This tanker went down before I was born, was en route to the Saint Lawrence Seaway when it broke up in heavy seas. It’s part of a long list of oil tanker disasters in US waters: Argo Merchant, Bouchard, Valdez, Mega Borg, Westchester, Eagle Otome, Oasis, Shinyu, Aponia. I can only remember the names if I recite them in order, sing-song, like we learned in grade school eco class. And here it is below me, an ignoble piece of history. But it looks so calm. The water is crystal clear, the destruction a memory. Fish swirl around the ship, an explosion of life, like bugs swarming a rotting corpse.
Ness checks the anchor and swims back up to me. Okay? he asks. Okay, I signal. He points at the wreck. Okay, I signal again. This is the extent of my underwater vocabulary. In truth, I’m far better than okay. I’m dizzy with excitement. I don’t know that I would have the words even if I were able to write them. We have entered an inhospitable and alien world, and I can survive here.
I kick after Ness, and we float down over a large school of what look like amberjack. The fish undulate as one—the most fish I’ve seen in a single school in the wild. Only in aquariums do fish like this exist. As we pierce the school, they seem to divide and meld around us. We continue down, my wrist telling me thirty, forty, fifty. We’re now level with the jutting tower of the Oasis. The deck is much farther below, but I won’t be going any deeper. I swim toward the tower, which is at a lean. Several of the windows are busted out. There are fish inside, and barnacles along the hull. There’s more reef here than I’ve seen practically anywhere since I was a child. More sea life than I’ve ever seen in one place. Ness signals for me not to go any deeper, and I see that I’ve drifted down to sixty-five feet. I put some air in my BC and check my tank supply. I also check the time. We’ve been in the water for twelve minutes. I could stay forever. I could live here.
Ness descends further. He slides down the sheer cliff of steel to the sand floor, where a scattering of rocks and kelp-like plants break up the desert sameness. I watch him search along the base of the wreck. Only a few minutes left to enjoy this. I kick toward the tower until I can reach out and touch the barnacle-rough rail. A monster fish swims past one of the windows, and I grunt a veil of bubbles. A reef shark. The black mark on the tip of its fin tells me what kind. They feed at night, I hear my father say, consoling me.
The black-tip reef shark disappears into the tower, and I decide to back off. Only a quarter of my tank left. A few more minutes down here, that’s all I have. I search below for Ness and see him rising up to join me, trailing a veil of bubbles. Together, we kick toward the surface, this thing I’ve avoided all my life taken away from me far too abruptly. I remember to exhale as we ascend. I exhale the entire way up, letting out this swelling breath that I’ve held for years and years.
22
“That was amazing,” I say as soon as we reach the surface. “Unbelievable. Like being a fish.”
Ness treads water beside me. He has me inflate my BC and then helps me unbuckle the clasps and shrug off all the dive gear. The tank and all the hoses float on the surface of the water. I see how it works now, and also why you don’t get in without putting the gear on first. Sorting it out in the swell would be a pain in the butt.
He holds my tank for me while I kick off my fins and sling them into the boat. Now it’s just like snorkeling, and I’m a pro. I haul myself up the swim ladder, hold the boat with one hand, and take my tank and BC from Ness. When he gets his off, I take that as well. I feel like an equal partner in the dive now. I’m ready to go again. I want to know when I can go again. And deeper next time. Stay down longer. I have a fever for this. It’s more immediately addictive even than surfing.
Ness throws his fins into the boat, has his mask up on his forehead, and climbs up to join me. “How was it?” he asks.
“Over too quick,” I say. “I want to do it again.”
“You should get certified.”
“I will.” And I plan to. I’ll even let Michael know. Maybe see if he’d want to go on a dive sometime. As friends. I’d like that.
Ness hits a switch on the console and pulls up one of the hatches to the livewells. Water is gushing inside, filling the area where the bait is kept. I watch as he lowers a canister into the pool of water and releases something. A shell. A fly-specked cerith. Tiny. I have to stoop to see it. And then I see the pink foot of the slug inside.
“It’s alive,” I say.
“Oh, yeah,” Ness says, watching the creature. “Ceriths have done well around here. There’s a professor at Stanford who spends a few weeks every summer on this wreck. She says the spill set these puppies up for success in the ocean we have today. They adapted to a toxic environment that’s becoming more and more the norm. In a weird and tragic way, the wreck and the spill were good things. She’s had a hard time getting her papers published, of course. Nobody wants to hear about the life around the ship.” Ness closes the hatch.
“This isn’t the sort of shelling I thought we’d be doing,” I say.