On the Bottom
There were three wooden cases stored in the full-length closet in the
houseboat cabin. Rick and Scotty took the two bulkiest to the cockpit
and opened them to disclose full skin-diving equipment. The boys had
made the cases themselves, to be carried like suitcases. Each held a
single air tank, regulator, mask, fins, snorkel, underwater watch, depth
gauge, weight belt, equipment belt, and knife. The third case contained
spears and spear guns, but they wouldn't need those in searching for the
object that had splashed near the houseboat.
While Rick checked the equipment, made sure there was sufficient air in
the tanks, and put on the regulators, Scotty searched for a heavy stake
and something with which to drive it. He found a sledge hammer in
Steve's workshop. At the edge of the woods was a pile of saplings that
had been cut to make a fence. He chose a sapling that would serve as a
stake and took it back to the boat.
One of the spare lines that the houseboat carried was quarter-inch
nylon. Scotty fastened one end of the small rope to the sapling, about
halfway up, and secured it with a timber hitch. Then he wound the rope
on the sapling as smoothly as possible.
Rick finished checking the equipment and announced that he was ready.
"Same here," Scotty replied. "Let's get into swim trunks."
As the two changed, Rick asked, "Suppose we find something, but can't
get it up without help? How do we mark the place?"
Scotty paused. Normally they would simply attach a line to a float and
secure the float to the object. But a float would attract attention.
"Take bearings?"
Rick shook his head. "The boat will be swinging at anchor. It might be
hard to get good bearings. Would a piece of fish line work? We could tie
it to the object, carry it to the shore, and secure it to something
underwater. The line would sink. Later, we could just drag until we
caught the line."
"It would work," Scotty agreed. "There's a new spool of heavy line on
the shelf in the closet. Fifty yards. That should do."
"Especially since the most we would need is fifty feet," Rick agreed.
"I'll stick it in a belt pocket, just in case."
Back on deck, Rick started the houseboat's outboard motors and listened
critically. They were operating smoothly. Scotty walked up the pier and
untied the bowline. At Rick's signal, he stepped aboard on the foredeck,
bringing the line with him. Rick cast off the stern line, pushed the
houseboat away from the pier, then put the motors in gear.
The trip to Swamp Creek was a familiar one now. Rick cut corners,
knowing he had enough water under the keel, heading directly for the
creek entrance. Scotty came back to the cockpit and joined him.
"Do you suppose Orvil Harris will be around?"
Rick shrugged. "It's pretty late for a crabber. He's probably gone by
now."
"I wonder if he'll ever see any flying stingarees come out of the
creek."
Rick shook his head. "Most of the sightings are in the late morning or
late afternoon. Only a couple were around dawn."
While the houseboat moved across the Little Choptank, Scotty checked the
tide tables. He reported that the tide was coming in. It was about one
hour from high tide. Rick had been studying the chart. "No problem," he
said. "Mean low water averages four feet in the cove, with seven feet in
the middle. Think your stake will be long enough?"
Scotty had placed the sapling with its winding of rope on the cabin top.
He estimated its length again. "Depends on how deep the mud is. If it's
more than three feet, the top of the stake will be under water."
"Three feet is a lot of mud," Rick said. "It's likely a lot less than
that."
He turned into the creek mouth, throttling back. It would be hard to
anchor precisely where the houseboat had been anchored that first night,
but he was sure they could find the spot within twenty feet. Scotty went
up on the bow and got the anchor ready.
"Use about thirty feet of line," Rick called. He took the houseboat to
the exact center of the cove, as closely as he could estimate, then put
the motors in reverse to kill the speed. When it fell to zero, he yelled
to Scotty. Scotty lowered the anchor and made it fast, then hurried back
to join Rick, who backed off until he felt the anchor dig in.
It was silent in the cove with the motors off. "I'll start," Rick
offered, and at Scotty's nod he picked up his Scuba and slipped into the
harness. His weight belt was next, then his fins. Finally he slipped the
mask strap over his head, and put the mouthpiece in place. He took a
couple of breaths to make sure he was getting air, then walked to the
edge of the cockpit and fell backward into the water, letting his tank
take the shock of landing. He slipped the mask off, took the mouthpiece
out, and spat into the mask to prevent fogging, then he rinsed it, put
it on, and replaced the mouthpiece.
Scotty had taken the sapling from the cabin top. He handed it to Rick,
who dove with it, thrusting the sharpened end into the mud far enough so
that the sapling stayed in place.
Rick surfaced again and swam to the boat, which had drifted a few feet.
Catching the leg of one motor, he pulled the boat back to where the
sapling projected above the surface. He held the boat in position while
Scotty took the sledge and drove the sapling down until its top was only
a few inches above the water. Rick tested the pole. It was firm.
He removed the mouthpiece, treading water. "Looks okay. I'm going to
start."
"Good luck," Scotty called.
Rick submerged and swam down, using the pole as a guide. The rope,
attached to the pole, was perhaps two feet above the bottom. He freed
the end of the rope, unwound a few feet, slipped the end through his
belt, and secured it with a slip knot. Then, hands extended, he began
the slow work of covering the cove bottom inch by inch, searching for
the thing that had splashed.
The boy swam in an ever-widening circle, the rope unwinding from the
sapling as he moved. The unwinding of the line, which he kept taut,
ensured that he would cover new ground each time he rounded the pole,
but without missing any. He couldn't see, because his hands stirred up
mud as he traveled. Only his sense of touch told him what was on the
bottom. He wasn't afraid of grabbing a crab or an eel. All underwater
creatures with any mobility at all get out of the way as fast as
possible. He knew the compression wave caused by his movement would warn
all living creatures.
His groping hands identified various pieces of wood, all natural, and
assorted other objects including an old tire. There were cans, some of
them food tins that had been opened, and some beverage cans,
recognizable because of their triangular openings. Once he found a
section of fishing pole.
It was a long, tedious job. The world closed in on Rick and there was
only the murk outside his mask and the rhythmic sound of his own
breathing. Only his hands, constantly probing the mud, were in touch
with reality. He lost all sense of time. Once, to see how much ground he
had covered, he pulled himself to the pole by the line, estimating his
distance. He was about fifteen feet from his starting point. He returned
to the full extent of the line and started the round again, after
looking at his watch. He had to hold it close to see the dial through
the murk. He had been down only twenty minutes, although the time seemed
much longer.
Ten minutes later his hand swept over something smooth. Instantly he
turned in toward the pole, and swam back around the circle for perhaps
ten feet. Then, covering the ground again by crawling along the bottom,
he felt for the object. His fingers touched it. His first impression was
of something cylindrical, but he made no attempt to pick it up. He
needed to explore it thoroughly, first. His breathing was faster, and he
knew his pulse had accelerated at the moment of discovery. If this
continued, he would use air too fast. He willed himself to slow his
breathing, and for a few seconds he stopped altogether.
In that instant, Rick heard a slap on the water, then another. He
waited, holding his breath. There was a pause, then more gentle slaps.
He counted them.
One, two, three, four--the signal for danger!
He and Scotty had long ago agreed that four sounds underwater would be
the danger signal. He reacted instantly. The fishing line was in a
pocket on his equipment belt. He took it out and pulled line from the
spool. Then, probing deeply with one hand, he pushed the line under the
smooth object, reached across and down with the other hand. When his
hands met, he passed the line from one to the other and pulled the line
through. Now it was around the object. He tied the line quickly, then
rolled over on his back and looked upward at the surface. He could gauge
the position of the sun, even though he could see no details. Using the
rays filtering through the murk as a guide, he oriented himself.
"Which bank?" He thought quickly. Danger could only come from the
mansion, and that was on the south bank. He turned and swam north, going
slowly, paying out line from the spool. Now that he was traveling in a
straight line, he covered the bottom quickly, and in less than a minute
he was in shallow water. He stopped, afraid that his tank would show
above the surface.
It was clearer in the shallows. He made out the line of a branch, or
root of some kind that thrust its way through the surface. It would
serve. Quickly he passed the spool around it and made a knot, then he
pushed the spool itself into the mud and turned.
Now to find the boat again. Cruising slowly, he headed in the general
direction, rising slightly as he swam. Finally, he found the boat by its
shadow and swam under it to the stern. Again orienting himself by the
sun, he made sure that the boat would be between him and the south bank.
He surfaced and pulled off his mask.
Scotty was swabbing the deck of the cockpit as casually as though
trouble was the last thing on his mind. Rick wondered briefly if he had
imagined the danger signal, or had mistaken some other sound for a
signal. Then Scotty hailed him.
"Where are all the clams?"
Rick's mind raced. Obviously someone was listening. Was the someone on
the boat, or ashore?
"I only found one," he called back. "I don't believe there are enough in
this cove to bother about, no matter what those fishermen said."
"Did you dig deep enough?" Scotty asked.
"As deep as I could without a shovel. The mud is two feet thick down
there."
"Well, you might as well come aboard. I guess if we're going to have
clam chowder, we'll have to buy clams from a commercial boat."
Scotty wouldn't invite him aboard if there was any danger, Rick knew. He
accepted the hand Scotty held down and got aboard.
He surveyed the situation quickly. There was no sign of any danger.
"Pretty murky down there?" Scotty asked.
"Like swimming in ink."
"We'll try again out in deep water. It should be clear near the river
mouth."
"Suits me," Rick said. "I never did think we'd find clams in this cove.
The mano boats dredge in deeper water than this."
"Maybe the fishermen didn't want us stirring things up where they clam.
Come on in and I'll fix you some coffee. I made it while you were down
below."
"Okay."
Once inside the cabin, Scotty said softly, "Two men. On the shore. One
is the bodyguard. I've never seen the other one before. Both of them
have rifles."
Rick considered. "They couldn't possibly know the thing--whatever it
is--dropped in the water here. Or could they?"
"I don't know. Anyway, they're suspicious. Did you find anything?"
"Just as you signaled. How did you signal, by the way?"
"With the mop pail. Four taps with the bottom on the water surface. Then
I filled the pail and began swabbing down."
Rick nodded. "I don't know what I found. A cylinder, maybe two inches in
diameter, maybe less. Smooth. I got the fish line around it and carried
the line to the shore. We'll have to come back later."
"We certainly will." Scotty's eyes sparkled. "But for now, let's up
anchor and get out of here."
"How about the stake with the rope on it?"
"The tide's still coming in. It will be completely under the water at
high tide. We'll have to avoid it, and warn Harris if we don't get back
tonight."
An idea was beginning to form in Rick's mind. "Okay," he said. "Let's
get going."
Within minutes the houseboat was on its way out of the cove, the two
boys acting normally, as though no one was observing their departure.
Rick saw no one on shore, and not until they were sunward from the cove
entrance did he see the sparkle of sunlight on binocular lenses. Scotty
had been right, as usual.