15 Minutes to Live

By Vincent Tanner

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 about Andy Warhol, nor is it 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.

It is just one-quarter of an hour, fifteen short minutes, 900 seconds, 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 distinguished people deal with fifteen minutes. These are not the best fifteen minutes of their lives; it is their last fifteen minutes.

The question to you is--What would you do with your one-quarter hour, your fifteen minutes, your 900 seconds? What would you be thinking? What would run through your mind if you knew for certain that you had only --

Fifteen Minutes to Live?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662475283

Book preview

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