“Come aboard.”
I put down the bike, and he takes my hand, helps me onto the boat. I’ve stood here before, on this faded deck with its faint smell of salty sea and new paint.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say.
“It was not my idea of a trip to Disneyland.”
“How did it happen? Do you know what you ate?”
“Complete mystery, but I’m a changed man. Every time we dive into a wreck, I put my life on the line. But this time, I stared death in the face over dinner.”
“Don’t joke. You never know what’s going to happen. Life can change in an instant.”
“You know that as well as I do.” Van leads me into the cabin. Laid out on tabletops are the rusty remains from sunken ships—old shoes, wine bottles, and ceramics. The room is also packed with equipment—metal tools and cameras, dive gear, scuba suits hanging on the walls. Life jackets, ropes, a dinghy. “How can I help you?” he says.
“What do you know about the diving accident?”
“Only what Jacob told us.”
“I feel as though someone else was there. Was it you?”
“Me!” He looks startled. Then his face closes, concealing . . . what? “What makes you say that?”
“Someone else was there.”
He frowns at me. “It wasn’t me.”
“I wonder who it was.”
“How do you know someone else was there? Did Jacob tell you that?”
“He said nobody else was there. But I’m seeing images of a third diver. I’m certain the third diver struggled for air. What could cause someone to run out of air while diving? The nitrox you told me about, could that do it?”
“You could get oxygen toxicity. If you don’t keep an eye on your gauge.”
“But you could survive, get rescued.”
“I suppose. It’s possible, yes.”
“What else could go wrong?”
“Lots of things. You could lose your tank if you don’t secure it to your BC—your vest. The strap expands in the water. If the strap slips, you’re in trouble. Or the regulator could malfunction. Happened to me once.”
“Was it accidental?”
“Yeah. Why are you asking me this? You and Jacob survived. He’s an advanced diver. He had to go through rebreather training.”
The word rebreather echoes distantly. “What about someone on a scientific dive? Documenting sea life?”
“Depends. Inexperienced diver, out of shape, overexerts himself and uses up his air. He panics and rises to the surface too quickly. Fatal air embolism. Nitrogen bubbles in the blood.”
“But what if a diver is healthy and experienced and isn’t ascending too quickly?”
“Doesn’t happen to experienced divers. They check their equipment before they dive. It’s more common for a diver to misjudge, panic. If you’ve had a cold or allergies, you could still be congested. You’re not thinking straight, you use up your gas—oxygen, as you say. You breathe deeply but you feel like you’re not getting air. Your body gets stressed.”
“Jacob is a master diver. He taught me to dive. And yet—”
“Divers panic in the rough waters. About one in ten diving deaths is due to rough seas, strong currents. Diver can’t deal with it.”
“One in ten. That’s a lot.”
“It was probably the current. You fought it and got to safety.”
“You’re right . . . but there’s something nagging at me. Something I need to remember.”
“If you need any other help, I’m here until tomorrow. Then I leave for Colombia, got a job there off the coast. I’ll be back in about a month.”
“You’re fast back to work after almost dying.”
“Yeah, I gotta make ends meet,” he says, taking a deep breath. “For Nancy. She wants to do more things together, go to romantic places. Last romantic thing we did together was a night down at the B and B.”
A thought comes to me. I turn to him. “The same one we stayed in when we first got here last summer?”
“Yeah, out on the north side of town. There’s only one. You want to go back there?”
“Just to see if I get anything . . . a memory.”
“You’d better hurry over there. They might be closing for the season.”
The Mystic Cove Bed & Breakfast Manor is a large Victorian mansion nestled in the woods, with a grand view of the sea. The wraparound porch has been restored, and the gardens and gazebos are impeccably maintained. I ring the bell at the front counter. The air smells of wood polish. A portly, dark-haired woman emerges from the back room, her ruddy face beaming. She’s wearing a flowing, colorfully patterned dress, a long wool sweater over the top. “Ah, Mrs. Winthrop, how lovely to see you again!”
“Call me Kyra.”
“And you must call me Waverly.”
“I’m relieved to find you still open.”
“We close for the winter season in November. I wish we could stay open year-round. Maybe next year.”
“Lovely place you have here.”
“Thank you. Let me give you a hug.” She comes around from behind the counter to envelop me in a comforting embrace, then she steps back and touches her soft hand to my cheek. “My husband, Bert, passed away six months ago. He would have loved to see you again.”