4. Meridian
Meridian
FOUR
I should have listened to the damn weather warnings.
The morning started promising enough—clear skies and light winds that made yesterday's Coast Guard encounter feel like a bad dream. But by the time I reach the coordinates, the swells are building and Deep Pockets' barometer is dropping faster than I'd like.
Still, I'm already here. And after yesterday's close call with LeBlanc and Ross, I need to make this dive count.
I drop anchor and run through my equipment check twice, taking extra care with every connection and seal.
The water looks darker today, more ominous, but that could just be the cloud cover moving in from the northeast. According to the marine forecast, I've got maybe three hours before the weather turns ugly.
Three hours to find something that makes this risk worthwhile.
The descent goes smoothly, my body adjusting to the pressure as I follow the anchor line down through increasingly murky water.
At forty feet, the thermocline hits like a wall of ice, and I'm grateful for the thick wetsuit that keeps the worst of the cold at bay.
By the time I reach the bottom at sixty-two feet, the world above might as well be another planet.
Caroline's Dream sits exactly where my sonar readings placed her, listing to starboard but largely intact. The merchant vessel isn't much to look at after eighty years underwater—her superstructure collapsed, her hull plates green with marine growth—but her cargo holds are still accessible.
I start my search methodically, working the metal detector in overlapping patterns around the wreck.
The familiar beeping guides me to the usual collection of metal debris—bolts, fittings, pieces of machinery corroded beyond recognition.
I collect a few items that might be worth something to Fergus, but nothing that will cover this week's fuel costs.
Twenty minutes into the dive, I'm starting to think this trip is a bust. Then the metal detector picks up a signal near the ship's port side, buried under a thin layer of sand and debris.
I brush away the sediment and find a brass compass, its case tarnished but intact. The craftsmanship is beautiful—much finer than I'd expect on a basic merchant vessel. When I turn it over, I can make out an inscription: "To Captain Morgan, Fair Winds and Following Seas, 1943."
That's odd. Caroline's Dream wasn't a naval vessel, and her captain's name was Henderson according to the maritime records. Still, it's a beautiful piece that Fergus will appreciate. I slip it into my mesh bag and continue searching .
The next find is even better—a silver cigarette case that somehow survived eight decades underwater with only minimal tarnishing. Inside, the cigarettes have long since dissolved, but the case itself is pristine. The initials "R.M." are engraved on the front in elegant script.
Too pristine, maybe. I've pulled plenty of artifacts from wrecks, and silver doesn't usually survive this well without serious conservation work. But sometimes the ocean surprises you, creating perfect conditions for preservation in unexpected places.
I'm photographing the cigarette case for my records when I notice something that makes me pause.
The sand around these finds is disturbed, but not in the chaotic way you'd expect from decades of storms and current action.
The patterns look almost... deliberate. As if someone carefully arranged the sediment to partially conceal the objects while ensuring they'd be discoverable.
But that's paranoid thinking. Who else would be working these waters? The Coast Guard made it clear yesterday that unauthorized diving means serious legal trouble. No legitimate salvage operator would risk it for items this small.
I shake off the uneasy feeling and continue my search.
The metal detector leads me to the cargo hold, where previous divers have already claimed the obvious treasures.
But tucked into a corner that would be nearly impossible to reach without the right tools, I find something that makes my heart race .
It's a jewelry box. Not just any jewelry box—an elaborate Victorian piece with mother-of-pearl inlays and brass fittings that gleam like they were polished yesterday. The lock mechanism still works, opening to reveal a collection of pieces that should have been destroyed by saltwater decades ago.
A ruby brooch that catches my dive light like it's on fire. Pearl earrings with gold settings that show no signs of corrosion. A sapphire ring that would have cost someone a year's wages in 1943.
I stare at the contents, trying to process what I'm seeing.
The jewelry is museum-quality, but it was hidden in a spot where no casual diver would ever think to look.
And the preservation is impossible—even in the most favorable conditions, exposure to seawater should have damaged the settings and dulled the stones.
Unless someone placed them here recently. Someone with access to high-end antique jewelry and knowledge of how to preserve it underwater.
The thought sends a chill through me. If someone else is working these waters—someone with resources and expertise far beyond mine—then I'm not just competing for salvage rights. I'm potentially interfering with an operation that could involve serious money and seriously dangerous people.
I close the jewelry box and secure it in my mesh bag, mind racing through possibilities. Professional treasure hunters with underwater storage capabilities. Insurance fraud involving " lost" jewelry. Criminal organizations using wrecks as dead drops for valuable items.
None of the explanations make me feel better about being alone on the bottom of the ocean.
I check my air supply and depth time, calculating how much longer I can safely stay down. The finds in my bag represent more money than I usually make in three months, but the mystery of their placement is starting to overshadow my excitement about the discovery.
That's when I notice my air consumption has been higher than normal.
The stress of yesterday's Coast Guard encounter, combined with the puzzle of these too-perfect finds, has me breathing harder than usual.
According to my pressure gauge, I've used more air than I should have for this depth and time.
I begin working my way back toward the anchor line, taking photos of the wreck for my records and keeping an eye on my air supply. The gauge shows I'm still in good shape, with plenty of reserve for a slow, safe ascent.
But as I swim away from the cargo hold, something catches my peripheral vision. A glint of metal from deeper in the wreck, in an area I haven't explored yet.
I should head up. The smart thing is to end the dive now, while I have comfortable air reserves and the weather is still manageable. But that glint could be another significant find, and after yesterday's encounter with the Coast Guard, I might not get another chance to work this site .
I check my pressure gauge again. Still enough air for another ten minutes of bottom time if I'm careful about my consumption.
I swim toward the glint.
It's coming from what must have been the captain's cabin, now partially collapsed but still accessible through a gap in the debris. The space is tight, barely wide enough for me to squeeze through with my tank and equipment.
Inside, I find the source of the reflection—a brass sextant in a mahogany case, both instrument and container preserved in impossible perfect condition. The sextant is a work of art, its telescopes and mirrors gleaming like they left the maker's workshop yesterday.
I stare at the instrument, trying to process what I'm seeing.
Like the other finds, it's in far too good condition for something that's been underwater for eighty years.
And it's positioned in a spot that would be nearly impossible to reach without specialized equipment and knowledge of the wreck's layout.
Someone is definitely placing these items for me to find. But who? And why?
I'm so absorbed in the mystery that I don't immediately notice the change in my breathing. It's only when I try to take a deep breath and get nothing that I realize my regulator has started malfunctioning.
I check my pressure gauge and curse silently through my regulator. The needle is in the red zone—emergency reserves only. Either my gauge has been giving me false readings, or I've been down longer than I realized.
The regulator delivers another weak breath, then nothing.
I drop the sextant and kick hard toward the cabin opening, but my tank catches on a piece of debris. For a moment I'm stuck, trapped in a space barely larger than a coffin while my air supply fails completely.
Panic claws at my throat as I twist and pull, trying to free myself without damaging my equipment. The tank comes loose suddenly, sending me tumbling out of the cabin in a cloud of disturbed sediment.
I can't see the anchor line. The cloud of silt has reduced visibility to arm's length, and my emergency ascent has disoriented me. I could be swimming away from my boat instead of toward it.
I force myself to stop, to hover motionless while the sediment settles and my air-starved brain tries to think clearly. My emergency pony bottle should give me enough air to sort this out, but when I reach for the regulator, my numb fingers can't make the connection work properly.
The pony bottle regulator slips from my grasp and dangles uselessly while precious seconds tick away. I make another grab for it, but my coordination is already suffering from carbon dioxide buildup.
Through the clearing water, I finally spot the anchor line—fifty feet away and in the wrong direction. I must have gotten turned around in the cabin .
I kick toward it, fighting the weighted belt that's trying to drag me deeper and the wetsuit that's not providing enough buoyancy to compensate. Every stroke feels clumsy, inefficient, like I'm moving through thick oil instead of water.
The anchor line seems to get farther away instead of closer.
My vision starts to tunnel, dark spots appearing at the edges as hypoxia takes hold. I know I should drop my weight belt, should jettison anything that's dragging me down, but my hands won't cooperate with what my brain is telling them to do.
I'm still forty feet from the anchor line when my body gives up the fight.
I sink slowly toward the bottom, watching the surface light fade above me as consciousness begins to slip away.
My last coherent thought is that Fergus will never know what happened to me.
Deep Pockets will be found drifting empty, and my body will become part of the same ecosystem that claimed Caroline's Dream and her crew.
The irony would be funny if I had enough oxygen left to appreciate it.
Darkness closes in, and I stop fighting.
That's when something wraps around my waist.
Through my failing vision, I catch glimpses of dark red flesh, appendages that move with impossible grace and power. I should be terrified, but my oxygen-starved brain can only manage distant wonder .
The creature from my dreams is real. And it's carrying me toward the surface with smooth, powerful strokes that cover distance faster than should be possible.
Am I being saved? Or am I dead?