Chapter 5 #2
I was so prepared for a fight that her immediate, logical agreement caught me off guard. She hadn’t hesitated. She hadn’t let ego or our past interfere with the mission. She assessed the new data, trusted the local expert, and made a clear command decision.
A flash of something I hadn’t felt in twelve years—a sharp, unwilling surge of respect—cut through my irritation at the situation. It was grudging and it pissed me off, but it was there. The girl was gone. Dr. Tessa Donovan was a leader.
Twenty minutes later, we were aboard Odyssey and heading toward the outer reef.
The boat cut through the moderate chop with the solid confidence of a vessel built for these waters.
I stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the throttle.
The familiar rhythm of the engine, the spray of salt air, the endless blue horizon—this was home in a way that even Tidal Hops couldn’t match.
“Odyssey, huh?” Tessa called over the engine’s rumble. She leaned against the gunwale, amusement glinting in her eyes. “I can’t believe you stole the resort’s dive boat.”
A short laugh escaped me. “Stole is a strong word. The resort upgraded to Sunset Diver to carry bigger groups years ago. This old girl was going to be sold off. I took her over instead.” I patted the console. “Spruced her up a bit.”
“She looks good,” she said with a hint of nostalgia in her tone. “Well, I’d better start preparing.”
She moved to the bow, her gear bag at her feet, studying the water with the intensity of someone reading a complex textbook.
Every few minutes, she’d note something on her waterproof slate or adjust her equipment.
Kaia and Zane were doing the same, both locked in focused preparation, and the time passed quickly.
“Marker 22 coming up,” I called out, throttling back as we approached the dive site.
The water here was a deeper blue, the kind that spoke of significant depth.
A series of coral heads rose from the sandy bottom like underwater mountains, their surfaces alive with the movement of fish and the gentle sway of soft corals.
It was one of the healthiest sections of the reef, but also one of the most challenging to dive.
“Current’s running east to west,” I announced, reading the water. “We’ll drop in up-current and drift back to the site. Visibility looks good—maybe eighty feet.”
Tessa looked up from her gear check. “What’s the bottom composition? Sand or rubble?”
“Mixed. Sand channels between the coral heads, with some rubble fields on the east side. The healthy coral is concentrated on the north-facing slopes.”
She nodded and made another note on her slate. “Sounds good. That’s exactly what we need to see.”
I positioned us to shallower water for the dive while I gave instructions to Zane, who would stay topside. Below us, coral heads were visible through the clear water, their surfaces teeming with life.
“Dive plan?” I asked, falling into the familiar rhythm of pre-dive briefings.
“Forty-five minutes, eighty feet maximum depth,” Tessa replied, her voice crisp and professional. “We’ll work the north slope, taking water samples and photographing the coral colonies. Kaia will handle the photography while I collect samples.”
“And I’ll handle navigation and safety,” I added. “Stay within fifteen feet of me at all times. If you see anything unusual—current changes, marine life behavior, anything—signal immediately.”
She met my eyes again, and this time her expression was different. Not the careful neutrality of our earlier interaction, but a flicker of the old trust. The recognition of shared competence.
“Understood,” she said, then turned to Zane. “Keep an eye on our bubbles. We may need you to come to us at the end of the dive.”
Zane nodded. “Got it.”
We geared up with the efficient silence of experienced divers.
Tessa checked and double-checked her equipment—regulator, buoyancy compensation device, dive computer.
Her movements were smooth and automatic, muscle memory from countless dives.
When she pulled her mask down and bit down on her regulator, she transformed from Dr. Donovan the scientist into Tessa the diver, the woman I’d once known better than anyone.
“Ready?” I asked around my own regulator.
She gave me the okay signal, and we jumped off the boat into the blue. A strong midwater current pulled us over the site.
The underwater world of Marker 22 was everything I’d promised and more.
As we reached the bottom, the current died away.
The coral heads rose around us like living cathedrals, their surfaces covered in a riot of color and movement.
Schools of yellowtail snappers moved like liquid silver and gold through the channels, while bluish-green parrotfish grazed on the surfaces with audible crunching sounds.
A huge green moray eel peered at us from a crevice in the coral, its eyes following our movements with ancient patience.