Ken McAlpine's Blog: The Hesitant Blogger - Posts Tagged "attack"
Three Thousand Feet to the Bottom (a short excerpt from "Juncture")
He is one of the world’s preeminent underwater photographers, aboard this boat to shoot a magazine story on the Sea of Cortez. After a long day of diving and a dinner of burritos the size of a forearm, the other divers are drinking in the galley of the Becky Lee, already dozy drunk. He is a teetotaler and mildly shy. He needs night shots too, and when he walked to the stern thirty minutes ago to share a little quiet with the stars, he saw the Humboldt squid, attracted by the Becky Lee’s lights, darting just below the black surface like gray shooting stars.
On the back of the deck he pulls his gear from his dive bag and suits up. He has done this thousands of times. Still he triple checks his air, breathes through both regulator and second stage, examines his BCD to ensure his backup dive light is clipped tight, if, for some impossible reason, he should lose his camera rig with its white bright strobes. Complacency kills. He has heard dozens of stories, and twice witnessed it first-hand.
He glances toward the door leading to the galley, warm light behind the porthole’s scratched glass. He should tell someone, but now that he is suited up he just wants to go. It is a calm night; the ocean’s surface barely fidgets.
He places his camera carefully on the swim step and slips into the water. He pulls the camera in after him. Its weight makes him sink. For an instant he sees both worlds through his face plate; the lights of the Becky Lee and the black water. The thought strikes him every time. Two distinct worlds, distinctly one. He tells this story at every lecture he gives. As the oceans go, so we go.
The curious squid are already bumping his legs. He trains his strobes out into the darkness. The school is far larger than he thought, a continuous wall of flesh, whipping past. His experienced eye picks out individual squid. Some are big. It’s hard to tell in the kaleidoscopic movement, but he knows from experience the Humboldt squid can measure up to six feet and weigh over 100 pounds. He is experienced but not jaded. His heart beats faster. He’s going to get good shots. Possibly great shots. Maybe a career changing cover.
They are on him before he raises the camera, swarming as if on some collective signal. They fill the parabola of his vision created by the strobes, flashing iridescent rainbow colors. They fix to the strobes, his hands, his mask, his regulator, powerful suction cups wresting. He kicks for the surface with everything he has. His mask is torn away. The world goes blurry but he knows he is wide-eyed because his eyes sting. His regulator is yanked away. He still has a chance; the surface is ten feet away. He swims daily to keep in shape. He kicks hard, rises, feels the first fin pulled free. His wetsuit tightens about him. Pressure builds in his ears. Away from the pinnacle, there is nothing but deeps. He recites the figure to himself as if he is standing at a lectern. Three thousand feet to the bottom. That is where he is going.
When it is finished the squid flash their electrifying colors, translucent and beautiful and different from any other color they have flashed before.
On the back of the deck he pulls his gear from his dive bag and suits up. He has done this thousands of times. Still he triple checks his air, breathes through both regulator and second stage, examines his BCD to ensure his backup dive light is clipped tight, if, for some impossible reason, he should lose his camera rig with its white bright strobes. Complacency kills. He has heard dozens of stories, and twice witnessed it first-hand.
He glances toward the door leading to the galley, warm light behind the porthole’s scratched glass. He should tell someone, but now that he is suited up he just wants to go. It is a calm night; the ocean’s surface barely fidgets.
He places his camera carefully on the swim step and slips into the water. He pulls the camera in after him. Its weight makes him sink. For an instant he sees both worlds through his face plate; the lights of the Becky Lee and the black water. The thought strikes him every time. Two distinct worlds, distinctly one. He tells this story at every lecture he gives. As the oceans go, so we go.
The curious squid are already bumping his legs. He trains his strobes out into the darkness. The school is far larger than he thought, a continuous wall of flesh, whipping past. His experienced eye picks out individual squid. Some are big. It’s hard to tell in the kaleidoscopic movement, but he knows from experience the Humboldt squid can measure up to six feet and weigh over 100 pounds. He is experienced but not jaded. His heart beats faster. He’s going to get good shots. Possibly great shots. Maybe a career changing cover.
They are on him before he raises the camera, swarming as if on some collective signal. They fill the parabola of his vision created by the strobes, flashing iridescent rainbow colors. They fix to the strobes, his hands, his mask, his regulator, powerful suction cups wresting. He kicks for the surface with everything he has. His mask is torn away. The world goes blurry but he knows he is wide-eyed because his eyes sting. His regulator is yanked away. He still has a chance; the surface is ten feet away. He swims daily to keep in shape. He kicks hard, rises, feels the first fin pulled free. His wetsuit tightens about him. Pressure builds in his ears. Away from the pinnacle, there is nothing but deeps. He recites the figure to himself as if he is standing at a lectern. Three thousand feet to the bottom. That is where he is going.
When it is finished the squid flash their electrifying colors, translucent and beautiful and different from any other color they have flashed before.
