CHAPTER 1
The Turning Tide, years ago
I know who I am.
A Sarasota boy who spent most of high school in college classrooms and touched ground in distant places around the world before most kids got the chance to leave their backyard. One who’s on a fast track for a direct-entry PhD in marine geosciences. The youngest in my field.
There’s a rush and a peace I find while I’m swimming underwater. And yeah, I write poetry because what I see makes me feel things.
I promised my father on the day he died that I’d take care of my mother and sister and always try to do what was right.
And so far, I have.
I’m disciplined. Responsible. Focused.
So how the hell did I let myself get talked into this?
“You promised me one last adventure,” she teased this morning.
“Sorry, Cat.”
“You’ve got what, five hundred and something dives logged already? I think we’ll be okay. Anyway, this is our last chance to get those pictures.”
I knew it was a bad idea. But I went along with it anyway.
“I’m in charge. If I call it, we’re done.”
“Deal.”
The St. Augustine West Start Field Study Program wraps up next week, and we won’t get another chance to photograph the wreck. So we loaded up and took the boat out this morning. Since we’re both student divers taking part in the excavation, there’s nothing unusual about this. Except that we’re diving unauthorized on our Sunday off.
If we get caught, we’re going to be in a shitload of trouble. It could cost me my transfer to Miami.
For what?
Now, we’re swimming above a skeleton of rotted timber covered with colonies of coral and sea sponge. Once a proud member of the Spanish Treasure Fleet, the galleon now rests over forty feet underwater. Dozens of snappers, amberjack, and sheepshead scatter away as we approach the remnants of the carpenter’s chest we found on our last dive. The ship’s carpenter would have been respected and enjoyed the privilege of his own cabin.
His job—keep the ship afloat.
My dive buddy and partner in crime, Cathy, is midship on the GoPro, trying to get as close as possible to the chest area without entering the unstable structure. The chest itself has been reduced to splinters, but scattered across the floor lie rulers, ax handles, and a brace and bit—centuries-old wooden tools, still recognizable connections to the past.
After I take some overview photos at the stern, I check on Cathy.
Her enthusiasm is getting the better of her. She’s way too close.
I tap my tank to get her attention and flatten my hand, pointing down.Slow down.After my third attempt, she circles her thumb and index finger to acknowledge my command.
OK.
The tension in my chest loosens. I’m not a fan of being in charge of someone else’s safety. It adds too many variables. The riskiest? The other person’s free will.
She gives me a wicked smile.
Before I can react, she squeezes between two beams of the ship to get a few feet closer to the artifacts.
Damn it, Cathy.
Annoyed, I signal for her to stop and turn around. But she’s not looking at me.
