Peter Benchley - The Deep

It’s learning things and doing things right that make it worthwhile, make a man easy with himself. When I was young, nobody could tell me anything. I knew it all. It took a lot of mistakes to teach me that I didn’t know goose shit from tapioca. How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“That’s not young, but it’s not next door to the grave.

You could start now, and spend another forty years learning about the sea without running out of new things to know. That’s the only hitch in learning: it’s humbling. The more you learn, the more you realize how little you know.” Treece drained his glass and stood to refill it. “Anyway, all that’s a long way around saying that it’s crazy to do things just to prove you can do ’em. The more you learn, the more you’ll find yourself doing things you never thought you could do in a million years.”

Sanders nodded. He didn’t know whether Treece’s attitude toward him had changed, or his interpretation of Treece’s attitude had changed. He felt curiously privileged, and he said, “Thank you.”

Treece seemed flustered by the remark. He snapped his fingers and said, “The tanks. I almost forgot. Better get that monster fired up now, or she’ll be chugging away all night.”

Sanders followed him out the door and stood with him while he started the compressor and attached the two scuba tanks.

When they returned to the kitchen, Gail was making herself a drink. Her feet were bare and she wore a cotton bathrobe. Sanders kissed her neck; it smelled of soap.

“You taste good,” he said.

“I feel good, all but my sinuses.”

“Headache?” Treece asked.

“Not a real headache. Up here.” She touched the bones above her eyes. “They feel stuffed up. It hurts to touch them.”

“Aye, they’re abused. Adam’ll dive tomorrow. You can tan yourself.” Treece turned the meat in the frying pan, reached into a bin beneath the sink, and took out an assort-ment of vegetables: beans, cucumbers, squash, onions, and tomatoes. He sliced them over a mixing bowl, added a dose of dressing, and stirred the brew with a fork.

The meat was dark red, almost purple, and it tasted strong.

“Do you hang your beef here?” Gail asked, dipping a piece of meat into the salad dressing, to mellow the flavor.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

“Like it?”

“It’s… interesting.”

“It’s not beef, y’know.”

“Oh?” she said uneasily. “What is it?”

“Goat.” Treece cut a chunk of meat, put it in his mouth, and chewed happily.

“Oh.” Gail’s stomach churned, and she looked at Sanders. He had been about to take a bite of meat, but now his fork was stopped a few inches from his mouth.

He saw her looking at him, and he held his breath, put the meat in his mouth, and swallowed it whole.

After supper, Treece put his plate in the sink and said, “I’m going for a stroll; probably see Kevin for a while. No need for you to wait up.”

“Anything we can do?” Gail asked.

“No. Enjoy yourselves.” He wiped his hands on his pants and took a bottle of rum from the cabinet.

“Kevin drinks palm wine, home brew. Rot your insides faster’n naval jelly.” He clucked at the dog, who was sleeping under the table, and said, “Let’s go.” The dog struggled to her feet, stretched, yawned, and followed Treece out the kitchen door.

When the gate had closed, and the sound of Treece’s footsteps had faded away, Sanders said, “Nice of him.”

“What?”

“To leave us alone.” He reached across the table and took her hand.

She neither withdrew her hand nor responded to his touch. “Treece was married,” she said, and then she told him the story Coffin had told her.

As he listened, Sanders remembered his conversation with Treece, and he realized that what had seemed like friendly advice had been genuine, heartfelt concern, that Treece had been trying to guide him away from a course that he, Treece, had taken and that had deprived him, forever, of the promise of joy.

Realizing this, Sanders felt a cold fear unalloyed by the thrill of adventure.

“I love you,” he said.

She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

“Let’s go to bed.” He rose and put the dishes in the sink, then returned and led her to the bedroom.

For the first time, she was unmoved by his love-making, and after a few moments he stopped trying and said, “What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry… I can’t…” She rolled away from him and faced the wall.

He lay awake for a long time, listening to the chug of the compressor outside. Gradually, the sound of her breathing beside him grew more even, and soon she was breathing in the rhythm of deep sleep.

Sanders’ sexual longing was not pure desire; he felt a need to impress his love upon her, as if to comfort her. But she did not want him-at least did not want what he wanted to give her-and Sanders suddenly found himself annoyed at Treece.

Treece had not told them about his wife, didn’t even know they knew, but somehow he, his past, his grief, had come between them. Sanders knew his annoyance was irrational, but he could not control it.

Finally, he slept. He could not awake at the new sounds that intruded on the still night, the sound of an automobile engine, in different cadence from the compressor motor; the sound of tires crunching on gravel.

It was the wind that woke him in the morning, whistling through the screen and rattling the shutters, blowing straight off the sea and gathering force as it swept over the cliff.

Treece sat in the kitchen, leafing through old papers.

Sanders did not ask if he had found anything new; by now he knew that Treece would speak when he had something to say. So all he said, with a flip of his hand toward the window, was “You were right.”

“Aye. She’s blowing pretty good. But it’s worse up here than below. We’ll be all right.”

Sanders looked at his watch; it was 6:30. “What time do you want to go?”

“Half an hour, forty minutes. If your girl wants to eat, you better rouse her.”

“Okay.” Sanders couldn’t contain his curiosity.

“Anything new?”

“Bits and pieces; nothing that amounts to much. Diaries—Christ, to hear some of those sailors’ myths, you’d think bloody Fort Knox was on every ship that sailed.”

The ride along the south shore was rough. Corsair slammed into quartering seas, lurching and shuddering and leaving a yawing wake; spray flew over the port bow and splashed against the windows. The dog, who had made a futile attempt to ride on the bow, lay in a dry corner of the stern and complained every time her body thudded against the heaving deck.

David and Gail stood in the cockpit beside Treece, bracing themselves against the bulkheads.

“We can dive in this?” Sanders said.

“Sure. It’s all of twenty knots, but we’ll anchor in the lee of the reef and go along the bottom.”

“What if the anchors don’t hold?”

“Then Orange Grove’ll be the owner of a brand-new pile of wreckage.”

When they were abeam of Orange Grove, Treece turned the boat toward shore. Waves crashed on the reef and burst in plumes of foam.

Sanders had expected that, as always, Treece would pick his way carefully through the reefs. Instead, he lingered seaward of the reefs for a few moments, examining the currents and the patterns of the waves, then pushed the throttle forward and aimed for a spot in the first reef.

“Hold tight,” Treece said. “She’s gonna buck.”

The boat lunged toward the line of rocks. Caught in the surge of a wave, the stern swung around to the right; Treece spun the wheel hard right, and the boat straightened. He throttled back for a second or two, then gunned the engine and headed for the second reef.