Ryan Lockwood - Below

That morning, Sturman hadn’t been in such a cheerful mood. He had been restless all week, following the doctor’s orders to stay out of the water for several days following his accident. Nothing a six-pack couldn’t fix, though. He and Steve had begun the evening by wandering over to one of the tourist-friendly bars to knock a few back. While Steve had tried his luck with two younger cougars visiting San Diego for the weekend, Sturman had been his usual brooding self, to the disappointment of the two brunettes. Things had been going remarkably well for Steve. The women were intrigued by his pirate charm until he had gotten buzzed and started talking about the size of his penis, scaring them both away.

Only very adventurous or unintelligent women attracted to the criminal type could stomach Steve’s crude attitude and rough appearance. Steve really wasn’t a bad guy at heart. Just really rough around the edges. It probably didn’t matter anyway—those cougars had been looking for super-virile surfer dudes or soldiers in their early twenties. The old pirate never had a chance.

Steve had been unaffected by the rejection. He had bought Sturman a few more beers before wandering off to hit on some younger tourists. Left to brood on his own, Sturman had started to think about Maria. He told himself that he was saving his friend from being shot down again when he suggested that if they hurried, they could get in a few hours of fishing.

They’d left the bar, grabbed some fried chicken and beer at the store, and walked to the harbor and Sturman’s floating refuge. He didn’t like being around other people when his mood grew sour, especially women, and the boat that served as his home and office was where he went to think. And get drunk.

Sturman dove down several more times and played with the shrimp, but the water was less than seventy degrees and he quickly cooled. He swam around to the stern of the boat and climbed the swim ladder, then stood dripping on the transom, goose bumps covering his wet skin. As he wrung the seawater out of his T-shirt in the moonlight, Steve Black looked down at him from the flying bridge. He was reclined in the padded swivel chair, his long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, listening to music softly playing over the boat’s built-in speakers.

Sturman listened with him for a moment and began to feel a familiar lump creep into his throat. Brooks and Dunn’s rendition of “My Maria” was wafting into the cool night air.

“Mind changing the station, Pop?”

Steve reached to turn the radio dial to a local classic rock station. “Sorry, Will.”

“It’s all right.”

Growing up landlocked, Sturman had always wanted a boat. He had once pictured himself traveling the Caribbean and Mexico in a boat like this one. He had modified the thirty-six-foot fishing boat into a bachelor pad and home business, designed for diving. He had affixed tank holders in the stern and removed the dining table just inside the cabin to offer paying divers plenty of room to sit on the bench seats as he shuttled them to and from dive sites. Maria was a great vessel for a small dive operation that catered to groups of four or five divers, but she wasn’t big enough to live on comfortably. Sure, she had a galley, a head, and decent sleeping quarters in the bow, but she was a lady designed only to spend a weekend with, not for the commitment of moving in together.

Sturman’s needs were simple. He ate out often and worked as much as possible. He could always be seen wearing his old cowboy hat, cargo shorts or old jeans, and a worn T-shirt. Off the boat, when he had to wear shoes, he opted for flip-flops or an old pair of shitkickers.

Sturman looked up at Steve. His friend was out cold.

“We better head in, Pop. I’m not lonely enough yet to sleep with you.”

As Sturman dried off, his friend began to snore, but “My Maria” kept playing in his head and soon he was again melancholy. He climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, now feeling thoroughly chilled and a little more sober in the ocean breeze. As they motored slowly back toward the harbor, he allowed himself to think about her.

When he neared the no-wake zone of the harbor, Sturman eased back on the throttle and climbed down the ladder. He stepped around Steve, who had moved down to the stern and curled up near Bud, out of the wind, and headed into the cabin to find his bottle of rum.

Two Presumed Dead After Fishing Trip

OCEAN “GLOWING” WHERE FATHER, DAUGHTER VANISHED

It was a smaller headline, tucked away in the local section of the Sunday edition of the San Diego daily paper. Slouched on his brown leather couch, Joe sat up as he reread the subhead, focusing on one word in particular:

Glowing .

The kid running immigrants had said something about the water glowing for a moment near his boat, but Joe and the other interrogators had laughed it off. The kid had been drinking, and was probably a liar. They figured he had simply seen the glow of the floating flashlights he said were on the water. Joe read the rest of the brief article.

LA JOLLA, CALIF.—A Claremont Realtor and his 12-year-old daughter were reported missing Saturday night, following an afternoon fishing trip on which they went into the water. Both are presumed dead, although no bodies have been recovered.

Daryl Whittaker and his daughter, Megan, were last seen by family members when they left to go deep-sea fishing with Whittaker’s brother. Police say the brother, John Whittaker, told them in a statement that his brother and niece both fell off his boat while the trio fished for yellowtail. According to the statement, both simply vanished under the surface despite calm conditions. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration reported one-to-two-foot swells and fair weather in the area on Saturday.

“According to Mr. Whittaker, his niece fell into the water while fishing off La Jolla, and her father dove in after her,” said La Jolla Police spokesperson Janet Sharp. “Mr. Whittaker has stated that neither his niece nor brother ever resurfaced, and that the water underneath the vessel was glowing when the pair vanished.”

During the summer months, glowing lights in the Pacific Ocean off Southern California are often reported. The glow is generally seen in the wake of boats at night, due to the presence of bioluminescent plankton that produce light when disturbed.

No charges have yet been filed in the case, but foul play has not been ruled out. Sharp says the Coast Guard and La Jolla Police Department are looking into Whittaker’s story and plan to have boats out today on a search for the missing pair.

Whittaker could not be reached for comment.

Joe lowered the paper onto his lap and leaned his head back into the couch, shutting his eyes. A glow. Could there be any connection here?

Two thoughts occurred to him. First, that the loss of the immigrants last week might not have been an isolated incident. Second, he was starting to realize he should be doing something about this, but it was his day off. He felt the first pang of guilt and threw the paper across the room. This was crazy. His wife was right when she said he tried to bear the weight of the world. What the hell was he supposed to do here?

“What’s the matter, baby?” Elena was in their open kitchen preparing breakfast.

“Nothing, hon.” He forced a smile. “Padres lost again.”

Elena was beating eggs in a large metal bowl. “Why do you care so much? It’s only one game.”

“Only one game? You know how much I love baseball. Better be careful what you say before my morning coffee, lady. Unless you want to be spanked.”

Joe looked back to the article. A little girl. The article said a twelve-year-old girl had gone missing. Joe looked over at Gabby. His daughter was lying on the floor, playing a video game. She wasn’t much older than that. He slid off the couch and crawled up next to her, nudging his shoulder against hers.