Chapter 19
Salay
“I wanna drive the boat,” Zero playfully proclaims.
“No.”
“I wanna drive the boat.”
“No.”
His chin suddenly lands on my bikini top bearing shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I know how to drive it.”
“Because you practiced on a simulator?”
“A highly recommended simulator!”
“Recommended by who, Little One?” It’s impossible not to let the corner of my lips curl upward toward the lunch time sky. “Your internet friends?”
“One is a real-life harbormaster!” He exclaims in tandem with standing straight up once more.
“Not what they’re officially called.”
“Fine. He’s a real life capitaine de port de Sa Majesté.”
“You butchered that.”
“My French accent was impeccable! Garcia loves it!”
“You sound like Pepe Le Pew dubbed in French.”
“Who’s Pepe Le Pew?”
“Oh…” my head slowly shakes while guiding us to the left, “you definitely can’t drive the boat now.”
Chuckles out of Garcia are instant.
“You’re lucky you’re too cute to just throw overboard.”
“Is that luck or skill?” our third teasingly taunts.
“You don’t have either,” I sassily state at the same time I meet his gaze over my shoulder, “so you might wanna choose sides wisely.”
“Unlike Zero,” he lovingly reaches out for the male’s hand, using it to tug him closer, “I did not wake up this morning and choose violence.”
“I didn’t either!”
“Making our woman feel old?” Impishness remains in his expression. “Eso es elegir la violencia.”
A mirthful eye roll is accompanied by me turning my attention back to the water in front of me.
Ugh.
I hate it when he’s this happy.
This human.
I hate it even more when he’s this flirty.
Fun.
And I hate it the most when he’s this protective.
Possessive.
Which is super new shit for him.
I mean…temporary may be my middle name…but I’ve never pretended I was going to stick around…stick through some shit…for someone…for someones…when I knew damn well longevity was never on the map.
I never gave them nicknames.
Or titles.
Or held them to my chest post sex, sleepily daydreaming to the sound of the rain coming down, about weekends where we’ll fish for mahi-mahi and drink tequila and skinny dip during the sunset.
No.
Some may call me coldhearted or emotionally unavailable or detached; however, they could never and would never be able to accuse me of saying whatever I have to say to keep whoever it is happy in that aspect.
Is that what Garcia’s doing?
I don’t wanna accuse him of that, but what choice do I have?
What else am I supposed to do?
Simply believe that Mr. Gives All The Fucks What The World thinks has finally learned what he feels is all that truly matters?
What he wants?
What is this?
An after school special the Little One was never exposed to courtesy of being so much younger than us?
“We close?” Garcia cautiously inquires, redirecting my focus to where it needs to be.
“Yeah,” leaves me just above the sound of the engine.
“And you’re sure this is what the clues were saying?” Zero nervously investigates. “This is nowhere near where we were first searching.”
“That’s because when we were first searching, we were going off of inaccurate information,” I gingerly remind.
“How do you know it’s accurate now?”
“Because now I know you don’t read sailor.”
“Or pirate,” adds Garcia.
“Or captain.”
“Or really anything nautical.”
“At least not in human code instead of computer.” Slowing us down finally begins.
“Adam’s Ale is not a reference to the specific beer you thought it was.
The clue wasn’t trying to guide you east towards where the Boston Beer company is located as your program deciphered.
Adam’s Ale is an old fashioned term for water.
In a deep glass simply meant deep in the ocean. ”
“Oh,” grunts our resident hacker.
“Tucked in by the most tattered sail,” I continue as I shift us into a full stop, “was a reference to condition of their sail. Most get that way after long journeys or battles, which aided in giving a distance reference when tracking the theoretical tides from that time.” Turning to face them occurs next.
“Slumbers the catch is stating the obvious. Catch means treasure. No one calls treasure on a treasure map or in a riddle treasure because the point is to hide the goodies not just give them away.”
Both men fight the urge to grin.
“Lee Shore-”
“He was a pirate, right? Like Long John Silver?”
“The fast-food chain?” confusedly ponders Garcia.
“From Treasure Island, my guy.”
“Never heard of Pepe Le Pew but Treasure Island just rolls out the save file?” He amusedly challenges.
“I spent a lot of time in the library, remember?”
“You said you read animal books like Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? and Lord of the Lions.”
It’s my turn to interject, “You mean Lord of the Flies?”
“No, he means George Adamson: Lord of the Lions.”
“Who?”
“He was like the OG Steve Irwin but specifically for lions,” Zero effortlessly explains.
It’s my turn to let out an intrigued grunt, “Huh.”
“Andddddd I read classic shit too every once in a while. No Cap? Pretty sure Mr. Caterham wanted to be a pirate rather than the spy I’m pretty sure he was.”
“Lee Shore,” I recapture the conversation in tandem with redirecting us to the route I need to go on the vessel to get changed, “isn’t a pirate-”
“Captain? First mate? Quartermaster?” Zero quickly questions. “”Cause my program-”
“It’s not a person, it’s-”
“Don’t say song,” he interrupts once more. “Because that cheugy needle drop from the 1700s by that hockey player or whatevs doesn’t fit into the vibe of the clues at all.”
Outrage and disbelief drop my jaw in preparation to spiral when Garcia lovingly beats me to the wheel by gently grabbing his chin and wolfishly chastising, “Be a good boy for Master and stay quiet for Princess.”
His obedience is immediate.
And appreciated.
Diving irritated rarely works out in my benefit; although, anger – on the occasion – is a positive motivator.
“Lee Shore is a nautical reference,” escapes in my continued backwards movement. “A lee shore means a shoreline toward the way wind is blowing. This is typically a problem because the wind is basically bullying a ship out of the water for the land.”
Both men – to my surprise – appear slightly confused.
“It’s a bad thing. Wind and waves pushing a boat – of any kind – towards the land when you don’t want it to is dangerous shit.”
Understanding sinks in simultaneously.
“It does give us pinnacle directions for where the ship was coming from based on that information.”
Nods of comprehension are executed.
“Gale is also not a person.”
Zero’s forehead crinkles in obvious confusion prompting Garcia to lightly squeeze his fingers as a reminder to remain silent.
“It too is a reference except to weather instead of specifically boats.”
“Gale force winds,” casually states the man currently allowed to speak.
“Yeah, but before modern characterization…in its more basic etymology roots…it was just a reference to strong wind, and then they’d attach descriptors to it to aid in defining just how strong or dangerous.”
“Meaning… ‘no life left in this tale’…”
“Combined with Lee Shore was all about how fucked they were in this very spot.”
“How they were likely to die.”
“Here.” I abruptly come to a stop. “All the other clues and riddles and wording people tend to follow refer to the journey they were making, where they had been, where they were headed, where they hoped to land, all thrown out to keep people off their actual location; however, that last clue, that last journal entry line that Weslington brought us was about where all the shit ended. Where they were most likely to – and most likely did – die.” My hands slide into my back jean shorts pocket.
“Starting here, I’ll navigate outward. Using the information Zero and his program came up with, I have a pretty clear path to search for his ticket to freedom. ”
Garcia let’s a curious eyebrow quirk. “His ticket or your ticket?”
My lips press together in a refusal to answer.
It’s definitely his ticket to not get royally fucked – pun intended – but finding the shit to salvage is technically mine too.
The type of payday that can take me anywhere I wanna go.
Anywhere that’s not here which is where I swore, I was done wanting to be.
And that’s true.
Or at least it was true.
It’s getting harder to pretend that that hasn’t changed.
A lot like it’s getting harder to accept this fling to fuck off situation is now more like a fling to possibly forever one.
Changing into my diving gear is mostly done to the sound of Zero re-reading every and any fact about our current location he managed to whip up – with his handy 1s and 0s at the helm – and Garcia loudly sipping tequila, his telltale sign he’s nervous yet unwilling to admit it.
Fact is…I’m a bit nervous too.
If we’re wrong…fuck, if I’m wrong…we’re dead.
Prince Problem Child will kill Zero and then us because no one likes loose ends.
Normally, when I’m wrong, who fucking cares.
We load up the boat.
We try again the next day or the next or whenever we can because that’s the nature of the salvage whale, but this time…if I’ve missed the mark…it’ll cost us all our lives.
The first plunge into the water is baptisingly beautiful.
Cleansing.
Refreshing.
Between the space from the shore and the space from those that keep tugging at my soul, it feels like I can finally breathe in spite of sinking further and further down into depths not meant for the untrained.
Gently sweeping the light back and forth both entices and repels creatures alike.
I maintain a steady, slow pace along with being mindful of the sharp rocks and narrow crevices.
Keeping the illumination trained down on the ground occurs in hoping the beam will bounce off of something important.
Except it doesn’t.
Rocks.
Sand.
Pancake batfish.
Yes.
Gold?
Silver?
A fucking dining fork?
Nope.
Giving up would be logical and easy and probably the smartest idea – according to the amount of air I have in my tank – but very un me.
And un-useful.
Literally, life ending.
Swimming onward, I continue guiding my light over areas avoiding the translucent creatures in my path and respectfully fucking off when spotting anything that feels remotely unfriendly, an action that veers me a bit off the planned course, but not enough to consider myself lost.
No longer tracking the exact pre-planned lines allows me to recalibrate my focus on what I already know.
Like which fish live where.
Enjoy the habitat of displaced items such as sunken wood.
Sunken wood perhaps from a ship.
An old ship.
Accelerating my speed is pushed by my increasing curiosity of the broken chunks some of my fin bearing underwater associates have made themselves fans of.
One piece turns to a few.
A few shifts to bigger ones, only for the trail to abruptly go cold.
At least, I initially think it does.
Spotting the faintest piece of wood sticking out of the sand pushes me to gently shoo away the fish to read a barely legible piece of a title.
-nité.
As in… éternité?
As in… écume de mer éternité?!
Quickly tipping the tiny piece over, I aggressively dig and dig and dig, hope racing around my ribs.
My frantically beating heart.
All I need is a piece.
One.
Teeny.
Tiny.
Piece.
Something from the wreckage to prove when we know where it is, where to keep searching.
Yeah, I have this hunk of wood, but that’s not enough.
I know that won’t be sufficient.
Burrowing more frenziedly and feverishly is a high risk – due to increasing the chance of suffocating from using too much oxygen at the wrong time – however the possible reward is worth it.
Keeping Zero alive is worth it.
Fuckme…keeping us all alive and together is worth the potential broken ribs from the CPR I’m probably gonna need.
An unanticipated resistance unexpectedly reveals itself prompting me to move around more sand.
Search the immediate area around it.
Find and locate the perimeters of the small unseen object until I can be more certain about removing it from its gritty home.
One tug is thankfully all I need to completely unveil the small, round, gold signet ring I’ve stumbled upon, and one closer look reveals to me the royal Hoalkey emblem that seals our fate like the signet itself would a decree.
I fucking found it.
I fucking found the shipwreck.