He shows me a fat wristwatch with a black rubber band. “You’ve got one of these in your bag. It shows your depth, how much air you have left, and how long you’ve been diving. I’ll teach you how to use it. Don’t worry, it’s simple.”
“Sixty feet. Ten minutes,” I repeat. I really don’t want to die. I don’t want this story to turn into an obituary. My heart is racing, and it occurs to me that I’m placing my life in the hands of a man I barely trust.
“The most important thing is not to be nervous,” he says, like he can read my mind. “If you’re nervous, you’ll breathe heavy, and you’ll go through your tank in no time. Stay calm and breathe deep, nice and slow, and you’ll be able to enjoy the dive longer.”
I nod. This feels a lot like a piece I wrote years ago, which got me into surfing. I was terrified at first, but I eventually found my footing. The root of a good interview is to throw yourself into someone else’s world with wild abandon. Seek new and scary things. It occurs to me that I could’ve been a better spouse if I’d approached my marriage the way I tackle my work.
Inside the dive bag, I find a black steel tank. The one in Ness’s bag is bright pink. I like that he doesn’t ask to switch, just begins showing me how to hook up what he calls the first stage of the regulator to the tank. He then teaches me how to check the small rubber ring on the tank, make sure there’s no sand or debris there, how to crack the main valve and listen to the hiss of air, and how to blow out any water that might be in the valve. We then begin to hook up the tangle of hoses to the tanks.
“Mine feels loose,” I say. Everything is a worry. A possible danger.
“That’s good. You want it a little loose. It’ll tighten when you open the tank. The air will blow that rubber gasket out.”
That doesn’t sound like a good thing, but I crack the valve, and sure enough, the regulator stiffens where it’s attached to the top of the tank. Ness shows me how to test the air flow from what he calls the “second stage” or “regulator.” I press the button, and the mouthpiece hisses. Ness puts his in his mouth and takes a deep breath. I do the same, not knowing what to expect the air to taste like. It doesn’t. Maybe a little metallic from the tank, or a little plasticky from the hose, but that could be my imagination.
“Okay, second safety rule. When you ascend, you’re always exhaling, okay?”
“Ascending is going up,” I say, knowing this is right but seeking confirmation just in case. My temples are throbbing and it’s hard to think. I really don’t want to die because I assumed something or because I didn’t want to look stupid in front of someone I barely know.
“Correct. When you go down, the pressure of the water around you will compress the air in your lungs and make it take up less volume. But you’ll be filling your lungs with new air. So when you come up, that air is going to expand. As long as you’re breathing out the entire time, that expanding air can’t hurt you.”
I start to say something, but Ness continues. “Don’t worry, we won’t be going deep enough or stay down long enough to get the bends.”
That answers my next question.
“There are a few things that can freak you out when you’re diving, and that’s the regulator coming out of your mouth, your mask filling with water, and losing your sense of which way is up. We’re going to put our tanks on, walk down this ramp, and I’m going to show you how to deal with all three. Twenty minutes of instruction, and you’re going to be a pro.”
Ness smiles, and I believe he’s being sincere, that he knows what he’s doing, that I’m going to live through this day, which started out a bit too perfectly and would be nicely balanced by a gruesome death. In fact, this would be one quick way to put an end to my questions about the shells. I flash to an image of a police boat there at the dock, blue lights flashing, my inert body being hauled up from the break wall, Ness saying he doesn’t know what went wrong. I think back to how calmly he crushed shells that should’ve been worth a fortune. Getting rid of me would be like getting rid of more damning evidence.
“Don’t be scared,” Ness says. I refocus to find that he’s watching me, a look of genuine concern on his face. What I assume is genuine concern.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just spaced out. What’s next?”
Ness shows me how to attach the tank to something called a BC, then shows me my weight belt, which explains, besides the tank, why the duffel bag was so heavy. I take off my sundress, thinking as I do that at least my sister and Agent Cooper know where I am. Henry, too. No matter what happens, Ness won’t get away with it. And anyway, I’m being paranoid. Unreasonable. Whatever Ness is, he isn’t a killer.
I drill this into my head as I squeeze into my wetsuit, which is an act as awkward and oddly intimate as getting re-dressed past airport security. But Ness is donning his own suit, and he doesn’t glance my way once. He’s either uninterested or a gentleman. And there’s a vast gulf between the two.