. Finbar unzipped his shortie suit a tad and panted like a hound dog. "Anywhere, man," he grumbled. "What about Mick's Place?"

Mike frowned. Mick's Place got its name from a large-lipped grouper who put somebody in mind of the lead singer of the Rolling Stones. His act was pretty simple -- he let divers pass him around like a football in exchange for breakfast sausages. But at 60 feet, not a suitable place for an orientation dive.

Mike turned the boat around and started back. He figured a couple of sites north of the hotel might be free -- the coral wasn't as nice, and the clarity wasn't all that great. But it was someplace to go and the natives were getting restless.

Especially Finbar. "Aw, not Lighthouse!" he griped. "That's another twenty minutes, man."

Mike shrugged. "I'm opened to suggestions."

A mooring buoy came into view. It was free and clear, but there was a reason for that -- it was in the middle of a reef off-limits to dive operations on the island. It had been that way for over 30 years, since the U.S. Air Force Base opened on shore, adjacent to the reef. There were rumors of a top-secret underwater submarine base somewhere down there, James Bond sort of stuff. But for the past five years no planes had flown in or out of the base, and only a small complement of soldiers remained the guard the facility. There was talk now of mothballing the base.

Finbar couldn't wait for that. "There, there," he pointed. "Anchor us up there."

"C'mon," Mike said irritably. "It's out of bounds. You know that."

Finbar leapt to his feet and busted his moves. "All I know, brother, is I'm hot -- she's hot -- they're hot -- we're hot!"

Mike chuckled. "Okay, okay," he said. "Just don't sing again, Finbar. That's all I ask." Besides, he rationalized to himself as he cut the engine, the ban hadn't been mentioned anytime lately. What's the worst they could do to him that he didn't half wish they'd do anyway?

Finbar scampered over the foredeck with the boat hook to grab the mooring line. St. Basil's was the latest Caribbean island to finally come around to the idea of permanent mooring sites to protect their reefs from the random violence done to reefs by carelessly dropped anchors. Coral heads that took thousands of years to grow were often wiped out in seconds. Now all they had to worry about was overweighted divers colliding with the coral. At least in that case the reefs could exact a bit of a price and draw some blood.

Mike turned to face his sweating, grunting passengers, some realizing as they wiggled into their wetsuits that they'd spread out a tad since their last holiday. Once he had their attention, he launched into his familiar spiel. This is (name the reef). We're anchored in about (list depth). The current here usually runs (north/south) but check for yourself when you get down there, watch the soft corals, then swim into the current. When you get to half your air, start heading back to the boat. Know where the boat is when you're at 500 lbs. This is a really interesting (reef/wall/wreck). You'll sometimes see (turtles/sharks/rays/ somebody's butt in your face). No gloves, take only pictures, leave only bubbles, everybody got a buddy?, get off my boat.

He didn't add the fascinating fact that they were quite possibly the first civilian divers to check out the site since the disco era. But the site needed a handle, and he didn't have a clue of what they'd find down there. He scratched his brain for inspiration. Shark Reef? Nothing like a dangerous name to add luster to a ho-hum site. Paradise Reef? Too grandiose. Generic Reef. He'd seen that one used in Skin Diver magazine. Finbar & Mike's Reef. Get real. Mike & Finbar's Reef. Better yet.

"This," he finally announced, "is Garden Wall." A safe bet. The depth sounder showed a semi-shallow 30-40 foot bottom adjacent to a sharp dropoff which the trusty Finbar would steer his charges well clear.

He introduced Finbar to the group as a diver of estimable skills and notified everyone that they were to follow him on a guided tour this time out, as a precaution. The shakedown dive gave the divemasters a handle on potential problems. First timers, trained in murky quarries in Ohio or Nebraska, sometimes ran into difficulties in their first experience with decent diving conditions, like the lady from New York last week who discovered her acrophobia kicked in when she looked down over the edge of the reef into the abyss. She went catatonic and Mike had to lug her back to the boat like a store window dummy.

Some divers would boast of hundreds of dives, get into trouble on their first plunge, before you'd find out their last dive was ten years ago. You got all kinds -- this was Mike and Finbar's chance to find out what they had with this latest collection of amateurs.

Most of the divers seemed to think the guided tour was a pretty good idea, but as the suiting up continued, Mike became aware of some grumbling at the back of the boat. One of the Germans said something to Finbar, who just shrugged and started to walk away. Then a heated argument began. Mike sighed and made his way to the platform.

"What's the problem, gents?" Mike chirped.

"Seems they have other plans," Finbar said.

"We take pictures," growled the tall, muscled-bound one. "We don't need all these people around. We will dive on our own."

Swell, Mike thought. Photographers. European kamikaze shutterbugs, to boot. They could be the biggest rectal irritations in this job. Always crabbing about the safety of their pricey gear, chasing after harassed sealife or pausing for an hour or more next to a coral head waiting for an eel to poke its head out. And like Greta Garbo, they always wanted to be alone. Great gobs of divers kick up silt and scare away the fish.

"Sorry gentlemen, but not this time," Mike said firmly. "After this checkout, we'll go somewhere else this afternoon and you can do whatever you want there. First dive is a checkout and that's a house rule."

The Terminator translated for his buddies and there was exasperated Teutonic groaning. Mike asked him if everybody understood and got only a disgusted nod.

The divers paraded tipsily to the back of the boat two by two, shuffling along on their fins. Finbar was the last to go.

"They're gonna bolt," he smiled as he spat into his mask.

Mike smiled. "Who? The Chermans, ya?"

"Jawohl," he replied. "You owe me big time."

"Hey," Mike rejoined. "I gave you Pearl the girl. What more do you want?"

"A player to be named later," Finbar winked, and then he too was gone. Mike took a look at his watch and raised his arms to the sun in a satisfied stretch. Alone again. For a half-hour, at least.

Mike radioed his status to the dive shop, stretching the truth a little on their locale. Then he made his way to the foredeck for a brief siesta. First he spread a blob of nose-coat on his tender beak and some SPF200 over his chest and legs. He gave up on notions of the chocolate brown tan he was supposed to get with the job. With his fair complexion it was first-degree burns and leaving strips of his body behind whenever he got out of a plastic deck chair. He rolled his t-shirt up, put it under his head to serve as a pillow and it was lights out.

He was supposed to keep an eye out for trouble. But he figured that's what Finbar was getting paid for quite amply. The surf roared in his aching ears and the gentle sway of the waves lulled him to slumber's doorstep. But he knew he wouldn't fall into it completely. He never had much luck snoozing on moving objects. It was enough to be lying inert, building up his core body temperature, doing and seeing nothing. He was on holiday.

His mind stretched ahead to the spread at lunch -- the divemasters were allowed to nibble discreetly at the end of lunch hour -- and then to his labors below deck inside the Reef Explorer, the hunk of junk they depended on him to keep afloat. It was the resort's first boat and the owner had a sentimental attachment to it. Mike told him he felt like Scotty on Star Trek every time he was ordered to get the old bucket ship-shape. Which was getting to be more and more these days.

It would make a nifty dive site though, he chuckled to himself. And being up to his whatzis in oily water was still a little better than jumping into the drink, what with his sinuses and ears and...

Mike dismissed his immediate fate and tried to think of nothing. At least, nothing beyond the sound of the dive flag flapping in the breeze above him and the gulls crying. He'd always had a talent for staking out pleasant retreats in the midst of chaos. He just didn't think it would come in handy this side of paradise.

He fell asleep. He awoke with a start, more from the surprise of having submitted to Morpheus than anything else. It had never happened before. He sat up and found the sun hiding behind the only cloud in the sky. Mike got up and stretched out his tired body, up on his toes and yawning long and loud. He looked at his watch and started. Couldn't be.

He dropped his sunglasses and looked the time again. The digital readout was the same. He jumped down to the main deck and peered over the edge on both sides of the boat, looking expectantly for bubbles. But there were none.

Alarm caught up to him. About 65 minutes had passed since Finbar brought up the rear of the divers. With a boatload of holiday divers, at least two of them would be back on the boat within a half hour. You might get a few under the boat after an hour and change, sucking their tanks inside out and pissing off the chilled divers back on the boat. But not the whole crew.

Something was wrong.

He grabbed a pair of sun-blistered binoculars and bounded back up to the foredeck, scanning the surface of the ocean for any sign of divers. It was near dead calm, the surface exhaust from 15 divers would ordinarily be quite easy to spot. There were none to be seen.