1
A PIRATE’S SOUL
Submerged in the deep blue ocean, the world stood still all around me. I’m talking too still, with fish and all the wonders of the sea in hiding mode. Only seagrass and sand.
Boring …
My first official creds-secured scuba dive and I’d discovered a big ol’ nothing. Goose egg. Zero on the adventure scale.
Abuelo Kiki made frantic hand gestures beside me. Up. Up. Up.
A glance at the gauge confirmed my air would end soon. I propelled myself from the sandy bottom. Off like a rocket.
Swoosh.
Bubbles trailed behind. Within seconds, my face broke above the final wall of clear blue water, bathwater warm in the heat. The sky greeted us, but the early September sun was not smiling down. Dark gray clouds warned of trouble.
Abuelo surfaced next to me. “No time to lose, Fin. Weather’s ’bout to turn. Some of the outer bands of the storm seem to be making their way in. Gotta shove on. Highway’s gonna be crammed—everyone fighting to get out. And I promised to get you home to Miami before it hit.”
“Wish we could stay and hang in the Keys,” I grumbled.
“According to the weather radio this morning, Hurricane Irma’s ’bout a hundred miles south of here, ravaging Cuba. She’ll travel up the Florida Straits and hit us some time tomorrow morning.”
I yanked off my mask and regulator. The challenge was balancing the heavy tank on my back. The duck-like fins on my feet didn’t make it any easier. Waddle, waddle. My knees buckled in awkward angles climbing the ladder on the stern of the boat.
Abuelo plopped onto the deck behind me, his chest rising up and down in labored movements. He struggled to tear off gear. Gone was the rock-hard strength that used to pulse through his tanned arms. His faded anchor tattoo sagged where impressive lumps used to bulge on his biceps.
How could this be? He was so much tougher than me.
“Pass me your tank.” I extended a hand.
“I can manage on my own,” Abuelo snapped. “Get busy. Pull down the dive flag and bring up the anchor.” He gestured to the bow of his vintage 1973 nineteen-foot Boston Whaler. “Don’t know how I let you talk me into going out today.”
“Birthday gift,” I reminded him, before crawling along the rails, real grateful to have my sea legs back and lose the clumsy web feet.
I pulled on the line stretched out from a cleat on the bow but couldn’t get the anchor to budge. Not one bit.
From the stern, Abuelo grunted in his usual drill-sergeant way. “Come on, boy. Give it some muscle.”
My palms stung as I struggled to keep a grip on the wet line. I braced myself and pulled, inch by inch. No chance I’d let Abuelo down even if my pitiful pecs were still in training. Besides, one day soon, I’d help him haul up something way better than this stupid dead weight.
“Argh!” I finally lugged the anchor on board and waved an imaginary pirate hook in the air. “Not letting anyone mess with our treasure.”
“Little to worry about,” Abuelo scoffed. “No one knows it exists.”
“But there’re hundreds of divers coming out to the Florida Keys.”
As if on cue, a boat motored into view with a CONCHER SCUBA logo painted on its side. The big C at the front curved into a sea serpent tail slithering under the rest of the letters.
“See what I mean? Invading.”
“That there’s a divemaster. One of the pros. Paid to be out, unlike me.”
The driver saluted before racing out of sight.
“You think he’s after our loot? Only other boat we’ve seen since we anchored here.”
“Different kinds.” Abuelo chuckled. “Treasure comes in many forms. Natural ones hidden all over our coral reefs.”
“I want the real stuff…”
“Sure you do. Couldn’t wait a day past your twelfth birthday to go hunting, aye, matey?” He winked.
Over the summer he had paid for my scuba lessons and given me equipment. I’d just finished the course and was now officially a Junior Open Water Scuba Diver. I knew the lessons and my equipment had cost him a lot, but he never grumbled about it.
I raised two thumbs in the air. “Been waiting to get certified for a looong time.” Like, my whole life long. Or at least since the first time I remember dipping my toes in the ocean. A school of minnows came to greet me. We played hide-and-seek, but Mami had to grab me when I tried to follow them into the deep.
Abuelo’s expression turned serious, pulling me out of memory-mode. “You got no business having me as your dive buddy. I’m getting too old for this.”
“Old?” I snorted. “You act younger than Dad.” Way, way younger. “Where’s your sense of adventure? It’s what you always tell him.”
Abuelo took my bait. “Listen, squirt. Back in my day, I could teach you a thing or two about diving and adventure.” He shook his finger and his voice dropped to a whisper. “But your dad will have my head mounted on a wall like my sailfish if he gets wind of what we’re up to. Too risky as far as he’d be concerned. Especially with the storm on the way.”
“Relax … You always say I practically have gills. It’ll be our secret.” I drew a finger to my lips. “As usual.”
“I know all too well about them gills of yours. Ya got salt water flowing through your veins. How you think you landed your nickname, Fin?”
I rolled my eyes, even though I was totally grateful for the nickname he’d given me. Fin was way cooler than the über-Latino name my parents—or actually, Mami—gave me: Fernando. If I closed my eyes, I could hear Mami belting out Lady Gaga’s song “Alejandro.” Mami’s version was heavy on the Spanish accent and super exaggerated rolling of the R’s. Especially the part where she’d scream out my name when the refrain switched to “Ferrrrnando!”
Ugh. Made my skin crawl.
Abuelo interrupted my thoughts. “You were two years old. Even then you used to jump and swim out from my dock. No one could stop you. Used to scare the bejesus out of your dad. Think you learned to swim before you could walk. Born with fins, I always said.”
I gave him my best cheeky grin. “Yep, meant to be diving. Besides, only forty feet deep here. Not risky at all. We didn’t even have to stop and decompress. How much trouble could we possibly get into?”
BOOM!
The distant cannon of a thunderbolt fired off a warning.
“Get into position,” Abuelo commanded. I hustled back to sit next to him in the captain’s chair, which was big enough for both of us.
He rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out his favorite Panama hat. Pressing the straw covering over his head, he added shade to a splattering of sunspots. “Let’s go batten down the hatches. Hit the road.” He revved the 150 horses of his Evinrude outboard to life, shouting over the noise: “Not much time left, and this Irma gal’s a mean one! She’ll be packing quite a punch coming in as a Cat Four.”
I gripped the handrail that went around the console. The boat slammed up and down, pounding over the waves, and swayed from side to side. Water splashed onto the deck, slapping sea salt over every inch of my skin. Dampening my courage. Gulp. “You really think Irma is going to be as bad as they say?” I shouted.
Copyright © 2022 by Sallie Anne Rodriguez
