Quatro

By Vincent Tanner

Why Quatro?

It is pretty simple. Quatro means “four,” and this book contains four novellas. These four works are not related to one another in any possible way except for the fact they were all written by the same author. They all have distinct characters with diverse personalities. Where each story takes place is unique. They are all of varying lengths, and not surprisingly, they all have individual titles, so it does not matter in which order you read them.

*****

“15 Minutes to Live.” Five chapters, five dissimilar people, five separate locations, five different times. All with one thing in common: they all have only fifteen minutes to live!

“Hamden Notch.” A sleepy little town with a grisly little secret.

“HouseBeat.” There’s no place like home—except if the home doesn’t want you there!

“Crust Heaven.” Travel back in time before computers, before cell phones, even before most homes had televisions. Back when life was simpler, especially when viewed through the eyes of a nine-year-old boy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662465956

Book preview

15 Minutes to Live

Introduction

You are about to meet five distinct people who, for the most part, have no say in the matter. They are separated by distance, time, and lives. They are in no way connected. Each lives in their own world—some peacefully, others not so, but they have one thing in common.

They all have only fifteen minutes to live.

Prologue

In February 1968, Andy Warhol coined the phrase fifteen minutes of fame. His actual statement is slightly different. He said, In the future, everybody will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.

This is not a book about Andy Warhol, nor is it a book about fame. It is about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes—not a very long amount of time by any standard. However, while it is a very brief period to some, it can seem like an eternity to others, depending on the situation and the circumstances.

You need to be somewhere important in just fifteen minutes, and you are not quite ready. Those minutes seem to fly by. You are stuck in traffic on your way to catch a plane; your flight boards in fifteen minutes. Those minutes disappear as if by magic.

You are standing in the rain, waiting for the bus. It is running fifteen minutes late. You keep looking at your watch; the minute hand seems to refuse to move. A young boy is chomping at the bit to open his birthday presents.

When can I open my birthday gifts? he asks.

Not until Grandpa gets here, his mother says.

When will Grandpa get here? he asks again.

In about fifteen minutes, she says.

Those fifteen minutes are the longest in his young life.

It is just one quarter of an hour, fifteen short minutes, but they are different things to different people. To some, they are too short; to others, they are too long.

This is not a very long book; however, it will take more than fifteen minutes to read. Yet it contains only five chapters, each separate one is about how five illustrious people deal with fifteen minutes. These are not the best fifteen minutes of their lives; in truth, it is their last fifteen minutes.

The question to you is, What would you do with your one-quarter hour, your fifteen minutes, your nine hundred seconds? What would you be thinking? What would encompass your mind if you knew for certain that you had only fifteen minutes to live?

Chapter 1

Meet Jason Reynolds, an avid scuba diving enthusiast. He has been diving for more than twenty years. As he grew up on New England’s shoreline, he and his friend Nick would impatiently wait for the harbor water temperature to reach fifty-four degrees. They learned that was the coldest water they could endure without a wet suit, through trial and error. They could only stand that low temperature for short periods. Using only a face mask, snorkel, and swim fins, they would dive to the astounding depth of fifteen to twenty feet—at least in the minds of these young adventurers. When the weather and water temperature rose, they would swim from the jetty to a manufactured rock island between the two breakwaters. With the change in harbor configuration over the years, the stone island settled into the mud and sand bottom. The island once supported a small occupied lighthouse. Over the years, the rock island sank into the sand and storms destroyed the lighthouse. It was a necessary navigational aid and was replaced with an automated beacon. The boat storage area submerged at the rock island’s base remained, although primarily filled with sand. It was Jason’s first experience with peering into an underwater cave. He and Nick would venture into this gaping cavern to the phenomenal distance of about seven or eight feet before their passage was blocked by sand.

He took his first full-fledged scuba dive at thirteen, in shallow water, less than thirty feet deep. Before that, it was just snorkeling. When he was older, Jason moved to Florida, where he could dive year-round, and he eventually became a dive instructor. He now teaches dive safety classes at the local YMCA and then takes his students into the pool to train with the dive equipment. They practice things like ditch and don—that’s where you remove your scuba tank, leaving it on the pool bottom, swim to the surface, then dive down and put the tank back on. Jason is watching them from underwater, wearing his scuba gear, watching to see who is not exhaling on the way up from the nine-foot depth of the pool. At nine feet, there is no problem. At deeper depths, there can be a crucial situation. At thirty-three feet below the surface, you have inhaled twice the volume of air in your lungs than you do at the water’s surface. At sixty-six feet, four times the volume of air is in your lungs. The increased amount of air, if not exhaled, can cause an embolism, resulting in death. Free diving is different; you have the same amount of air in your lungs on the way down and up as you do on the surface.

He teaches his students to say the word over, not think it, but vocally say it—over, over, over. It expels enough air so you still maintain the buoyancy of your lungs without causing undue pressure. Over, over, over, while you swim toward the surface. You get rid of enough air so you don’t kill yourself.

Another thing he teaches them is buddy breathing. You have to like your dive partner a great deal, because you will be sharing a mouthpiece with them. Of course, it is a different story in an emergency, but now, well, just hope you are friends and the other person practices good dental hygiene. He also has them remove their face masks, swim to the surface, dive back down to retrieve their masks, place them back on, and purge the water out of the mask.

After they finish the pool classes, they will make a series of open-water dives before being certified. The open water is much different from the pool. Visibility is a fraction of what it is in the pool, and there is a difference in the buoyancy of the pool water and salt water. Salt water requires more diving weights. When the open-water dives are completed, they are certified scuba divers. They will celebrate with a beach-party cookout. Everything except the beverages and salads will be harvested from the sea.

Jason Reynolds secures the necessary permits for open burning on the beach. He has done this many times before, so it is nothing new to him. The only stipulation is that they put the fire out and fill the cooking pit back in before leaving the beach. Again, nothing new.

Early the next day, Jason arrives with a bunch of his diving buddies. They have one of their pickup trucks filled with neatly stacked wood. They could take a chance scouring the beach for driftwood, but depending on the time of year and recent storms, along with beachcombers, driftwood can sometimes be challenging to find, or it might still be too wet to get a good fire going. It looks more aesthetic than split logs, but it would put a damper on everything if the fire goes out before the food is cooked. They also have a large number of five-gallon plastic buckets to keep their catches as fresh as possible. They will be going after lobster, crabs, clams, mussels, and oysters, if they can find them. The oysters will be eaten raw, as well as the smaller clams. Everything else will be cooked in the pit.

The other beach partiers begin to arrive with ice-filled coolers containing everything from potato salad, green salad, some salads he can’t even begin to describe; they all make their way to the area surrounding the cold firepit. It won’t be cold for long. Other coolers with soda, beer, wine coolers, and bottled water join the ring around the baking pit. The coolers will serve as seats for their get-together.

Everybody here? Jason asks.

Miriam and her boyfriend haven’t arrived yet, but I spoke to her this morning. She said she was still putting together her salad, but they will positively be here, he is told by Laura. No sooner has she said that than Miriam and Ralph pull into the parking area.

Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here! Jason says.

They prepare the pit for the fire. They will get the fire started, and when the flames get below the rim of the hole, those who are not divers, which includes Ralph, are to toss a few more pieces of wood on the fire; Ralph refuses to learn to dive because he gets claustrophobic in a face mask. They need a thick bed of hot coals to cook everything properly. In the meantime, they can go swimming, walk the beach, play volleyball—as long as no one falls into the pit.

The fire is roaring.

Okay, Jason says. Let’s go shopping for supper!

He and the more experienced divers head out for deeper water in search of lobsters. Everyone—well, almost everyone—is wearing fins, masks, and snorkels. It is illegal to take shellfish when you are wearing scuba gear. Those not daring enough to venture into the water in search of sustenance patrol the sand flats as the tide recedes, looking for tiny waterspouts when the clams purge themselves. They dig down a few inches and they have a clam. The clams cannot run away, so you don’t have to chase them, except for one, the quahog, pronounced gooy-duck. Where they ever came up with that pronunciation is anybody’s guess, unless it came from the Native Americans. Worse than that, they could call it by its scientific name, Mercenaria mercenaria. It’s a rather large clam that has a digging foot bigger than its body. It can move through the sand at an alarming rate. You dig for them in the sand flats at low tide. Instead of just digging for them, you force your shovel down below them. You can feel and even sometimes hear when their shell hits the blade of the shovel.

The digging foot is too tough to eat, but the rest of the clam is quite tasty. Unfortunately, the quahogs are not found on the beach where they are having their seafood bake; they are found much farther to the north, from northern California up to the Puget Sound area in Washington State and on the Pacific Coast into Canada. They are also found on the East Coast, where the water temperatures are about the same. However, there are many other clams in the area, such as littlenecks, steamers, cherrystones, and the occasional razor clam. Although edible, razor clams leave little to be desired when it comes to flavor. Mussels are in abundance, but each one has to be debearded before you can cook and eat it.

There is one cardinal rule at these gatherings: It doesn’t matter how good you look in a bikini or a Speedo; if you don’t work, you don’t eat. Everyone pitches in. Right now, the tide is dead low and turning around. This is what they have been waiting for. The crustaceans, lobsters, and crabs follow the tide in, looking for food. Little do they know, they are about to become food for humans.

Those who are not divers, and a number of those who are divers, brought along by their significant others, head out to the sand flats with small spades and buckets in hand in search of clams. They look for tiny waterspouts shooting up from the tide-packed sand, which means a clam is there. Others head into the shallows, wearing masks and snorkels, looking for bubbles trickling up from the sand as a clam rids itself of air that got into its shell during low tide. In a short time, they have plenty of clams. They are placed in fresh water to cause them to expel any sand and void their intestines. Some clams, the smaller ones, will be eaten raw; the larger ones will be made into chowder—New England, of course—some batter-dipped and fried, some stuffed and baked.

The more adventurous head out to water a little deeper, beyond where the waves break, looking for crabs following the tide in. The lobsters and crabs have no rubber bands or wooden pegs on their claws, so everyone wears gloves. If a crab or lobster grabs on to you, the claws don’t close with a snap. Wearing the gloves gives you the chance to pull your finger out of the glove before the claw closes all the way. Most of the time, it will only hurt a little, but some of the more significant crustaceans can pinch hard enough to break a finger, or, worse, a lovely woman’s perfectly manicured fingernail, and we can’t have that!

The guys and a few women accomplished at deepwater free diving are out looking for lobsters, the main course. They have an inner tube with a dive flag to keep motorboats from coming too close and running over a diver, who might just pop his head up and get hit by a propeller. They have net bags on hooks to place their catches in. Those farther inshore are capturing blue crabs, Dungeness, soft-shell crabs, if they can locate any, as well as large fiddlers and anything else they can find. This is going to be one heck of a feast! Those that are too small to be edible, such as hermits, are immediately released.

The guys and gals make one last swim out to the deep water. They will be harvesting kelp, an integral part of a clam-lobster-crab bake. The kelp will cover the hot coals; the seafood will be wrapped in additional kelp and placed into the pit on top of the kelp covering the coals. Bacon is simmering in a pan on one of the three camp stoves for the clam chowder, the chicken stock is beginning to bubble, and batter-dipped clam fritters end up in the bacon grease. Other clams are chopped, are mixed with breadcrumbs, and find their way back into their shells, then wrapped with more kelp and placed into the firepit. The aromas of all the cooking attract the attention of others around the clambake party. They have gathered more than enough lobsters, crabs, and clams to feed more than three times the number in their party, so they invite the curious beach denizens to join the seafood bake. They bring their coolers full of beverages over to add to what’s already there. It turns from just a great beach party into a grand beach party—volleyball, frisbees, music from a portable CD player. Bringing a CD player to a sandy beach can be somewhat risky, but it’s their box, not ours.

Fred, who works in a seafood restaurant, cracks open the lobsters and crabs using a large knife. He does that for a living, so he knows just where and how hard to strike each creature so everyone can open their meal using nothing but their fingers. They have been able to pry several dozen oysters from the rocks, and they are available to those daring enough to eat a raw oyster in a month without an R in it. They eat all through the day. It doesn’t matter how messy you get; you can always rinse off in the ocean or under the beach shower.

The kelp has all burned off. They keep a slow fire going so it can be stoked up for evening enjoyment later. After all this activity today, along with overfilled bellies, everyone will sleep very well tonight.

A few of the beach walkers manage to score some dry driftwood. It should burn well, and if it doesn’t, they can always help it along with some of the other wood already there. The sun is approaching the horizon, and the fire slowly rises higher in the pit. People are still eating; I don’t know where they are putting it all. Everything is kept warm by placing it near the firepit. At least there is going to be very little food to pack up and bring home. The sun sinking below that thin line between sea and sky gives off a beautiful reddish glow; the reflection off the water adds a perfect ending to a glorious, cloudless day—new friends made, old friends reunited. More wood on the fire.

The stars are beginning to appear in the darkening night sky. There will be no moon until much later tonight. The new and old friends depart for home little by little, thanking everyone for a wonderful day. The last of the wood is tossed onto the fire, rivulets of sparks spiraling into the sky with each log tossed into the pit. They will wait until the last flames die down before extinguishing the coals and filling the hole back in. Looking at the scene, it would make for a very romantic evening, but it doesn’t end that way, at least not until everyone gets home. It won’t be long before the sand fleas start to come out as the sand cools. There are five women and five men left sitting around the slowly diminishing firepit. The women include Jason’s fiancée, Laura. Fred’s girlfriend, Sue, hasn’t reached the fiancée part yet, but Jason thinks it is not too far down the road. Th rest are Norman’s wife, Gladys; Pete’s wife, Helen; and Tom’s wife, Georgia. The women sit on the opposite side of the pit from the five men, gossiping or talking about whatever women talk about. The men just watch the fire.

Jason trained all these people in scuba diving. That was how they all became friends, except Laura. Jason gave her one-on-one, personal training, but there was a lot less training than groping each other at the bottom of the pool. Still, now she can dive with the best of them. Their wedding will be in six months, and she wants to be a December bride. The four guys lounge around, talking about diving.

Tom pipes in, I’ve been doing some research on cave diving. Any of you ever done that?

I have, Jason says. But only locally, not very deep, and not far in.

There is a place down in Mexico that has miles of unexplored underwater caves, Tom says. I’ll dig up some more info, and maybe we can plan a dive trip.

Sounds like a great idea, Jason states. We can go cave diving, and the girls can go spend our money.

I think they will outspend us, but what the entire dive trip will cost, including transportation, is going to be outshined by what they spend before we even hit the water! Norman states with a laugh.

That’s what you get for being married, Fred says.

I suppose Sue is going to be using only her credit cards? Norman quips back. What about Laura? he asks.

We have an airtight agreement, Jason states. What she charges, she pays. What I charge, I pay. What we both charge, I pay. What she charges and can’t afford to pay, I pay.

So I guess that means you pay for most of everything, Fred says with a laugh.

I guess you could say that, Jason states.

You might as well be married! Fred laughs.

Come December, we will be, and you all better be there. I need you to keep me from chickening out! Jason says, laughing. Laura hears what is being said and looks over at Jason with a loving smile.

The fire has just about had it. The tide is in, so the shoreline is closer than the spigot at the beach shower. They start a bucket brigade, dousing the hot coals. The park ranger comes by as they are loading the almost-empty coolers in the trucks. Jason, Fred, and Norman are finishing up backfilling the firepit.

How ya doin’, Stan? Jason asks.

Not too bad, Ranger Stan remarks. I see you are done for the day. When I drove by earlier, I noticed you had a much larger crowd than usual.

Yeah, we had a real good day gathering seafood, so we invited them to join us. They had plenty of beverages, but only a few half-soggy sandwiches, Jason states. I wish I had brought my speargun. Saw a couple of nice groupers swimming around the rocks. We still had plenty for everyone, but I will tell you this, those kids can really pack it away, especially when it’s free! You could have joined us also.

Not when I’m on duty, he says. Maybe next time. Stan is also a diver. In the next few days, I’ll swim out there and see if I can spear one or two, one for you and one for me. They are tasty buggers if prepared right. You all be careful driving home.

Jason tells him about the future trip to go cave diving in Mexico. Stan says he would be interested if he can get the time off. It won’t be for a couple of months, Jason states. We only came up with the idea today, and we need to get everything set up. I’ll let you know when our next scuba graduation is going to be, so you can join us, and we will talk more about it then.

Sounds good, Stan says.

*****

Jason and his friends, including Stan, begin making plans to cave-dive along the Yucatan Peninsula’s northwestern coast. Most of these underwater caves are virtually unexplored. There is a lot of red tape they need to go through before getting permission for the dives and making any definite travel and lodging arrangements. They will all share the load. Jason will take care of the dive permits, Stan will handle the boat rental, Norman will see to the airline reservations, including the flights to Los Angeles, and Pete will make the hotel reservations when the dates are set. As a chef, Fred will, of course, pick out where they are going to eat, and Tom will arrange ground transportation.

They will fly out of Los Angeles and land at Campeche International Airport in Campeche, Yucatan, Mexico, when everything is put together. There is some special equipment they need to purchase before the dives. Inside the cave, it will be pitch-black. Each diver will need a helmet to protect their heads from any rocks hanging down. The helmets will have a light attached that will always shine where they are looking. All the divers will also have what slightly resembles a fishing reel. They attach it to their weight belt so their hands are free. The spool is loaded with a set length of thin but strong number 18 braided nylon line, strong enough to support five full-grown men’s weight on dry land. Jason has calculated how far a diver can leisurely swim in fifty feet of water before his scuba tank reaches the halfway point of being empty. For safety reasons, he cuts the length by one-quarter. Inside a cave, when you reach the end of the line, you have overstayed your welcome and it’s time to head back out. The lines are anchored at a place where the divers can see the mouth of the cave. At the start of the line is what looks like one of those clips used by climbers, and some people use them as key chains, but much smaller. You can wrap the cord around a rock and secure it with the clip, or you can use the clip to attach all sorts of anchoring devices. They will bring an assortment of anchors with them when they enter the cave. What they don’t use will be left at the mouth of the cave, to be retrieved on their way out. They will all use separate anchors so that all the others will still be solidly attached if anyone of them does not hold.

The reels are considerably different from fishing reels. They are pretty much free-spooling. They have a slight drag to keep the line from rat nesting if the diver moves too quickly and then stops, but not with sufficient drag to interfere with the diver’s movements. For the most part, the diver doesn’t even feel it is there until the line suddenly stops him from going any farther. When the line runs out, the diver flips open a small crank handle and respools the line as he follows it out. All the new equipment is thoroughly tested before they even make any binding travel reservations.

Everything comes up smelling like roses. Time to start making phone calls.

The dive permits are the first on the agenda. Jason has already taken care of that. If the dive trip falls through, all they would lose are the few bucks for the permits, but they could not even enter the caves without them. They have to sign all kinds of waivers before the licenses are issued.

I’m going to catch holy hell from Laura. I didn’t get a permit for her, Jason says. She’s a good diver, but she doesn’t yet have the experience. I’ve never been deep cave diving before, and I want to see what it’s all about before I let her into the bowels of the earth. She is someday going to be the mother of my children.

Aren’t you stepping ahead of yourself? Fred asks. Or is there something you are not telling us?

Right now, it’s still a maybe, Jason says. We don’t know for sure, and if you guys say anything, I will kill you all!

Well, if Laura is preggo, Norman states, at least she won’t be showing come December!

In a flash, Jason is all over him, playfully.

A couple of days before they are set to leave for Mexico, Laura has a doctor’s appointment. The EPT tests have come up positive twice; still, she needs definite confirmation from the doctor. Hello, Daddy, she says when Jason comes in the door. He knows what she means and takes her in his arms.

Hello, Mommy, he says, kissing her. Well, we got started a little earlier than we planned, but—

You’re not mad at me, are you? she asks.

Mad at you! Mad at you? You could not have done it without me, unless—

She scowls at him, almost lifting her hand to strike him gently. He pulls her closer. Is the baby a boy or a girl, and are you sure it is yours? he asks jokingly.

You know it’s way too soon to tell, she says. And that last part is uncalled for. Of course, it’s mine! she laughs.

He hugs her close, lovingly. This is only the beginning, and already the mood swings are starting, he says mockingly. Do you want to know, or do you want it to be a surprise? he asks.

I would prefer to be surprised, and yes, before you ask, it is undeniably yours, she states with a stern look. What about you? Do you want to know what it is?

"Before we go any further, I feel we should stop referring to our baby as it. It is going to be our child—there I go, wash my mouth out with soap! I called our baby it! She wraps her arms around him in a tighter embrace. I will wait to be as surprised as you, but I think most of the surprises are going to be on your end, he says. Jason had been through nitrogen narcosis and had been told the pain he was feeling was nothing compared to labor pains by women who had been through both. Do we let our friends know?" he asks.

Not until we get back from Mexico, she says. I asked the doctor if I can still go diving, and he said for a little while, but not too deep. I will have to stop by the third month.

Laura, I didn’t get you a permit to dive the caves, Jason says.

Why not? I can still dive.

True, but cave diving can be hazardous, and when we first thought you might be pregnant, I didn’t want to chance it. You can still do open-water dives, and I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you on a trip over to Cancún and Cozumel.

That’s not the same, she says. I was looking forward to diving the caves with you.

You will the next time, but for now, we have to think of the baby, he says, rubbing her tummy.

The guys are sure what is going on, and the women will not meet it with any disdain once they know about it. Linda was pregnant when she married Stan. Gladys was four months on the road when she married Norman. Helen got in the motherly way on Pete’s and her honeymoon. Tom and Georgia have no children; whether it is him or her has never been disclosed, but they are looking into adoption. Fred and Sue are still playing the field, and they play very often!

*****

Because of tightened airport security, they send all their scuba gear by truck freight down to Campeche to a fellow Jason has known for years, Geraldo Jemez. They still keep in touch. Jason enlisted the assistance of Geraldo to get over some hurdles they were facing. Geraldo used to live in the States when he was in college, before he moved back home. Before 9/11, you could bring practically anything on an airliner. Back then, you only had to purge the tank down to the reserve, which amounts to only a few pounds of pressure, not enough to endanger any aircraft. Now, the tank, which cannot be scanned by x-ray, has to be completely emptied, the valve removed, and is visually inspected, allowing moisture and other contaminants in before it is allowed on the plane. They prefer to use their own equipment instead of rental gear; they know how theirs has been cared for, but with rental equipment, you never know what the inside of the tank has been exposed to, and the deeper you go, you are exposed to the higher concentrations of whatever might have contaminated the tank.

Jason gets a call from Geraldo. Their scuba gear has arrived safely. Since they were shipping their tanks, they sent all their other equipment along with the tanks, all except their lead weights. There is no sense paying to ship something they can purchase for a fraction of the cost of transporting them down to Mexico and back. Their regulators, helmets, wet suits, and all their other gear is now in Geraldo’s possession. The wet suits are because even though the ocean water may be warm, the water inside a cave can be frigid. Hypothermia can set in very quickly, causing the diver to lose orientation and possibly pass out. The suits also provide some protection from abrasion. All the gang has additional gear so they can still dive while they wait for the date to head south of the border.

The day for their Mexican dive trip arrives. They all board the airport limo and head for LAX. Luggage checked in, they wait for the boarding time of their flight. It took a little bit of doing, but they were able to get a direct flight to Campeche. If not for that, they would have had to land in either Mexico City or Merida and then travel overland to Campeche, a very long drive from either city.

Laura wanted to wait until they returned home to tell their friends about the baby, but the guys all spilled the beans, and now everyone knows. The guys are wandering the air terminal to keep from getting bored. The gals are discussing bridal showers and baby showers. Both occasions are a while off, but you cannot start planning too soon.

Then their boarding is announced.

Norm did a great job securing the flight and the seating—all the couples are seated together; nobody is separated, and sitting with strangers. Next stop, Campeche. The flight is uneventful, but the landing is a little challenging, with crosswinds coming off the Gulf of Mexico and the runway much shorter than that in Los Angeles. Still, they arrive in twelve intact pieces—make that twelve plus one one-and-a-half-month-old developing yet unborn intact pieces.

Geraldo said he would meet them at the airport, drive them to their hotel, and then they were all coming to his place for supper, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. You are not going to eat lousy hotel food on your first night in Mexico, he said. And sure enough, he is right there on time. They have wondered how he would transport twelve adults—thirteen, including himself—unless he did it in shifts.

He has a minibus.

Where did you get this? Jason asks.

A friend of mine, Geraldo states. Borrowed it!

Does he know you borrowed it? We wouldn’t want the Federales to stop you in a stolen vehicle and charge you for transporting illegal US citizens! Jason laughs.

Si, he knows I borrowed it.

Introductions are made. Geraldo finally gets to meet Laura. Laura and Jason met shortly after Geraldo returned home to Mexico. He knows all about her, including the upcoming wedding, to which he is invited, not formally yet—no one has been. But that’s still down the road. The one fact he doesn’t know is the bun in the oven, and everyone intends to keep it that way for now. It will have to be Jason or Laura who tells him.

Geraldo drives them to the hotel. I will be back to pick you up in an hour. That should give you enough time to get settled in. Jorge says I can have the bus until the weekend, when he needs it for work. I can take you wherever you need to go, get the boat, get cars, and get your equipment.

What about your work? Jason asks.

I am self-employed, so I went to my boss, me, and said I need some time off or I’d quit! My boss, me, asked why. I told him, me, that I have amigos, lovely senoras, and una senorita coming to visit, and if he did not give me the time off, I’d quit! We argued back and forth until I agreed to give me all the time off I need.

Same with me, Jason says. I had to fight with my own boss to let me put a sign in the dive shop window saying that we would be closed for two weeks. I finally relented and let me put up the sign.

Is it still on for December? he asks.

Going full steam ahead, Jason says.

Tonight at mi casa, there will be more than just you gringos. There will be a lot of others. I told them how you helped me with my English and other subjects a long time ago and that without your assistance, I probably would have flunked out. They are all eager to meet you. You are going to experience a proper Mexican cookout! You see all the hot peppers everywhere, no pepper plants to be seen anywhere, but still plenty of peppers. They could pave the roads with them, but they would probably melt your tires!

Me, I can eat fire, but Laura, although she likes Mexican food, prefers things a bit less hot, and I’m sure some of the others feel the same, Jason says.

Don’ worry about it, amigo. There will be much that is not so specie-spicy hot! There will be enough for every degree of the palate. Oh, and do not plan on rising early tomorrow morning. We will have tequila, mescal, pulque, cerveza, and a slew of margaritas!

Are you doing all this for us? Jason asks.

Of course! How often do I get a bunch of gringos Americano and their lovely senoras and senorita gracing my humble adobe castle?

Picking them up about an hour later, Geraldo drives them to his home. He is right about a few things: the structure is made of adobe, as are most homes in the area, and it is almost a castle. But it is anything but humble, more like grandiose. It appears Geraldo has done okay for himself since graduating college. Besides, it does not hurt to be able to speak more than two languages. Jason and his gang are very impressed. They are even more overwhelmed when they walk through the house and out into the back. They are met by dozens of Geraldo’s friends. Jason and Laura are both fluent in Spanish, and so are Fred and Sue—it comes in handy in their businesses. Most of the people there speak English very well, so there will be no problem communicating.

There are all kinds of Mexican foods, from paella to burritos, tacos, tamales, and fajitas. Some things ready to eat, others in various stages of preparation. Four grills are going, some cooking and some keeping the other food warm, and huge ice chests keep other things cold and fresh.

Jason and Geraldo sit on the expansive patio, sharing a couple of drinks and catching up on the years gone by.

Geraldo, you seem to have done very well, but in all these past years, you have never told me exactly what it is you do, Jason asks with concern.

I am a commodities broker, Geraldo says.

What kind of commodities? Jason asks with more concern.

It varies with what is trading—gold, silver, oil, pork bellies, beef-on-the-hoof, and scores of other life essentials, whatever the market will bear. I have taken quite a hit over the last couple of years, Not because of anything I have done, but because fewer investors are willing to take the risk. I come out the same. I work strictly on commission. They win, I get paid. They lose, I still get paid. Do not worry, amigo. Everything I do is legal and above board. I have never said anything because if I comment to someone and they make a killing in the market, I could be accused of insider trading, and the laws are stricter here than in the States. Here you are assumed guilty until you prove you are innocent. There is one perfectly legal thing. I can save you some serious pesos. Instead of renting a boat for a small fortune and paying a boat pilot, why don’t you use mine? It is considerably larger and more comfortable than any you will find for rent. I know you are required to have a boat pilot even to be allowed to approach the caves. I know a friend. In fact, he is coming here a little later, when he gets off work. He and I go fishing and diving together quite often, and he is the only one of those pilots I will allow to drive my boat. He has done it many times, so he is familiar with how it handles. When he gets here, we will discuss it, and if necessary, I can pull a few strings so you have a legal boat pilot. You will only have to pay him and not for the boat. He will probably want to do it for free, but he takes people out on fishing or diving charters for a living and it doesn’t pay that well. He doesn’t work every day, only when the work is there and they call him in. That is why he is not here right now. Besides, you would have to pay for a pilot anyway, so why not him?

That sounds agreeable, Jason says. We will accept, on two conditions. First, we pay for fuel. We would have to do that anyway with a chartered boat.

My boat has big fuel tanks, Geraldo states.

You fill them up, and we will keep them full and return the boat with the fuel gauge on full.

It is already there, Geraldo says. I always fill up when I return to the marina, prevents condensation. What’s your second condition?

You come cave diving with us.

Not on your life! Geraldo says. I have been there and done that! Cave diving can be extremely dangerous and often frightening. When you called me about the dives, I was tempted to talk you out of it, but you were so adamant that I knew it would not do any good. Besides, I wanted to see you again and meet your wife-to-be.

So you have been cave diving before? Jason asks. You never said anything.

Let’s just say the three times I went, it wasn’t the most pleasant experience of my life. All three times, we were several hundred feet in when a tidal surge hit us. A large wave crashes into the mouth of the cave, pushing water ahead of it. The rush of water from the surge stirs up the sediment on the cave floor, you lose control of where you are swimming, and suddenly you are diving in chocolate milk, total brownout, not knowing which way is forward or back, up, or down. Your lights do no good. You are totally blinded. The surge pushes you, and it is impossible to swim in any direction. All you can do is try to protect yourself with your hands to keep the surge from slamming you into the jagged rocks. You are left with two choices when the surge recedes: you can continue to grope and feel your way forward in the murk until you reach clear water, or turn back and follow your lifeline out. With all three dives, we chose the safest way, out! You never know how deep the surge is going to travel. I will come along with you, but Jose and I will only be doing some fishing. As the pilot, he cannot leave the boat. That is in case you get in any trouble.

Have you dived any of the caves we’ve indicated? Jason asks.

No, and I do not want to, Geraldo states. Jose is familiar with them, but even he has never been inside. There is something very unique about the caves you listed. You will be diving in total blackness, and then suddenly, there is a small shaft of sunlight coming from far above. It only illuminates a small area, and then it is black again.

Instead of scaring me, you are making this sound more enticing, Jason says.

"One of the more unique aspects of the caves here in this part of the Yucatan is a phenomenon called a halocline. A halocline occurs where salt water penetrating through the limestone from the ocean meets and interfaces with fresh water moving in the opposite direction from the jungle. You can see the fresh water skipping over the top of the salt water in some areas with high flow. As a diver passes through the halocline, his body mixes the two layers, making it appear as though someone has poured oil into the water. Suppose a diver rises from the saltwater layer to the fresh water. In that case, they experience the optical illusion of coming into a dry cave, due to the different ways light refracts in salt and fresh water. You might think you are in an air-filled chamber, but if you take out your regulator to take a breath, you will instantly drown."

After listening to Geraldo’s first stories about cave diving, Jason is doubly glad he did not get a dive permit for Laura. Still, after describing the shafts of light and the haloclines, he almost wishes he had. I promised Laura I would take her to Cancún and Cozumel. Do you think we could borrow your boat to go there? You would, of course, come with us, if your boss gives you the time off!

"Jason, have you even looked at a map? That is more than a four-hundred-mile journey over water, and that is only one way! Your best bet would be to hop a flight from Campeche to Cancún, and another short flight to Cozumel. I have a nice boat, but it is not the most fuel-efficient thing afloat because of its size. For what it would cost for the fuel and docking fees in two different popular tourist traps, you could buy your own airplane! But I will come along with you. I know my way around pretty well in those two places and can show you what to see, where to go, and most importantly, where not to go."

Jose arrives wearing a sombrero and a serape only, for their amusement. He and Geraldo have talked extensively about this dive trip, so he knows who the guys are by names although has never personally met any of them. He wants to make a good impression. And he does! He removes his sombrero and serape, but they do not go to waste. Several of Geraldo’s male friends and several ladies don similar conventional articles when they dance traditional Mexican folk dances and the merengue.

Food suddenly appears everywhere. Geraldo calls for the attention of his Americano guests, who have been mingling with his friends. We have before you a typical Mexican cookout. Considering you and your delicate American palates, all the dishes have been marked with these little red plastic spoons. One spoon means whatever it is, is hot. Two spoons mean it is scorching. Three spoons mean you are taking your life into your own hands. We never got to four spoons because they kept melting on us. You can tell those dishes because un hombre is standing there with a fire extinguisher. The ones without any spoons are Mexican food for the soul, such as paella, refried beans, black bean soup, beef, fish, etc. My friends have promised not to remove any of the spoons until the dish is empty, so you can feel safe even if you have a stomach ulcer. You are free to ask what any dish is called, but you might want to use caution if you ask what is in it. Remember, this is not Los Angeles! We are just outside the jungle. So please enjoy your first real meal in Mexico.

Fred and Jason head for the hottest. They don’t see any hombres with extinguishers, so they surmise Geraldo was just adding some theatrics, but some of this stuff still brings tears to the eyes. Being in the restaurant business, Fred knows what much of this is. Jason also knows quite a bit, but there are still some things that surprise him. So between wiping his brow and dashing to the cooler for another cerveza, or beer, as it is called in the States, or even an ice cube he pops in his mouth, he returns for more of this culinary inquisition.

The Mexican cookout continues for hours; people are eating, dancing to mariachi music, all in all having a great time. Jason wonders if his tongue and palate will ever regain any feeling!

Later, Geraldo is sitting on the patio with Jason, Fred, Pete, Norman, Tom, and Jose, enjoying the last beer of the night. The wives are enjoying the Spanish ladies company, learning their dances and practicing to the music.

Tomorrow, we will move your gear to the storage facility at the marina, and then I will take you all for a spin in my meager boat.

Your boat can hold fourteen people? Stan asks.

It can hold more than that, Geraldo states. You will see tomorrow, but right now, it is time to get you back to the hotel, before you all fall down. Geraldo, as the host, and Jose, as a late arrival, did not drink very much. They load the visitors in the minibus just as the party breaks up and drive them to the hotel. I will wait for your call after you have recovered, he says. Before they arrived, Geraldo had offered the option of staying at his home during their visit, but they did not want to impose. Everyone had pictured him living in a small adobe cottage, but after seeing how large and beautiful his casa is, they thought that maybe they should have taken him up on his offer. There is more than enough room in his villa. If he makes that offer again, Jason figures, they just might accept.

After getting up very early in the morning to get to the airport, then the two-and-a-half-hour wait to board the plane and the long flight to Campeche, the festive Mexican cookout, accompanied by more alcohol than they should have consumed, the third-rate Mexican beds before them look incredibly comforting. It won’t be until the middle of the morning before they call Geraldo. He and Jose pick them up at the hotel. Jose stayed overnight at Geraldo’s home because he is coming with them for the boat ride. It would also give them some time to get to know him better, especially since their lives will be in his hands.

In the morning, they load their gear in Jose’s truck and then pile into the minibus, heading for the marina.

"I have to get this minibus back to Jorge this evening. We will take care of your vehicles at that time. I have two six-passenger vans you can use while you are here. Not as spacious as the minibus, but the suspension is considerably better. Unfortunately, you will be in two vehicles that only hold six, seven if you don’t mind being cramped in the rear seat with three people, so don’t get separated. If you do, each has a GPS that can find the other vehicle or direct you back to mi casa. That is where you should head.

"There are also cell phones in each van with programmed numbers. The verbal instructions from the GPS are all going to be in Spanish, so make sure there is someone in each van who can understand the difference between right and left, ‘Turn right,’ ‘Dolba a la derecha’ or ‘derecho,’ ‘Turn left,’ ‘Dolba a la izquerda’ or ‘izquerdo,’ ‘Go straight ahead,’ ‘Sique direcho.’ If you are truly lost, you can stop and put out road flares. Either the banditos will find you, which is not very good—they will just kill the men and violate all the women—or the policía, which is not much better. They will kill the women and violate all the men. Or you can hang tight in hopes you are found by Jose or me, and then we have a choice as to what we are going to do."

You have to admire Geraldo’s wry sense of humor. His instructions are meant well, but they leave a slight uneasiness among the women, who have never been out of the States before. He puts them more at ease by letting them know they will never be far from protection. The guys will find out what he means at a later time.

The cell phones in each van have programmed numbers. One is for the other van, and the second is my home number, but there are many dead zones in this area. That’s why I have the radios. However, they have a limited range, so do not get too far apart, Geraldo states.

Their gear is loaded into the storage locker. The storage facility is a bit far from the dock, but the scuba equipment will be secure until they need it. Their dive permits do not become active until the day after tomorrow. They head for the dock to find Geraldo’s boat. Geraldo and Jose enter the marina office to take care of the necessary arrangements with the harbormaster for the cave dive. With something as dangerous as this, you must give notice as to what approximate time you plan to leave and the time you plan to return. These times do not need to be exact. Any other time you want to take your boat out, you simply untie it and sail away, but with the rocky cliffs where the caves are, many a boat has been dashed to pieces against the rocks, and many divers have drowned. If you are not back in a reasonable time, the harbormaster will try to contact you by radio and, if he cannot reach you, send someone to look for you."

Geraldo tells them the name of his boat, Marguerite. A little different spelling from the traditional Spanish spelling of Margarita, meaning daisy wheel, as in the flower, or margarita, as in the tequila cocktail; this margarita derives its name from the salt on the rim of the glass, like small petals in a circle. He named his boat after a woman he was dating in college. She ended the relationship, not him, but he still carries a flame for her. Geraldo states the name is on the boat’s stern, so they should not have any trouble finding it. When they do, they are to hop aboard and make themselves comfortable.

They walk along the dock, looking at boat names. Where do people come up with some of these names? they wonder. Like the Unsinkable III. Does that mean Unsinkable I and Unsinkable II sank? Some boats don’t have names, so the guys discount those immediately. They reach the end of the dock, and still no Marguerite. Could they have missed it? Then, Jason sees a large boat moored all by itself at the end of the pier. He estimates it to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty feet long.

Stan takes a walk to the stern. You have got to be shittin’ me! he shouts. They all follow. On the stern are the gold letters trimmed in dark blue so they stand out from the white hull: Marguerite. Geraldo said his boat could hold more than fourteen people, and none of the other boats fits that category, at least not safely. This has got to be it. They climb aboard. This is not a boat! Jason thinks. It’s a yacht! Judging by its size, it’s no wonder Geraldo said it would cost a fortune to make a round-trip sea run of over eight hundred miles. The cabin is still locked, but there is plenty of seating on the rear deck.

They spot Geraldo and Jose walking down the dock, stopping and pointing at some of the boats, but they continue to walk directly toward them.

I see you found her, Geraldo says. Let me open the cabin to air it out while I give you a tour. He unlocks the cabin and switches on the ventilation fans, removing the stale air all boats encounter at the dock. All the exterior is protected from the salt air and water, but the inside needs to be completely closed up to prevent damage when the boat is not in use, and there is a variety of electronic equipment that needs to be stored and kept dry. Jose sets about connecting whatever equipment will be needed up on the flybridge while Geraldo shows them the inside of his boat.

I’m in the wrong business, Jason says to Tom.

We both are, he says.

Engines, storage, and refrigerators take up the aft section of the craft belowdecks. The reefers are accessed from the deck below the main cabin deck. The storage is accessed through a door next to the refrigerators and an access panel on the aft deck. The access panel makes it easier to load; you don’t have to bring everything through the main cabin. The baffled fuel tanks run the length of the keel below the deck to help stabilize the ship. They can no longer think of it as just a boat; the craft is much more extensive on the inside than how it appears from the dock. It has a very wide beam.

How long is your boat? What, maybe fifty feet? Jason asks.

Actually, sixty-two feet, twenty-foot beam at the widest, Geraldo states. That is in the main cabin. It gets narrower as you go forward or aft or down to the lower deck. She sails twenty-four, drinks twenty, eats sixteen, and sleeps fourteen, as long as they are good friends, and she usually only fishes three or four.

How did you ever get this? Jason asks.

I had a very wealthy client who wanted to make some very high-risk investments. I tried to talk him out of them, but he was insistent, lost his shirt. He was heavily margined and had to sell many of his assets to cover what he owed. This boat was one of his properties. I made him a decent offer he could not pass up. Far below the boat’s actual worth, but more than he needed to cover most of his debts. He still lost a few of his homes but managed to hang on to the others.

A few of his homes? Jason asks.

Yeah, he had sixteen. Now he has eleven. The only time he ever used this boat was to show off. It hardly left the pier. If you look at the engine hour gauge, you will see it reads very low, and most of those hours are mine. Practically all the others were for dockside tune-ups. I don’t think he even knew how to drive it, so it didn’t bother him to let it go at a bargain price.

Do you ever take this monstrosity out alone? Jason asks.

Generally not, but I can if I have to. I usually like to have someone with me who knows what they are doing if there is an accident. Luckily, there have been none so far. Jose and I go out quite often together. I have a few other friends I can count on if I need to. We generally go out to good fishing or diving areas, taking a leisurely pace, but this craft is equipped with four retractable hydroplanes if I need speed. Two on the bow and two on the stern. They literally lift the boat out of the water, giving an extremely smooth ride. All the chop is far underneath you.

That I would like to see, Jason says.

You will, but probably not today. Today is just a leisurely cruise. We will only be out for the afternoon and get the minibus back to Jorge later on. The refrigerator is full of beer, wine, soda, water, and whatever else you might like. The liquor cabinet is also well-stocked, but I want you to know, just so you do not feel insulted, when we do not have solid ground under our feet and we are out on the water, Jose and I drink nothing but water or fruit juice. Can you imagine what it would be like trying to maneuver a vessel of this size up next to a rickety pier if we were totally blotto like when we were in college? We were lucky we could find the parking lot, let alone a parking place!

Point well taken, Jason says.

Let us get the engines started so that we can disconnect from dock power, Geraldo says.

Electricity from the dock provides power to the bilge pumps, refrigerators, dehumidifiers, and anything else that needs something that cannot come from batteries.

Anything we can do? Jason asks.

Jose will take care of untying us. You can pull the lines in. He will take care of the fender bumpers once he is aboard and we are far enough away from the pier. Until then, begin to enjoy your sea excursion.

Jose hops back on board; there is no way he could single-handedly push such a large vessel away from the pier. The Marguerite is equipped with side thrusters. They gently push the yacht away from the dock. From inside the pilothouse, Geraldo nudges the boat forward. He then