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Working in tandem, we moved to another pair of bags positioned on opposite sides of the yacht, partially filling each one with our compressed air. It was slow going, but if I’d been down here by myself, it would have taken a lot longer to work my way around all the airbags, gradually adding air in small portions at a time. The key was to ensure we got the balance right between the airbags, adding buoyancy to the wreck so it didn’t shift too quickly.
The vibrant yellow plastic of the partially filled elongated balloons contrasted against the brilliant blue ocean around us. Since we’d started inflating the bags, the sharks had doubled in numbers, and a couple of the juveniles were cruising between the bags like they were navigating an obstacle course. I’d never seen that before. As long as they didn’t take a nibble at any of the bags, I didn’t care.
It took us thirty-seven minutes to get all the balloons partially inflated, yet the damn wreck hadn’t even moved a fraction.
Dad and I continued working our way around the yacht, gradually adding more air to the balloons. It was like a weird dance between us, add air to the bag, move to the next bag on our right, add air to that bag, and move to the right.
We were nearly through our second cycle around when the yacht finally shifted.
I signaled to Dad, silently communicating with him through the bubbles, and he waved back, confirming he’d seen the shift. A surge of adrenaline raced through me.
Salvaging boats this way was a delicate balance between physics and precision. Dad and I continued the air-filling monotony, and after we had added more air to another six balloons, the yacht responded to the increasing buoyancy with a subtle sway. The sand beneath the vessel shifted, and clouds of sediment billowed into the water like a ghostly veil.
As I waited for the water to clear, my heart thundered in my ears. I loved this part of my job. It was like bringing something back to life.
Pity we couldn’t do this for my mom.
I shoved the image of Mom lying lifeless in Dad’s lap from my mind. Now was not the time to lose focus.
The yacht groaned and rolled to the stern. Finally, it had broken free from its sandy confines and floated above the ocean floor.
Thank Christ!
Sixteen of our balloons were at full capacity. If the wreck hadn’t shifted when all of them were fully inflated, then we wouldn’t have been able to raise the wreck.
Dad held a finger in the air, indicating he wanted me to add air to one more.
We each moved to the right and added air to the next balloon.
And like an act in a magic show, the yacht began its slow ascent to the surface. Dad fist-pumped the air, and I did the same.
I checked my time and depth gauge. We’d been in the water for a hundred and twenty-two minutes. Not bad. We’d certainly taken longer to raise wrecks over the years. Then again, having the extra pair of hands helped.
Kingsley was doing a good job, after all. He would have had to add fuel at least once during this time, and not once had I felt a snag on my air pipe.
Now that the wreck was floating, Dad and I needed to stay with it, adjusting the buoyancy as the water pressure changed, but always making sure we didn’t rise any faster than our bubbles. It was easy to get sidetracked watching our prize make its ascent and forget about buoyancy physics and our diving protocols.
I set my timer to beep every minute as a reminder to check my status. We needed to raise the yacht to thirty feet below the surface in order to reach my winch cable.
As the luxury yacht ascended toward the surface, I mentally added up the value of the items we’d stashed in the metal cage still on the bottom. If we were lucky, we could sell a vast portion of that equipment and make enough money to clear some of those damn bills pinned to my corkboard on the bridge.
A sense of relief washed over me. It was about time Dad and I had some good luck.
I’d been able to hold off the debt collectors for months, but I didn’t know how much longer I could sweet-talk the bastards out of taking Rhino off me.
A shadow darted past me, and I turned just in time to knock a tiger shark away from my shoulder. Tiger sharks were opportunistic hunters, and the damn thing could bite me just because it was curious, not necessarily because it was hungry.
The shark glided off into the distance, and I peered into the blue, tracking its departure. Just before I lost sight, the pest turned around. My heart raced as the shark silently approached. Its cold back eyes seemed to be fixed on me.
I pulled my dive knife from the holster on my hip and aimed the weapon forward, hoping to warn the stupid shark off. The last thing I wanted to do was kill it, and I certainly didn’t want to instigate a cloud of blood in these shark-infested waters.
Smoothly flicking its tail side to side, the shark aimed right for me. I swished my knife and yelled through my breather. The shark darted around me with startling speed. But before I could do anything, it attacked one of the airbags. Air hissed out in a rush as the shark shook the crap out of the balloon. A cloud of bubbles obscured my vision as the bag was reduced to rags.
Panic surged through me.
The yacht groaned as if furious about the shark attack and listed dangerously to the side Dad was on. Two chairs on the upper deck tumbled toward him, and he dodged them at the last second as they vanished over the side. The remaining bags strained against the shift in weight, threatening to tilt further, or worse, break off.
No. No. No.
