Chapter 6
Day of the first dive
I walk in a large circle before I realise I’m completely lost. I’m looking for Coral Sea Dreaming’s boat, but I can’t seem to find it anywhere. All the other bus passengers have either disappeared inside the port building or are lining up outside their boats. Even the old couple have found their way to where they’re supposed to be. The only other person that looks as lost as me is angry suntan man.
I huff and sit down on a bench to pull up my email and see if that will give me any direction, but I can’t connect to the Australian network, and my phone is stubbornly refusing to show any of my inbox without connectivity. Angry suntan man looks as stumped as me, but I figure he must have service – he is Australian after all.
Lugging my bag around the docks has made me slightly sweaty, and I wipe at my hairline before turning to him. ‘Excuse me?’ I try to ask sweetly, hoping he will forget our bus conversation for long enough to help me out.
He stares at me with his grey-blue eyes. Gentle lines have appeared across his forehead.
‘I’m wondering if you can look something up for me. I’m looking for Coral Sea Dreaming, and I can’t seem to spot their boat anywhere.’
His expression transforms from confused to crestfallen. ‘You’re on . . .’ He pauses and coughs once, like he’s dislodging something from his throat. ‘You’re with Coral Sea Dreaming?’ His accent elongates the name, making it sound like ‘coral sea drayming’.
‘Yeah . . . are you?’
He grunts, which I assume is an affirmative. A pit of dread pools in my stomach. How can the one person who spotted my sunscreen mess-up be on my boat? Aren’t there, like, a thousand boats here?
‘Can’t find that bugger anywhere,’ he says, not meeting my eyes.
‘Have you tried their website? I would but I haven’t got any signal,’ I offer.
‘Yes.’ His tone is curt. I can feel him thinking, Obviously , but he doesn’t say it out loud.
I start to introduce myself, outstretching a hand in his direction, but just as I do, his phone vibrates in his hand and a voice starts sounding out directions. ‘I think it’s this way,’ he says, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulders and leaving my hand hanging limply in the air.
‘It’s Millie,’ I mutter, slowly testing out my new identity, but he’s too far ahead to hear me, so my hand returns limply to my side.
We work our way through the docks, ducking under signs and stepping over mounds of seagull poop. Angry suntan man takes a sharp turn to follow a narrower dock. He’s a whole head taller than I am, which makes navigating through the signs nailed to swaying sailboats much faster. Instead of squinting at them, I follow his broad shoulders. Soon we’re all the way at the end of the pier.
We stop in front of a small sailboat, maybe about fifty feet long. ‘ CORAL SEA DREAMING ’ is written in large blue lettering across the side. Benches line the back of the boat in a large square around what must be the captain’s chair. A man and a woman are sitting on one of the benches, their hands intertwined. Her head is resting on his shoulder and he’s showing her something on his phone. In unison, they both start to laugh.
I can’t help but think about Zach. That could have been us . I wonder if we ever actually looked like that. We didn’t exactly share a sense of humour. I shake my head. I don’t want to think about him now. For the next five days and four nights, I am Millie. My first goal is to find the butterfly wrasse. Thinking about the life I left behind comes second.
Clouds dot the sky, but I feel my shoulders starting to sunburn anyway, and I pivot my attention to the cover over the back of the boat that protects the benches and the captain from the sun. I glance at angry suntan man, who looks remarkably less angry and instead like he may start to enjoy himself. He’s got a smirk on his face that reads, Aren’t you gonna thank me? I don’t thank him. Instead, I ruminate on how annoying I think his tan is. I bet he isn’t in a rush to put on sunscreen.
The boat is a flurry of activity. I see a woman with a messy bun ducking in and out of the room on the middle of the deck. A dark-haired man is flitting from bow to stern and back again. I know based on Millie’s registration that the boat can fit twelve, but looking at it now, I don’t see how. All I can see is a flat white deck, a large white sail, the captain’s chair at the back, surrounded by benches and covered by an overhang, and in the middle of the boat, something that looks like a small cabin.
An extremely tanned barefoot man with blond dreads and dark sunglasses deftly manoeuvres past us and jumps onto the boat with the agility of a jungle cat. Angry suntan man and I exchange a look. I can tell he’s also wondering what’s going on. A second later the man with dreads pops back out onto the pier and greets us.
‘I’m Aaron,’ he states, like that explains everything. ‘I’ll grab your stuff.’ He reaches for my suitcase and flings it on board like it’s weightless. I cringe at the memory of having to kick it into the compartment underneath the bus.
‘I don’t need to show you ID?’ I call after Aaron, but it’s too late, he’s already climbing aboard with my bag. He picks up angry suntan man’s next. Only once he’s stored our luggage does he pop back out onto the deck. ‘Shoes into the bin,’ he says, looking down at us and gesturing at a large storage container on the dock. ‘No shoes aboard.’ We shrug and both chuck our flip-flops into the container.
‘Welcome to Coral Sea Dreaming ,’ Aaron announces, stretching his arms out wide. ‘I’m your captain.’
The woman with the messy bun pops up next to him. ‘And I’m your first mate, Vanessa,’ she says in a lilting Italian accent. A stray lock of dark hair whips around her cheek. ‘I’ll check you in in a minute. Feel free to make yourself comfortable.’
I smile back at her. Aaron and Vanessa seem chill. There- is potential for this to be the restart I need. The shrill caw of a seagull cuts through the air. Buoyed with excitement, I toss my backpack onto the boat and step over the side.
I take a few shaky steps across the boat, which is lurching gently even though it’s securely tied to the pier. I settle onto a bench under the covered overhang next to Aaron’s chair. I hug my backpack close to my chest. I take inventory of my home for the next five days.
The boat is clean, which is what I was most worried about. The deck doesn’t feel dirty underneath my feet, just textured and grippy, which I assume is to help keep people from slipping. Everything smells a little damp and a little like salt, but it’s a nice, reassuring smell. The bench I’m sitting on is comfortable, a worn-in vinyl material that’s cracked in spots and a faded light blue.
I realise that the room I was seeing before is really a doorway with steps that lead to the sleeping quarters. Apart from what I feel like is the captain’s room, the rest of the boat is small. When I think about it, I realise I’ve never been trapped anywhere this small in my life. From the back to the front of the boat there’s just two narrow walkways on either side of the centre platform. The scuba equipment is set up at the front of the boat. I can see a line of air tanks. The platform in the middle of the boat looks like an ideal place to sunbathe. But I can’t help but notice that there’s nowhere to go if things go sideways. If anyone figures out I’m not Millie, I’m totally stuck.
In an attempt to stop myself from getting claustrophobic, I look out at the horizon and take in the crystal blue water and the gently sloping mountains. I will probably never be somewhere as pretty as this again. The thought both calms and depresses me.
When my gaze swings back to the boat, I find angry suntan man looking at me intently. He quickly looks away, but after a beat his stare returns.
‘What?’ I ask, exasperation creeping into my voice. ‘Am I in your seat? Are you going to lecture me about sunscreen again?’
‘What?’ he says, the line between his eyebrows appearing again. ‘No, you’re not in my seat. I was actually going to ask if you want to go get suncream. Vanessa said we have fifteen minutes before check-in starts.’
‘Oh,’ I manage to get out. Maybe he isn’t 100 per cent asshole after all . . . ‘Yeah. That would be nice.’
‘There’s a place at the edge of the pier. Let’s go,’ he says gruffly, ducking underneath the overhang and making his way back to the ladder.
‘You don’t have to take me,’ I stammer, but he’s already jumping off the boat. I rush to catch up to him, scurrying down the ladder as fast as I can, forgetting that I’m barefoot until I wince at the hot dock underneath my feet.
‘Shoes?’ He hands me my flip-flops. I barely have them on before he’s striding towards the edge of the pier.
‘Coming!’ I call, but he doesn’t even turn around.
I follow him the entire way to the store, tracking his shoulders as he dodges past tourists and sailors. A small terrier barks at us as we pass, and I wince as my thoughts turn to Murphy. He loves the beach. He would be right at home here. I’m panting by the time we get inside, and I have to wipe a line of sweat from my forehead. A bell above the door chimes. He’s stooped in front of a shelf of sunscreen.
‘This one is best.’ He hands me a large tube.
‘Thank you.’ I look at him and he looks away.
‘No problem.’ He shrugs. ‘Better for the reef.’
‘Right.’ I swallow.
The sun blazes on my skin as soon as I step back outside. I glance at my shoulders. They look pink. How is it possible I’m already burning? I think. I squirt some sunscreen onto my palm and try to rub it on my shoulders while we walk towards the boat, but my tank top makes it awkward, and I end up looking like I’m trying to give myself a hug. I smear sunscreen across my chest and huff in frustration. I’m forced to stop and drop my bag as I try to rectify the situation.
I have one arm underneath my tank top and my other arm bent sideways over my head. I look up to see angry suntan man glancing over his shoulder with a bemused expression.
‘Do you need . . .’ he trails off, his lips quirking up into a smile.
I watch his gaze linger on my belly button now fully exposed to the sun, my shirt having ridden up as I wormed my sunscreened hands through it.
‘Uh, it’s OK.’ My cheeks flame with embarrassment I wriggle my way back to a normal position as fast as I can. ‘I think I got it.’
My voice seems to snap him out of it, because he flushes red and his lips compress back into his usual grim expression. He turns around and starts marching towards the boat.
‘All right, team,’ Vanessa announces, bouncing into the captain’s room. We’ve made it back and are sitting on opposite sides of the boat. He hasn’t looked at me once since we returned. When I thanked him again for taking me to grab sunscreen, he merely grunted.
‘Let’s start on our paperwork.’ Vanessa hands out clipboards and pens. ‘We’re waiting on two more, there’s only six of you on this trip. Well, plus,’ she starts counting on her fingers, ‘me and Miguel and Aaron. So, we are nine.’ She nods towards the doorway and the stairs. ‘After we’re done, I’ll show you the sleeping arrangements.’
The paperwork is simple. We state our scuba certification dates and credentials. I write out Millie’s information, which terrifies me, because she’s a lot more experienced than I am. Even though I watched a lot of YouTube review tutorials on how to set up gear and calculate decompression time, I still don’t feel prepared. I make a mental note to try and casually ask Vanessa or Miguel if they’ll review the equipment with me.
There’s an additional page that outlines our itinerary:
Day 1: All aboard at 10 a.m. Midday Dive + Late Afternoon Dive (Treasure Cove)
Day 2: Morning Dive + Afternoon Dive + Night Dive (Treasure Cove West, Wonder Reef)
Day 3: Morning Dive + Midday Dive + Late Afternoon Dive (Queen’s Point)
Day 4: Fitzroy Island Day Excursion + Turtle Rehabilitation Centre
Day 5: Morning Dive + Lunch. Disembark at 3 p.m. (Capricorn Reef)
Millie had painstakingly prepped me for all the dives but seeing them on paper while hearing the seagulls caw behind me feels different. She wrote out notes on each dive site, instructing me on what to look for and when and where the last butterfly wrasse sighting occurred. She bundled all her notes up for me in a little book that she tucked into my suitcase when she dropped me off at the airport. I started crying when I read the first page on my flight to Cairns, because she scrawled in her giant, loopy cursive: You’re gonna be great, sis.
I make a mental note to cross-reference Millie’s list with the itinerary they gave us. I can’t do any research on my own if the sites are different, but at least I would know not to put too much stock into the notes she left me.
I had forgotten about Fitzroy Island until I see it on the page. Millie had told me about it briefly, but I hardly did any research because there’s no scuba diving involved. Fitzroy is off the coast of Cairns, only accessible by boat. From what I remember, it’s mostly comprised of rainforest and the Turtle Rehabilitation Centre. Even though I’ve hardly been on the boat for more than ten minutes, I’m relieved we’ll have a chance to stretch our legs on dry land.
I skim the itinerary one more time before folding it into a neat square and tucking it into my back pocket.
Nine chances to find the butterfly wrasse.
I’m about halfway through the rest of the forms when I hear the unmistakable sound of a pen scratching angrily across paper.
Angry suntan man is writing furiously. Something about the way he’s hunched over his clipboard makes me want to finish faster than he does. I pick up my pace, hoping I can hand Vanessa mine first. He finishes before I do and hands his clipboard to Vanessa with a triumphant grin. My skin prickles in annoyance. I finish next, and I wait for her to sign and initial his form before I hand her my sheaf of papers.
‘Ah,’ she says, upon reading my name, ‘you’re the two marine biologists.’
I smile and nod proudly. Angry suntan man shoots me an incredibly surprised look. Ha! I think, before my brain reminds me that I am not, in fact, a marine biologist. And that as a fellow marine biologist, angry suntan man will be very confused as to why he had to help me procure reef-friendly sunscreen. Dammit.
My stomach flips when I realise the repercussions of what Vanessa said. If angry suntan man is a marine biologist . . . he’s Hugh. The man who just took me to buy sunscreen is Hugh Harris. No , I think quickly, he can’t be Hugh . The universe can’t possibly have made this trip even more complicated.
Plus, Hugh is . . . I think back to our DMs . . . back to what Millie has told me about him . . . he’s snarky and haughty and an insufferable know-it-all. I push down my next thought: angry suntan man is all of those things too.
Vanessa opens her mouth to say something else, perhaps formally introduce us, but before she can another two people come aboard. The first one up the ladder is lugging a massive black container that looks so heavy duty it could have come straight off a military cargo plane. I recognise the container first, racking my brain for why it’s familiar.
‘My camera,’ the man explains breathlessly to us, gesturing to the massive box. It dawns on me as his partner scales up the ladder behind him.
The scarf lady from the airport and her partner are on my boat.
I press myself into my seat hoping to disappear completely. I fumble for my sunglasses and slide them onto my face. She won’t remember my name , I reassure myself. She won’t hate me for taking her first-class seat. She won’t notice that I’m now going by Millie . For the first time in my life, I’m thankful for how unremarkable I look. Dark curly hair and light eyes, full cheeks, average height. There are a million people that look like me. Plus, I switched into my jean shorts at the airport, so I’m not even wearing the same outfit.
She doesn’t appear to have changed and is now sporting the silk scarf stylishly knotted around her neck, somehow not looking like she just walked off a flight. Her companion is slightly bent over, panting, and she edges around him to perch on the edge of a bench in the shade. She gives the group of us a little wave, and I notice as her gaze lingers on angry suntan man. Then her gaze passes to me, and I sink further back into my seat just as her companion fumbles with his box and it thuds to the floor.
‘Shit!’ he exclaims loudly. Angry suntan man rises from his seats to lend a hand, but the man waves him away. Vanessa sternly lets him know that the captain’s room is no place for his camera. Following Vanessa’s instructions, he fumbles his camera down the stairs to stow it below deck. I think about the little black waterproof camera Millie gave me. What could possibly be in this guy’s box?
When he appears back on deck, our dive group is finally all together. Camera man and the scarf lady, the two lovebirds across the way, angry suntan man, and me.
The couple across from me finish their paperwork right when Vanessa bounds back up the stairs. I wait while they hand her their clipboards and then force myself to spring into action the way that Millie would. Typically, I would introduce myself last, I’m not the most overeager socialiser. But Millie would want to chat immediately, and being friendly with everyone will help me when I eventually ask them to keep an eye out for the butterfly wrasse. ‘The more eyes watching, the better,’ Millie drilled into me before I left.
‘I’m Millie,’ I announce, jumping up from my chair.
‘Hello! I’m Pippa,’ the girl says with an easy grin. She has a soft British accent and seems kind. I like her immediately. ‘This is my boyfriend,’ she announces, turning to the man next to her.
‘Andrew,’ he says. He has a deep voice and a strong stance, like he’s preparing to captain the boat in an emergency. I flash them both the biggest grin I can muster.
Their attention turns towards angry suntan man. He is looking right at us, his mouth in a thin line, but his eyes are obscured by his sunglasses.
Andrew sticks out his hand. ‘Hey, mate, I’m Andrew.’
Hugh’s expression shifts, losing its surliness. He looks peaceful and happy . . . almost friendly. I watch his shoulder muscles ripple under his T-shirt as he stands up. I notice his eyes have gone from greyish to a brighter, more cerulean blue.
‘Hugh,’ he says, as he extends his hand to shake theirs. He smiles an easy, wide, slightly crooked smile that he certainly never gave to me.
My stomach drops.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Pippa says, voicing my exact thought. ‘I didn’t quite catch that?’
‘Hugh,’ he repeats, louder and more clearly.
I’m glad he’s looking at Pippa and Andrew because my mouth is hanging open. If I’m honest with myself, I suspected he was Hugh from the moment I read his backpack. But I didn’t want him to be Hugh. I don’t need another complication. I was hoping if I pretended he wasn’t Hugh then he could just end up being some guy borrowing his friend’s backpack. But if he is Hugh Harris then where are his glasses? Doesn’t he wear glasses? And why didn’t Millie tell me he was this cute?
Hugh Harris, the man hell-bent on proving Millie wrong, is on my only opportunity to prove her right.
When is he going to realise that I’m Millie Paxton?
What if he realises that I’m really Andi Paxton?
What if scarf lady remembers that I go by Andi?
If Hugh gets so much as a whiff of trouble, he’ll see right through me. And he already witnessed my sunscreen debacle.
My heart is racing, so I take a deep breath and channel Millie. I cannot screw this up for her.
Finding the butterfly wrasse is all that matters.
‘Hugh,’ I mutter under my breath, ‘you’re going down.’