Ryan Lockwood - Below

Joe didn’t understand much about the Swedish scientist’s research or his fancy Fathometer, and didn’t really care how it worked. But he was grateful to have him on board, if their success had come because the guy was as good as Val said. Karl had proven his worth when at seven o’clock that night—it was hard to believe considering the way Joe felt, but it was still just their first day out—the Swede had located a shoal of Humboldt squid, less than four miles from where the yacht passengers had disappeared.

“So we sent down some sort of device to like five hundred feet, and used it to predict the prevailing underwater current,” Joe said. “Then we reeled that thing back in and Dr. Martell did some calculations before we started our search in the area where they predicted the shoal to be. Technical stuff. Way over my head.”

“And mine. Sounds like you’re with some pretty smart people.”

“They know their stuff. I was pretty disappointed when I looked at the screen of their depth finder, though. It was just noise. You know how when we’ve seen fish on a depth finder they look like pretty obvious dark spots? Well, when we found the squid, they looked to me like vomit. Just a bunch of scattered color. Actually, it made me run out and puke again.”

“I’m sorry, baby. You really shouldn’t be out there.”

“I know. Anyway, this Swedish guy seems certain we’re looking at Humboldt squid.”

All afternoon, the sea had taken advantage of the Centaur ’s exposed flank as it tracked the shoal, pitching the boat wildly in all directions. Joe had been forced to remain outside to stare at the horizon and try to suppress his sickness. As the sea began to settle over the last few hours on the lee northeast side of the island, Val had come out after a while and given him the details. There was a large shoal, possibly the one they were seeking, eight hundred feet below the surface.

By eight o’clock at night, the shoal began to rise and everyone went into action. Except Joe, who had no role. So he’d called his wife.

“So how will you capture them?” Elena was almost certainly not interested in their methods, but Joe appreciated her efforts to pretend she was.

He laughed. “ I’m not capturing anything, hon. These fishermen from Monterey Bay are using their net to catch ’em. Apparently Japanese and Kiwi fishermen both use these special jigging boats to catch bigger squid, but there’s nothing available like that around here. So we’re using a good old-fashioned net.”

“But how will they get the squid to go into the net?”

“Using lights. Our plan’s pretty simple, really, but apparently nobody has ever tried to catch Humboldt squid like this.”

“Like how?”

“We’ll use bright lights to lure in the shoal, then try to net as many squid as we can, the same way they gather up those little market squid in Monterey. They send out a skiff to wrap the net around the squid, and then they attach the end of the net to a motor and pull it in with the squid inside. They plan to just keep the squid in the net until they die from too much oxygen or something. I don’t understand all the science.”

“Market squid are my favorite. Do those fishermen have any on board now? Can you bring us home some calamari?”

He chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“So what’s your job, baby?”

“I’m just here to observe. The token cop. I feel like hell anyway, so I’ll just stay out of their way.”

“Is Will with you?”

“No, he… he had some things he needed to take care of. It’s just me, Dr. Martell, this other squid researcher, and the fishermen. The captain’s a real nut job.”

“Well, you be safe. When you get back, I’ll make you my paella.”

The thought of seafood roiled Joe’s stomach. “Yeah. That sounds great, baby. Tell the girls I love them. I’ll see you soon.”

As Joe zipped the phone into a pocket, Val walked out onto the deck.

“Was that your family?” she asked.

“Yeah. My wife. Didn’t get to talk to my girls, though.”

“You miss them?”

“All the time. Older one’s really becoming a woman, which isn’t easy on her mother… or me. And our fifteen-year-old is really having a hard time being a teenager. They’re so different.... Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was just thinking that you seem to be feeling better. You look better, Joe.”

“Like hell I do. You’re smiling like a car salesman. What do you want?”

“We need you to do us a small favor.”

The sea had grown very dark. The dim light of the crescent moon did little to illuminate the ocean, in part because of the thickening marine layer that was trying to reform into a foggy mist off Southern California.

Joe stood unsteadily on deck, looking through the viewfinder of the digital camcorder. The rusty metal of the well-worn seiner contrasted sharply with the smooth surface of the ocean. He leaned out over the side with the camera to get footage of the tiny, barnacle-encrusted skiff tied alongside, which the captain had just lowered from a huge metal boom into the water.

“Soon one of the deckhands will board this skiff to run out the lead end of an enormous purse net.” Joe couldn’t resist narrating when the camera was rolling.

He had reluctantly agreed to assist the researchers by documenting the entire netting operation using the small video camera after Val had explained to him that everyone else had jobs to do. The filming was important not only from a scientific standpoint but also from a PR standpoint, since the rare footage could likely be sold for use in nature documentaries. Joe didn’t want to do anything other than try to avoid being sick in the stern of the vessel, but at least the job they had assigned him would allow him to stay outside, with fresh air and plenty of room to get sick.

The captain had now fired up the boat’s assemblage of glaring halogen lights, intended to attract the squid underneath like moths to a flame. On the brightly lit deck, Joe turned to film the wiry Latino deckhand as he ran around checking the net rigging with the other, bigger fisherman. Joe didn’t narrate because he had no idea what the rigging was called. The net and its various yellow floats and lines were stacked in the stern below the boom, near something that looked kind of like a huge spool with a motor. Joe figured when the deckhand was done here it would really be showtime.

Apparently the guy was going to hop into the skiff and, towing the lead end of the gigantic net, trace a circle a few thousand feet in circumference around the squid gathered under the main vessel and its lights. Once the net had been run out, he would return to the Centaur to complete the loop. Joe would film the action as the net was deployed, creating an underwater curtain that extended two hundred feet down and then was cinched closed at the bottom like the drawstring on a cloth purse. At that point the fishermen would slowly draw the net in at the top and sides until their catch was condensed in a much smaller space near the vessel. Joe figured that the best footage would come later, when you could actually see the squid.

“Dr. Martell says that the purse seine net we’re using is normally deployed to encircle a school of small market squid. The fishermen suck the catch up out of the net using an enormous vacuum.” Joe laughed. “I want to see if they have a vacuum that can suck a hundred-pound squid up out of the water.” He didn’t think it was a good idea for the skinny young deckhand to be in a tiny, unstable boat floating over a net filled with angry squid. When he had expressed his concern to the captain, the man had just laughed.

Joe was a little concerned that the guy had spent too much time at sea, especially since he frequently hummed to himself. He stopped humming now as he approached Joe in the stern of the vessel.