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The mail was piled neatly on the corner of my desk. Usual stuff. An Easter card miss-sent to the Falkland Islands, a few Christmas cards and a yellow parcel pick-up notice from the Postkantoor. God, I hope it's the engine parts that I ordered half a year ago.
The parcel counter was jammed with people anxiously receiving Christmas packages. The Customs officer was obviously swamped, arguing duty rates. "Bon Pasku, Elies," I said jokingly. He rolled his eyes and placed a package on the counter in front of me. I glanced at the green declaration and saw that it was from Lake View, Colorado, 'contents: personal,' and unwrapped it while Elies watched.
It had been securely wrapped, a rectangle box the size of a pound cake. It appeared tin and was sealed. A dolphin had been embossed on the lid. Elies was reaching for it as another person took his attention and he waved me away. "Bon pasku," and I picked up the box taking my leave.
Back at the hotel I got involved in numerous things, and thinking nothing more about the parcel, I set it on a convenient shelf along with other small boxes of forgotten clutter. I opened the letter that was inside the parcel.
December 17th Sunday early
Lake View, Colorado
Dear Captain Don:
I was a SCUBA student of yours in 1974. You introduced me to a new and exciting way of life and a new, exhilarating attitude that has remained with me until today. Do you recall your telling me that diving was not a sport but a portal into the very essence of life itself and should never be considered anything less than a most personal experience? You used to tell me, always trust your theory, your equipment and above all, your instructor."
I laid the letter on the desk. God, I was tired. Four rather deep dives today, and I was loaded with nitrogen. I opened a desk drawer and removed a regulator attached to a small tank of oxygen. The first couple of breaths always made a sudden difference. In the same drawer was a bottle of Tequila, and I set that out onto the table, thumbed open the cork and picked up the letter.
"My new sport is mountain climbing. I have just passed my 300 vertical rappel and am now preparing for a chimney ascent. I'm really worried. The test takes place in a wide chasm, a little too wide for a short person like myself. My instructor has goaded me into this climb, and frankly I have no confidence in his judgment, not like the days you trained me. Oh, you were a little gruff at times, but you never lost concern for developing my diving skills and above all, my safety."
I raised the bottle, spit out the regulator and took a swallow. Setting the letter down on the desk I picked up the photographs and the magazine clipping that had slipped out of the envelope. I looked at the photos, then at the magazine clipping, trying to remember. Another swallow from the bottle, then I picked up the regulator, shoving it back into my mouth, and looked down at the letter.
"I wanted you to know that I am coming back to Bonaire to dive with you. I have enclosed a clipping of Mountain, a climbers' magazine, something like your Skindiver is for divers, also several photos of myself with the boys- Bruce, Addy, and the other photo is my favorite. It's the only one of us together."
December dusk being sudden, I switched on the desk lamp and scanned the photos with a magnifying glass. The fatigue had passed, and I replaced the regulator but left the Tequila on the desk. Though still early, it was becoming quite dark, squall clouds blocking out the last of the western light.
There had been so many ladies. I lifted the bottle, taking another swallow, corked the bottle and returned it to the drawer. I lifted the letter, not looking at it, just holding it loosely. Then I realized I had been staring at my junk shelf. Hastily, I looked at the letter's heading - Lake View, Colorado.
Moving quickly, I took the box from the shelf. Looking more closely I saw that it was not tin but perhaps silver and tightly soldered shut. The embossment of the dolphin was exquisitely done - the box was no toy - and I returned to the letter.
"You made me climb to the top platform, 12 feet, you said, and do a back flip. Then a 50-foot free assent. Because of my training it was a snap. Everything you taught me seemed so natural. I never knew fear - apprehension, yes - but never fear. I want to dive that place you called Rock Reef 27a. Remember the wall just behind? I always wanted to dive it deep. The terracing down to depth was so beautiful. I have never forgotten it. I want you to take me there again. I loved you and will be with you soonest.
Scubalisticly yours,
Lacy, Diver #37
"Love, Lacy Arnold," ate at the fringe of my memory. I laid the letter on the desk and picked up the photo of the two of us. Yes…Yes, I think I have her - not so tall, very quiet, she was popular with the other guests. So now she's mountain climbing. Oh boy. I was studying the magazine clipping and for whatever reason I glanced up. A chill of unknown magnitude struck me. Prickles raised over my body. Narcoses wafting and I reached for the oxygen in the drawer when I saw her - Lacy, sitting opposite me, her lips a sad smile, she was clad in climbing gear, her hair shorter than in the photo, no make up. Now I remembered her so clearly.
"Lacy!! My God, you scared the hell out of me." I went to the wall switch for more light. "I was just reading your letter. What a fantastic coincidence," and I hit the switch and turned around toward my desk. Both chairs were empty. The letter lay as I had left it. I slumped back against the wall, feeling as if I had been robbed.
At the cliff over 27a I geared up, then reached into my gear box picking up the silver container and gently placed it in a small bag that I hung from my belt, and I moved toward the sea. As the water closed over the top of my head, I started my deep water poem:
"Starkel Starkel little twink, I wonder who the hell I are you think…I'm not incalhal like some thinkel peep I am .for the longer I drunk here the sitter I get..so home me the way to go show."
My ribbon went black and I dropped some more, while chanting, "Starkel, Starkel little twink…."
Capt. Don Stewart (1989)
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