He should not be here.
In lieu of gills, he trafficked faithful gulps of air through his supply line, a rubber esophagus. His hair remained parted. His mustache remained handlebarred. His woolen long underwear and denim were damp with anxiety, not bilge. He plodded across the sea floor arduously. He sensed nothing except the darkness, the loneliness, and his muted lumbering.
His captain and crew remained on deck, keeping Boquois' air supply and their uniforms dry. The diver's turmoil echoed through the tube, muddling to susurruses between the depths and surface. Idle crew peered overboard, sharing divinations and reveries upon the effervescence stirred by Boquois' dealings: perhaps peseta-laden galleons, perhaps pearls in oysters as big as barrels, perhaps liasions with mermaids.
The text book pictures lied. No kelp forests climbing to the same sun his air line did. No jellyfish undulating seductively. No coral reefs painting an impressionistic carpet. No scarlet starfish piling like butchers' tongues, interleaved and amorous. No galleons or barrel-sized oysters. No seals. No sharks. No octopussies. No kraken. The diver's domed glass helmet reflected the bland drink that swallowed him.
He roved a vast circle, tethered by his air supply. Mist clouded with each step. Later, he would record in his corporate findings '11° 23′ 0″ S, 143° 59′ 0″ E: Sand, silt, diatoms, detritus, failed spawnings, and chum.' Light filtered above him. Dark brewed about him.
His visor fogged with tired breath. Dim in the south-easterly depths, he glimpsed frolicking feminine silhouettes. He plowed towards the motions in monumental inches, snorting and squealing like a boar. The water carried the sisters' flirtacious sounds, giggling. At the end of his leash, he groped fistfuls of the abyss. He reached desperately again, again, again.
His line tugged thrice, and the captain gave order to reel him in. Boquois caught his breath, told no tales, and dove again into the dark depths.
No comments:
Post a Comment