2. Meridian
Meridian
TWO
I drop anchor and consult my dive computer: sixty-two feet. Ideal.
The wetsuit never cooperates, especially not today, with water temperatures making it non-negotiable. I wrestle with unyielding neoprene, swearing when the zipper snags my hair. Diving knife strapped to my right thigh, metal detector clipped to weight belt, mesh collection bag secured to BC vest.
Midway through final equipment checks, the radio sputters alive. My gut tightens .
"This is Canadian Coast Guard Station Tidewash conducting routine patrol. All vessels in sector seven-alpha, please respond with vessel name and purpose."
Sector seven-alpha. Exactly where I'm floating.
I spot it: white hull slicing through waves two miles out, headed straight for me. I calculate distances against probable speeds—ten minutes before they arrive, possibly less.
Logic says pull anchor and run. Return to harbor claiming recreational cruising, pray they don't examine dive equipment too thoroughly. But logic doesn't pay three months of overdue slip fees.
I could dive quickly. Descend, sweep with the metal detector, grab anything valuable, resurface before they get close enough to catch me in the act. Dangerous, but risk defines this profession.
"Deep Pockets, this is Canadian Coast Guard vessel Albatross. Please respond with vessel name and purpose in this area."
Official authority crackles through the radio. Out of options, I key the mic, forcing casual steadiness into my voice.
"Canadian Coast Guard, this is the fishing vessel Deep Pockets. Trying my luck with some bottom fishing. No success yet today."
The silence stretches uncomfortably. "Deep Pockets, are you currently anchored?"
I eye the taut line disappearing into murky water. "Affirmative. Working a promising-looking structure. "
"Roger that. We'll be conducting a routine safety inspection. Please prepare for boarding."
My fingers tremble slightly as I clip the radio to its mount. Safety inspection means fishing license verification, equipment examination, probing questions about my presence in restricted waters. The dive gear presents a problem, especially with no fishing tackle aboard.
The Coast Guard vessel looms larger with each passing minute, the wake carving foam trails across dark water. Nausea builds as I assess my situation. This goes beyond warnings or fines—diving in sanctuary waters carries criminal charges.
I tap the wheel, cycling through excuses. Mechanical problems might work—anchored while troubleshooting engine issues. But they'll inspect that too, and Deep Pockets purrs too reliably for that story to convince anyone.
Wind freshens noticeably. Clouds mass faster than the weather service predicted, swells growing steeper. The air carries that distinct pre-storm pressure. Worth trying.
"Canadian Coast Guard vessel Albatross, this is Deep Pockets. Weather building rapidly southwest. Seas deteriorating."
"Copy that, Deep Pockets. We're tracking the same system. All the more reason to complete the inspection promptly."
Damn. No deterring them with weather warnings.
They're close enough now to distinguish individual crew members. Two prepare a zodiac for launch—standard boarding protocol for smaller vessels. Five minutes before they climb aboard asking questions I can't answer convincingly .
I stare at the water that's haunted my dreams, imagining Caroline's Dream resting silently below. Sixty feet down might lie enough salvage to fund months of operation. Might as well be on Jupiter for all the good it does me now.
I haul the anchor, muscle memory taking over while my mind spins alibis. Metal detector stowed in the gear locker, dive weights hidden under canvas, wetsuit hopefully inconspicuous among cabin clutter.
Their zodiac splashes just as I secure the anchor.
Two officers approach, professional in orange vests and utility belts.
The younger one radiates Coast Guard College freshness, eager to enforce regulations.
The older one bears the weathered expression of someone who's heard every oceanic lie ever conceived.
"Permission to come aboard?" the senior officer calls alongside.
"Granted," I answer, knowing refusal only compounds suspicion.
They tie off to my stern cleat and board with professional efficiency. The senior officer—nameplate reading LEBLANC—surveys my deck with a gaze that catalogs everything.
"Captain Montgomery. Conducting routine safety inspections in this area."
"Of course." I project composed professionalism. "What do you need to see?"
"Let's start with documentation. Registration, insurance, fishing license."
I provide the paperwork, all current and legitimate. LeBlanc scrutinizes each document while Ross inspects the boat. His attention lingers on the heavy-duty winch mounted astern—equipment better suited for hauling artifacts than landing fish.
"Fish these waters often, Captain?" LeBlanc asks without looking up.
"When weather permits. Slim pickings lately, though. Considering other locations."
"Hmm." He returns my documents and walks to the rail, studying the water. "Sixty-two feet here. Good depth for bottom species, but recreational fishermen rarely venture into sanctuary waters."
My throat constricts. "Sanctuary waters?"
"Approximately half a mile inside the Maritime Heritage Sanctuary boundary. Fishing allowed with proper permits, but diving and salvage operations strictly prohibited."
He's testing me, gauging whether I'll claim ignorance or admit knowledge. I opt for a straightforward approach.
"I had no idea I crossed the boundary. GPS must be miscalibrated." I tap the chartplotter that's functioning perfectly. "I'll move outside immediately."
"Appreciated." LeBlanc maintains professional neutrality. "We've had reports of unauthorized diving here. Someone's been working these waters regularly, based on seabed disturbance patterns. "
Ross emerges from the cabin clutching my dive mask and fins. "Found these forward, Leading Seaman."
My hopes sink. LeBlanc examines the equipment, then fixes me with a questioning look.
"Dive gear on a fishing vessel, Captain?"
"I check anchor placement when fishing structured bottoms," I explain quickly. "Ensures I'm not hung up on something that'll cost me tackle."
Not entirely implausible—many fishermen perform basic underwater inspections. But LeBlanc appears unconvinced.
"Rather sophisticated equipment for anchor checks. And that wetsuit in your cabin seems rated for technical diving."
Wind gusts harder. Deep Pockets pitches in growing swells. Their zodiac bumps against my hull, prompting Ross to adjust fenders.
"Weather's deteriorating,” Ross notes. "Should we conclude?"
LeBlanc studies the darkening sky before returning his attention to me. "Captain Montgomery, let me be perfectly clear. We know someone conducts illegal salvage operations in these waters. Anyone caught diving here without proper authorization faces federal charges and vessel forfeiture."
Vessel forfeiture. They could take Deep Pockets. People say Canadians are nice, but they've obviously never met the Coast Guard.
"Completely understood," I manage. "Just fishing today. I'll remain outside sanctuary boundaries henceforth. "
"See that you do." He returns my dive gear, his expression conveying warning rather than dismissal. "We're increasing patrols here. I suggest finding alternative fishing grounds."
The radio crackles as they motor back through increasingly rough seas. Fergus's voice breaks through static.
"Deep Pockets, clear of trouble?"
"For now," I reply, watching their zodiac vanish into mounting swells. "Heading back."
"Coming in?" he asks bluntly.
"Yeah, finished for today." I start the engine and turn toward the harbor. "Coast Guard paid a visit."
"Figured as much. Charlie Morrison looked like shark-bait when they showed up earlier and started questioning about local salvage operations."
The harbormaster knows my activities too well to plead ignorance, though he's always been fair. Coast Guard pressure on him signals escalating problems.
"They name anyone specifically?"
"Not directly, but how many people run solo salvage operations from thirty-two-foot workboats around here?"
Fair point. Subtlety isn't my trademark.
The return journey takes twice normal time, battling strengthening seas and winds shifting unpredictably. Harbor mouth finally appears as rain begins pelting my windshield and small craft advisories crackle over radio channels.
** *
Fergus waits dockside, rain jacket already deployed against worsening weather.
"Rough day?" he asks, catching my bow line.
"Getting rougher." I pass him my gear bag before stepping onto the dock. "The Coast Guard knows someone's diving sanctuary waters. Patrols are increasing."
"Shit." He secures the line with practiced efficiency. "How long until they connect you directly?"
"They've made the connection. Just lack proof." I glance back at Deep Pockets riding restlessly in her slip. "Need new hunting grounds or new occupation."
"Legitimate salvage operations exist. Plenty of wrecks outside sanctuary boundaries."
"Legitimate means permits, environmental impact statements, and splitting my finds with the government. I'd barely cover fuel costs."
Fergus doesn't argue. We both know the reality. Profitable sites have been claimed by corporate operations with legal departments and political connections. What remains for independent operators like me exists in legal gray zones—or outright forbidden territories.
Rain intensifies as we hurry toward harbor offices. Through windows, Charlie Morrison sits at his desk wearing the expression of someone confronting unwelcome complications.
"Go home, Meri," Fergus advises quietly. "Rest. Perhaps morning brings a new perspective. "
Doubtful, but I nod anyway. Dreams will return tonight—they always do after days on water. Tomorrow brings the same outstanding bills, same boat maintenance requirements, same impossible choice between legal compliance and financial survival.
The storm front has barely arrived, and already I sense this night stretches endlessly ahead.