Ryan Lockwood - Below

“Think the squid might be here, too?” Sturman asked.

“I don’t know. Hopefully we’ll find out soon.”

“You got that GPS transmitter ready?”

Val picked up the object next to her, which looked like a karaoke microphone with an orange bulb on top, from which protruded a short antenna. Inside was a GPS transmitter designed to allow satellite tracking of both cartographic location and depth. The plan was to tag a member of the shoal, then track the shoal’s movements based on the signal from the transmitter, to determine if it might be posing a threat. She set the device back down to focus on her fishing pole.

“I turned it on earlier, and the seal looks good. We just need somewhere to put it now.”

If they ever landed a squid, they would affix the transmitter to the squid’s fin and then get the animal back into the water as fast as they could to maximize its chances of survival.

They both stood holding the fishing rods, waiting. In the quiet night, Val could feel excitement and anticipation building inside her, although she knew their chances were slim. After a few minutes, Sturman broke the silence.

“So why are these things attracted to light, anyway? Aren’t they more comfortable in the dark?”

“Their eyes are actually very sensitive to light, but when the water is lit up at night it’s their powerful eyes that allow us to attract them. The lights shine off of small fish, plankton, and other smaller sea life, which draws the shoal up to the surface. Humboldts can detect this light from—”

Val’s pole bent downward in a violent arc. She jerked back on the line and began to reel. “I’ve got something! Whatever’s on here, it’s big.”

“You got it? Can you handle it?”

“Just reel in the other lines. I don’t want to get everything tangled.”

Val began to regret her decision not to accept his help as she fought the adversary on the other end of the line, but she stubbornly reeled as her arms and shoulders ached and then began to burn.

After fifteen minutes, before Val’s lure became visible near the surface, Sturman stepped over to help her after he had secured the other poles. He stood over her, gaff in hand. Val noticed as she leaned back to pull on the line that the expression under the hat had changed. Sturman’s narrow eyes and flared nostrils said one thing: aggression. He probably wanted to kill one of these squid, or all of them, and she couldn’t really blame him. She knew that nothing these animals ever did was personal, they were just trying to survive. But she knew how it felt to lose someone you cared for.

When the thrashing silver animal reached the surface, she was almost relieved it wasn’t actually a member of the shoal.

“Tuna,” Sturman said as she fought the fish to the side of the boat. He sounded as disappointed as she felt.

“Yeah.” Val grunted as the big fish tugged on the line. “Albacore.”

“Good thing I’ve got a license.” Sturman leaned toward the surface of the water with the gaff.

“Sturman, these tuna stocks are suffering. Do you really need it?”

He looked at the tuna as it rested beside the boat, protesting with an occasional thrash of its weakening tail. After a moment, Sturman withdrew the gaff and pushed it up under the gunwale. With a long fillet knife, he severed the line in one quick motion. The tuna disappeared into the dark water in a final flash of silvery scales.

Sturman sat down and looked at Val.

“I guess you’re right, Doc. I probably shouldn’t be keeping those big fish. It’s almost more surprising to catch one of these tuna than to catch one of your squid, and they don’t even belong here. I don’t see many sizeable fish around the coast anymore.”

“Which is why people shouldn’t be fishing for them right now. The governments of the world have always been too lenient with their catch limits, especially for commercial fisheries. So it’s not just happening here. Stocks of big fish have plummeted all over the world in the past several decades, mostly due to overfishing. In fact, that may be one reason this shoal is managing to survive here—these squid don’t have much competition, and there are few predators around to hunt them.”

Sturman glanced at his watch. “Well, what do you think?”

“It’s probably past three o’clock in the morning, right?”

“Three-thirty.”

“We might as well call it a night. I just wish we had a better way to find these guys.”

“This works for you in Baja?”

“Yeah, but down there, there are millions more squid. The odds are a lot better there. This was only our first attempt.”

“You sure there’s no way to track these bastards using the tags already on the squid?”

“I’m not even sure there are other tags in this shoal, but even if there are, there isn’t any way to track them. Unless…”

“What?”

“Well, it’s a long shot. While we can’t actually track these tags, I might be able to predict where the shoal is headed.”

“You’ve got my attention.”

“If I can acquire recent surface water temperature maps of the ocean off Southern California, and maybe some accurate bathymetry charts, I might be able to somehow map out where the squid have been by correlating the chart data to the data from the tag we already have… and maybe figure out where they might be now.”

“How long will that take?”

“Depends on how long it takes to get maps. But I might be able to put something together tomorrow before we head out again.”

“I meant to talk to you about that. Steve’s funeral is Wednesday morning. I won’t be able to make it out tomorrow night.”

Val remembered again what Sturman was going through and felt a sudden urge to hug him despite hardly knowing him, but resisted the temptation. His demeanor made it clear he didn’t want sympathy. This man had clearly spent some time building walls around himself, long before he’d lost his friend.

“Don’t worry about this job, Sturman. It can wait for a few days.” She smiled. “In this job, I’ve always got something to do.”

“I appreciate it, Doc. About my friend Steve… do you think maybe you can talk to the coroner? Maybe you can help.”

“Absolutely. Just get me the phone number.”

The funeral had been a tough one, even for Sturman.

There was a motley group in attendance, which wasn’t surprising considering the company Steve Black had kept. The old pirate had never married, so his family was made up mostly of members of his motorcycle club, plus a few other dive captains and an assortment of bar buddies. Despite the odd collection of friends, it was obvious how deeply Steve’s death had affected the people who knew him.

After the preacher had said the final words, everyone had headed off to The Lighthouse. Where else? Sturman knew Steve would have wanted a lively wake in his second home, and the unashamed drunk would have rolled over in his grave if alcohol hadn’t been involved. Everyone’s spirits had changed after the service had ended, many people beginning to smile through their tears.

Sturman had been drinking a few in memory of his old friend, but not as much as he usually did—he didn’t want to make a scene. He was standing next to the pool tables at The Lighthouse with Steve’s younger brother, listening to the others gathered there tell stories about the friend they’d lost. The old man had led a pretty colorful life.

“Want another shot at the title?” Sturman grinned at Cody Black. He’d just beaten him at eight ball for the third time.

“You’re gettin’ cocky, brother. Time for you to go down.”

“Rack ’em.”

Cody, a shorter, bearded version of Steve, gathered the billiard balls into the triangular rack and carefully lifted it away. As Sturman leaned forward to break, Cody muttered a curse under his breath.