We had relatives over for the weekend, up from the south. We saw them perhaps every other year; gentle aunt Marie, great, fat, jolly uncle Ed. His was always the brightest face. And Grandma. To be able to constantly monitor our piece of ocean, we kept a great deal of radio equipment at home. Our den was a multicolored array of flashing lights and futuristic gizmos which spilled out into the living areas. We could always hear beeps and whines and unnatural electronic voices, at times babbling half a dozen garbled conversations simultaneously. To the untrained ear it was mayhem, but those of us who lived with the noise could extract the sense of any particular voice at any particular time.
We settled in for a good visit. Uncle Ed sprawled out on the couch; Aunt Marie sat primly in a hardback dining chair, and Grandma in the recliner. The radios crackled softly in the background. I turned them down. They were an obvious irritation to our guests. But I strained my ears to hear them just the same. Disaster knows no schedule. There was no vacation from the vigil not even sleep.
We talked about their trip, their weather, our weather, new additions to the family as a wholeand deletions, who was working, who was not and why....who was married; again who was not and, of course, specifically why. Such a conversation is but a routine, a prearranged and time honored series of moves and thrusts and parries. It's a game of verbal chess. The mood was light.
At fourteen thirty hours, just after lunch, the subconscious heard a faint, undisciplined voice call for help. Somewhere a boy of fifteen picked up a mike and appealed, softly, to the wind itself, for all he knew. I found myself moving towards the banks of transceivers on the far wall of the living room. I turned the radios up, and Grandma openly scowled. I apologized. The conversation in the living room continued in voices slightly raised. Fifteen minutes passed, and my attention was divided equally between the pleasures of light gossip and some unknown plight at sea. Several local fishing vessels had answered the call, but each signed off after determining they could be of no real assistance.
The Coast Guard finally claimed the frequency. Uncle Ed was telling a joke a good one, even for uncle Ed. The entire family moved forward in their seats, so as to not miss a word. Uncle Ed tossed me a glance, as though to place the blame, were his punch line to be obliterated by some inopportune bleating of the radios. It would be on my head. I moved to the radios again, in order to hear the unfolding dilemma at a lower volume.
The transmission was weak, and every few seconds a wave of static scattered the words:
"Coast Guard Group Mary Bay, this is Coast Guard Group South Point, roger sir, understand your rescue copter will be getting underweighah, is underweigh at this time, is that correct??"
"Group South Point this is Mary Bay, affirmative on that. The helo twoninerfiveone is off the pad at fourteen forty six hours enroute the pickup point, ah.... How do you copy that, over."
"Mary Bay, South Point, roger on that, we'll be standing down at this time, sir. Please give a call if there's anything else we can do... Good luck. Out."
The Coast Guard station at Mary Bay merely clicked their mike in final response, too busy to talk. I speculated on the probable mission: a boat capsized, or sinkingor already sunk and some poor bloke slopping about the chuck in need of a lift. September was the disaster season, not so much for the weather but more due to the sheer numbers of pleasure vessels out and about for one last cruise in deteriorating conditions.. Our particular bit of coast saw nearly half a dozen emergencies a day in the busy months. We made a good living.
I saw little need to send out a boat for such a situation, with company and all. Besides, we had no really fast response capabilities. Speed was generally only required in the saving of a lifeand the saving of lives was financially foolish. Not to say we hadn't saved our share we had. Where there was clearly no fault, but just a spot of poor luck, we accepted, merely, their thanks, though barely one in ten ever bothered to extend it. But on those occasions where negligence was clearly the cause, we'd sent them a bill for the services of a tug.....the usual hourly rate. We never once received a check. We still went out, when physical life was at stake, and we went at a dead run, too, and at the best revolutions of our fastest tug, and sometimes we were in time More often, not. But the company was not in the business could not be in the business of saving lives. It just didn't pay. That's what the Coast Guard is for. When we saved a boat or a ship, we had something with which to bargain collateral, a hostage, as it were, for a ship, under maritime law, is an entity unto itself, and as such must pay her own bills. A human, on the otherhand, is a slippery bit of work damned hard to sell, when the charges went delinquent. And so we had but slow boats, designed for heavy weather and pulling hardnot for sprinting across the strait on a hunch. The helo would make it in time....certainly it would.... And I retired to more cheery cerebration.
At fifteen hundred the static faded for a moment, and there could be heard the words "divers" and "air".. The mention of divers was interesting, for the Coast Guard had none, and their personnel were prohibited, practically, from dunking their heads under the surface of the sea.. I went to the radios and turned the volume to such a level that all conversation in the house was suspended as a hesitent, undisciplined voice spoke:
"Coast Guard this is the Ellan Anne again, ah, I don't see your helicopter, ah, are you sure they went to the right place? Uh...Over."
"Ellan Anne, Coast Guard Mary Bay back, ah, understand the helo is not on scene yet, ah, sir, the helo will be picking up a team of sheriff's department divers enroute to your position. We anticipate his arrival your position in about two zero minutesthat's twenty minutes; do you copy?"
"Coast Guard, the Ellan Anne, roger, I copy that, but Tomuh, the other diver has only about an hour and fifteen minutes of air left. He's been down, ah, let's see (and there was much clicking of the mike as he fumbled with a clipboard) ah, he went in at, uh, well, I figured he had an hour and a half of air left at about two thirty this afternoon..." His voice was shakey, and it trailed off to more of a plea than a statement of fact. In a more forceful tone, almost angry, he keyed up and continued; "He's been stuck now for forty five minutes! Are you sure the helicopter can get here in time?" His voice broke and trembled slightly on the last few words.
"Ellan Anne, Coast Guard Mary Bay again, roger sir. Please remain calm and keep us advised of the situation. We'll let you know when the rescue helicopter has picked up the divers, and is enroute your position... Do you still see the bubbles? over."
"The Ellan Anne back; yeah. The bubbles are still coming up. He must be still trapped in the wreck. He seems to be breathing okay I hope you guys can hurry up......"
The predicament was common. I suppose a couple of dozen sport divers a year enter some wreck, and never come out. Often they surprise a large fish inside, and it explodes into a fit of panic, trying only to get away.. The visibility goes immediately to nothing, and the diver is left to feel his way out inch by inch. Scuba divers are taught to enter wrecks with a safety line fastened securely outside, like Hansel and Gretel's trail of breadcrumbs.... Sometimes they're too Macho for that But they're never too tough to die.
Uncle Ed turned to be more in line with the radios. He paused; then delivered the punch line half heartedly; then fell silent, listening. It was a good joke, but there was no laughter. Grandma looked tolerant. Aunt Marie inquired as to precisely what it was I did with those boatsah, tugboats... I replied that we did rescue work off the coast, and some salvage, but there was less money and much competition in salvage rescue, mostly. She looked thoughtful. Uncle Ed asked if I had to go out now. I said I didn't think so, and at that everyone seemed to relax, and resumed their original conversations. Grandma asked openly, then, if the radios could be turned down. I smiled and told her pretty soon, and turned to the phones on the desk.
"Good afternoon, Captain Shale." I made the customary attempt at half hearted courtesy. "Understand you have a diver in some sort of a predicament."
There was an unhuman sound. "Affirmative." He finally replied.
I continued, "Well if the time factor becomes a problem for you, I just wanted to be sure you understood that we were available. If need be we could borrow a neighbor's skiboat, and be on scene in, say, thirty minutes, though in that case we'd be limited to about two hundred feet and for only a few minutes in SCUBA gear... I don't know exactly what the situation is, over there."
"Well there's not much of a 'situation', actually." He said, hoping to dispel any interest we might have in the case. "Just a SCUBA diver a little confusedcan't find his way out of a wreck." And he sighed, as though it were such a pain, such an inconvenience to concern himself "He was diving with a buddy; the buddy apparently made it up and called for help. 'Bout ten fathoms. They're just sport divers, out for the afternoon. I really can't see there's much you guys can do." His voice trailed off as if suggesting he may as well hang up there was nothing of interest to a "private" enterprize for God's sake.
I thanked him, and advised him once again of our availability, and hung up.. They had an uncanny ability to forget that there was any such thing as a "private sector". It's the "Texas Syndrome".
Time was passing too quickly. It does that, alters it's relative value at some mystical whim. When you need the most, it slips away the fastest. Uncle Ed seemed interested, so I explained the situation. He took it in as though it were a sampling of a script, as though I could change it as the story progressed, or if the plot took a nasty or undesired turn. Aunt Marie looked puzzled. Grandma was openly peeved. I turned the radios up another notch.
Air was running out like sand in a glass. I was reminded of that silly scene in the "Wizard of Oz". I'd always hated the movie. It had a hint of obscene macabre, an ugliness not for children. The sand ran out as the wicked witch cackled and shrieked.. I clenched my fist. Three fifteen. Thirty minutes left? A SCUBA diver can exhaust a standard tank in a quarter hour, or stretch it to two, depending on his experience, and state of anxiety. I mentally wished the boy calm. And immediately there was the snap of a radio, the report that "the bubbles are still coming up where's the helicopter?" The voice was wavering, now. The frightened boy on the Ellan Anne explained that there was no more air in his own bottle. There was nothing he could do but sit, and watch the bubbles of his friend. And pray they didn't stop.
"The Ellan Anne, Coast Guard Mary Bay here; roger sir, copied your last. Ah, it seems there's been some slight delay The helo twoninerfiveone is on the ground at the rendezvous point waiting for the sheriff's divers, but apparently there's been some mixup, ah, standby: I'll try to get a more current status, over."
The voice was frantic now, "Coast Guard, what the hell do you mean there's been a mixup? You can't do that! You can't screw this up now! What're you going to do!!??"
"Ellan Anne, Mary Bay Coast Guard back, roger sir, I understand your concern, ah, please standby. Uh, please just bear with us a little longer; we're doing everything we can, ah.... overer... Ellan Anne this is Coast Guard Mary Bay again. Sir, it seems there has been a change in the rendezvous pointthe rescue copter is enroute the new position, ah, please standby. We'll get the divers to your position as quickly as possibleMary Bay OUT!"
There was some miscellaneous clicking of a mike-somewhere. Then silence. The young voice aboard the Ellan Anne was pounding the deck. I could feel it. Uncle Ed was a shade paler, and Aunt Marie's eyes were wet. Grandma was quiet. We sat for a few moments as time raced on, faster, more belligerent, mocking. Time is but the manifestation of our system's relative movement through the universe... Surely its rate could be altered, slowed, just for a while. So much depended on it. It was not so much to ask....
I called the Coast Guard again. Captain Shale was gruff and hurried; "We don't have time"
I shouted "LOOK! I'm aware of your problemof the latest development. I want to make damned sure you understand that there is an alternative. It's a little late now, even for a fast boat, but I can have a Navy Master Diver on a barge in the middle of Ryan Bay in fifteen minutes. You could dispatch a second helo, pick him up off the barge, and be on scene in less than half an hour. If the twoninefiveone gets there first, fine, but we're offering whatever help we can. There's no chargeI just hate to see the guy bite it down there for lack of a diver. Why don't we cover our butts?"
"I'll take it up with the rescue coordinator. I'll get back to you" And the line went dead.
On an obscure frequency of a seldom used set the receiving light came on:
"Group Mary Bay, this is Coast Guard helo twoninerfiveone, ah, we're on scene the coordinates of the rendezvous at this time" And the voice reflected a barely controlled rage "There's nothing here either! No divers.. No patrol car... The area is deserted! Do you copy that?"
"Twoninefiveone, roger that. Standby! Disregard, ah, wait oneokay, use your own discretion. At this time we have no contact with the sheriff's departmentno one knows what the what's going on. I suggest you take a look over the roads they might be likely to use. Land on their roof, if you have to... Keep us advised OUT!" And the mike clicked in response as the pilot yanked the cyclic into a steep bank, then swooped down over the trees in search of the lost sheriff's car full of divers.
Uncle Ed was sitting on the edge of his seat closest the radios, face held tightly in his hands, not moving, barely breathing. He was perspiring heavily. All was silent but for Aunt Marie's quiet sob. The air was still but for the buzz of a lazy afternoon fly....and we waited.
At fifteen forty I called Ron and sent him on a dead run for the tug; told him to suit up, his tender would be along shortly. Another trusted crewman was dispatched as captain, to raft up the barge and move it out to the center of the bay. During some idle hours, one winter, we'd rigged an emergency pack, complete with rope and lights and inflatable bladders to keep a victim afloatand resuscitator... A veritable bag of tricks, for just such a contingency.
I called the Coast Guard again, and advised them a diver would be sitting on a barge in the center of the bay, two hours of air on his back. There was no charge Just pick him up!! They said maybe... They'd see. The sheriff's divers would be along shortly, they said. There was nothing here for "commercial salvage", for God's sake.
At sixteen hundred my tug reported.. Ron was perched pertly in the center of a flat decked barge, helmet on, dry suit zipped, roasting in the sun and wondering just precisely why.... I could see him from the telescope at the house. He looked so incongruously red; the color of his grungy Santa suit in the middle of a bleak, brown deck....all alone, waiting...
Uncle Ed began to pound the table. Aunt Marie sobbed too loudly, once, and ran into the bathroom.
The horrified soul aboard the Ellan Anne abandon all radio courtesy, and inquired in no uncertain terms of the status of the helicopter, and its preciousif elusive-- cargo. He was nearly incoherent. The Coast Guard frequencies were alive with the chatter of two dozen voices checking this or that and speculating openly of the poor bloke's odds.
The helo reported only empty roads, and a sincere desire his old, surplus ship had not been stripped of her guns, should the patrol car finally be spotted along the highway, too late.
I called the Coast Guard again. I was placed ungraciously on "hold", and I used the moment to call my crew, drifting lazily in the bay, wondering at what instant some great flying machine would swoop down over the hill and lift Ron into its belly, and then speed off again to perform such a simple chore at the bottom of the sea. We schemed and plotted and cursed. We dug our claws into the very fabric of time, to slow it down just a bit. And the bubbles continued to rise, and the life below persisted in draining quietly, irrevocably away.
I could feel his fear, down there in the dark, for his light would have failed. The air would be coming more thickly from his tank. His lungs would be tired and sore. His throat would be so dry. His fear would have replaced the cold Or panic may have replaced the dark. Or he was calmly waiting to be saved. It was such an insignificant task to save him! I'd led my divers from the bowels of some wreck a thousand times, when they became confused and they also me, and it was hardly worth a thanks....like holding open a door. And yet the logistics of the thing were sucking the life from a man.. It was geographyand stupidity. It would be such a meaningless death!
I wondered if he knew we weren't going to make it. At what point did he begin to suspect? At what point did he admit it to himself? And at precisely what instant would he know he was dead, that it was inevitable? God. I could save him! Right now! If I were there I could spare his life for some other grissly end later in life but for now I could make him live. Ron could as well, and I looked through the telescope toward the bay where my barge and tug sat serenely, the crews chatting quietly on deck. Ron was still there, sitting yoga style in the center of the barge, waiting and breathing through his open faceplate to conserve air. There was no sound of approaching helicopters.
Aunt Marie emerged from the bathroom and approached the radios. Uncle Ed looked up as she passed and took her hand. Grandma moved her mouth, as if to ask why, or what, but there was no sound. I knew in my heart the end of the story. We'd seen it a hundred times. Ego is so absurd.
The clatter and chatter and all out din of the transceivers rose in frenzy. It seemed as though half a civilization struggled and ran and fought for that boy, but there was no effort effective, not an inch gained to the good. The Coast Guard personnel fairly screamed out their orders, intermingled with the suggestions of sport boaters breaking into the frequencies, and the high pitched whine of the rescue copter as the pilot keyed up his mike and inquired still again of any word from the sheriff's men.
Aunt Marie sat down by Ed, and they held their cheeks close together, bracing for some final blow, some earth shaking shriek that would signal the end of all things. I felt only a familiar frustration, acute, resigned. It was such an old dilemma, and such a pointless one.
And a radio keyed up, and there was a hoarse transmission:
"Coast Guardyou bastards..." The voice caught, wavered. There was a sob. Then it struggled on more composed and clear. He continued as though stating a fact of almost no relevance at all:
"The bubbles have stopped."
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