Page 6 of Researching the Pole

Grant’s eyebrows rose. “Apex predator with a salad bar backup plan. Huh.”

I laughed. “80% of their diet is actually krill.”

“Now, see, I didn’t know that.” He clapped me on the shoulder, stood, and clipped in the oxygen tank while Sam checked his seals.

Once he was satisfied, Sam addressed us in a no-nonsense way. “Guys, as you all know, the protocol specifies that any time a leopard seal is in vicinity, no diving is allowed. The only reason we are able to go in is because of Dr. Cole’s special permit but you are to stay near the boat at all times and only shallow diving. Grant, you’ll be watching Dr. Cole’s back and Viktor, you’re to monitor that seal from up here at all time. Clear?”

Everyone nodded.

“Let’s get you in the water.”

The water hit like a shock even through the drysuit. I sank below the surface and let myself adjust to the pressure change. My sight roamed around the crystal clear surroundings. I knew from the footage that I’d studied for five years that South Pole underwater was different than the usual, but being in it for real hit different.

I could see the seafloor twenty-five feet down without any distortion, could track the gigantic ice formations extending into water columns. All that research hadn’t prepared me for the sheer physicality of it all—the scale, the cold pressure against my chest, the way sound traveled differently down here.

Something touched my biceps. I jerked involuntarily, moving away with all the grace of a tadpole, then stopped and sheepishly smiled. It was Grant, of course. He started laughing at my antics. He pointed down toward a cluster of orange on the rocks.

Sea stars! I got excited like a kid, pointing at them back at him.

He grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

They were huge, covering the bottom in patches of bright color. I sank down until I touched the sea floor. Kicking slowly along the bottom, scanning for good hydrophone placement, I kept taking it all in utter wonder. Current flow looked moderate here, minimal interference from ice movement. A cloud of krill drifted past—thousands of them, dense enough that I had to wave my hand to clear my sight line. The primary food source for leopard seals, and they were everywhere.

Something launched itself off a rock to my right. A scallop, flapping its shell halves to swim in short bursts. They could do that here—most scallops couldn’t, but Antarctic species had adapted. I watched it settle back down on the seafloor a few feet away.

Grant touched my arm again and pointed out into the open water.

The leopard seal!

My heart almost stopped in the thrill and terror of seeing this majestic creature come at me. It swam smoothly and rapidly. It didn’t approach us, just passed by in a wide arc. I tracked its movement, noting the depth, the behavior pattern. Solitary patrol, not hunting. Perfect! A male establishing territory before breeding calls started. Just what I needed.

I turned to Grant, unable to keep the huge grin off my face.

But Grant wasn’t watching the seal. He was watching me. My heart did a funny flip. His eyes were fixed on my face behind the mask, focused and intent. He wasn’t smiling. Just looking at me like nothing else down here mattered. Wasn’t he supposed to be watching my back?

I swallowed, punched him lightly to get his mind back, and forced myself to turn back to the work. The seal had disappeared into deeper water. I needed to focus on site assessment, not on whatever was happening with Grant’s attention.

We stayed down for twenty minutes, drifting along the bottom while I mentally cataloged placement options. When we surfaced and climbed back into the boat, my hands were numb and I couldn’t feel anything around my lip area. But I was over the moon. It was one of the best dives, hands down.

The ride back to Waypoint Station was loud with engine noise and wind. Grant kept glancing at me, but I pretended not to notice. That moment when he had been lost looking at me caused a shift in the air between us.

Back at the station, he led me to the dive bay room—an indoor space with concrete floors and drains.

“Okay,” Grant said, unwinding a hose from the wall. “This part’s going to hurt.”

“How bad?”

He turned the valve and steam rose from the water spray. “Your hands are going to burn when circulation comes back. Just breathe through it.”

The warm air hit my face at first. I yelped. He directed the spray at my gloved hands and pain shot through my fingers immediately. I yelped more. “Normal reaction,” Grant said. “Give it thirty seconds.”

He moved the spray up my arms, across my chest, down my legs. Steam poured off the drysuit. Sensation returned to my limbs and finally I was not a frozen popsicle anymore.

“My turn,” he said, offering me the hose. I took it and sprayed him down the same way he’d done for me. Water cascaded off his shoulders, ran down his chest, pooled at his feet. The outline of his massive cock was unavoidable. I had a new fascination with divesuits.

His hands flexed as the warmth hit them, fingers curling and straightening, but he didn’t make a sound. Damn. Why was that so hot?

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