Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - The Silence of the Sea

He made a half-hearted effort to drag the container away from the side, but although the open door stirred a little, the rest did not budge. It would take a stronger man than him – a team of men, more like. He had nothing to brace against either, which rendered his effort pitifully feeble. At the second attempt he put more of his strength into it, but the result was the same, the door flapping slightly but the rest not shifting so much as a centimetre away from the hull. It didn’t help that he had to hold onto the torch at the same time, but he didn’t dare search for a fastening on his belt to which he could attach it. All his attention was fixed on avoiding the sharp metal edges of the crate.

Then, out of the blue, he had a brainwave that was both simple and obvious. If he opened the other door, the container would fill with water and the air that was holding it afloat would disperse. Then the bugger should sink and they would be able to continue on their way. The only difficulty might lie in unfastening the bolts, especially if they had warped. He would have to dive down to the handle in the middle of the door and undo the catches on the locking bars. The task shouldn’t be beyond him, but Ægir couldn’t work out how he was to achieve it with one hand while the other was occupied with holding him steady. He was still too terrified of being sucked inside to let go for a moment. As it was, his grip on the door would be weakened by having to clamp the torch under one arm.

He would just have to work it out as he went along. Deflating his buoyancy compensator a little, he descended until he reached the handle, which fortunately looked in fairly good shape. Then he gripped the torch under his arm and hung on for dear life to the side of the door. His feet drifted slowly into the black aperture and he kicked with all his might to pull them out. To prevent this from happening again, he took the time to adjust his position until he could press his body against the closed door. That way he would be supported by the metal while he worked.

It was a struggle to turn the lever one-handed, without the advantage of body weight. The muscles of his upper arms ached, already sore from wielding the poles earlier that morning. He felt as if that had been hours ago, if not yesterday, but then every minute of the dive was like an hour on the surface. Taking a deep breath, he exerted all his strength. The handle screeched and to his wild elation it yielded and turned all the way. He had managed to unlock the door. But his joy was short-lived and his mind and body froze at the sudden realisation that the container might sink before he managed to swim clear. The door would fly open and the wreckage would plunge into the depths, taking him with it, screaming into his mouthpiece. In desperation, Ægir shoved himself off as hard as he could and eventually felt reassured that nothing of the kind was going to happen. His fear had probably been unnecessary, but it had opened his eyes to the potential hazard.

He swam cautiously back and pressed his body against the door. He tried to tug it towards him but no matter how hard he strained, nothing worked. The resistance of the water and weight of the door made it impossible for him to budge it. There was no point continuing; he was quite simply incapable of achieving the feat on his own. But disappointment was a luxury he could not afford. He must finish the task he had undertaken; even if he couldn’t free the container from the hull, he still had to ascertain whether it would be safe to set the yacht in motion again. To do so, he would have to swim along and underneath the keel.

Ægir checked his pressure gauge and saw that it registered over a hundred bars, but all that told him was that he was fifty bars away from the needle dipping into the red, at which point he had to return to the surface. He shook inwardly with idiotic laughter at the thought that he hadn’t a clue what the figures meant. The fact that he was no longer conscious of the cold – hardly a good sign – filled him with even more mirth. But if he laughed aloud he would spit out the mouthpiece and drown, and this had the effect of sobering him. He deflated his BCD again and sank deeper. There was no point wasting time; the sooner he swam underneath, the sooner he would be restored to his family and his proper element.

The idea of swimming on his back struck him as most appealing because that way he would be able to look up and wouldn’t risk catching his air cylinder on the bottom of the container, but he wasn’t sure it would be physically possible. To be on the safe side, he descended further than necessary; he had no desire to go down this deep but it would at least mean he was further from the dangers above. His ears popped and he pinched his nose to relieve the pressure. Sore ears would be a small price to pay compared to what he faced now, but he would still rather avoid the ill-effects. He wanted nothing to spoil his euphoria once he was safely back on board.

In the event, the air tank turned out to be too heavy. Despite all his efforts to swim on his back, he kept rolling over and losing control. He would have to reconcile himself to gliding along on his stomach, looking up at regular intervals to examine the keel for damage. Every time he did glance up, the adrenaline pumped through his veins at the realisation that he was rising ever higher and closer to the container. But by concentrating on swimming a little deeper, he managed to steer clear of it.

All of a sudden he jerked to a halt. At first he thought he had been run through by a steel spar or sharp splinter of wood and flung out his limbs, unable to control himself. He floated upwards in the commotion, breathing rapidly, unable to see for the bubbles all around him. When his air cylinder bumped into the container he froze momentarily before managing to get a grip on himself. The realisation that he was still holding the torch brought him to his senses and he worked out that the reason for his abrupt halt had been the tightening of the line around his waist. So he hadn’t gone completely mad. With unsteady fingers, he transferred the torch to his left hand and used it to fend himself off while he fumbled at his waist with his right hand. The lifeline was taut, which meant either that they wanted him to come up or that it had entangled with some impediment on the way.

Clearly, he could go no further. One option would be to unfasten himself from the line and continue without it, but it would be difficult to swim back against the current. If the men on deck didn’t spot him, he might drift away and never be found again. It was out of the question. Life was too precious – both his own and the lives of his family. Who gave a damn what the others thought of his performance? Just let them try and do better themselves. He craned his neck as far as he could to peer into the distance. The beam couldn’t penetrate the murky water, yet he glimpsed what looked like the end of the container and darkness beyond it, which meant that he had in fact made it all the way. This cheered him a little. Now no one could find fault with his attempt to solve the problem. The thought lent him courage and he decided to try to ease the container away from the hull from underneath. Swimming to a point he guessed was somewhere near the middle, he positioned himself so that he could brace against the ship’s keel and then pull at the lower edge of the crate with all his might.

He trapped the torch between his thighs and bent double so that his feet were on the keel and his hands clamped around the edge of the container. Then he tried to straighten out his body while pushing against the metal, but the wreckage still wouldn’t budge. His further attempts produced nothing but a dawning sense of surprise at his own determination. He had forgotten everything else in the struggle but reality returned with a jolt when he finally abandoned the endeavour. His sense of time was muddled; he hadn’t a clue how long he had been wrestling with the crate or how many minutes he had been underwater. His pressure gauge registered sixty bars and he felt a sickening stab of fear. He had probably used up too much oxygen and would have to return to the surface immediately. As calmly as he could, he turned and began to battle against the current, grateful now to have the container overhead since it made his progress easier. But the torch was a nuisance as he really needed both hands free, so he tried to tie it to his belt in such a way that it would shine upwards. That way he would still be able to see but would be in a position to grab any available handhold on the bottom of the container.