Return of the Calusa

It grew windy, with flat bottomed clouds visibly moving and covering the sun completely. The darkened water showed white cap spots, small and short but everywhere, and those were our usual signals to pull the dive plane in and head for the marina. We’re about three miles outside Tampa Bay, just past Egmont Key, and we’d started our search late after encountering the Coast Guard vessel delivering its warning. We were not expecting to find anything today, and we got what we wished for.

The flat-bottoms that had seemingly followed us all the way in from the bay began to dump their payload as soon as we tied up to the dock. Patient but heavy droplets were now enthusiastically hitting the corrugated tin covering the marina boat slips. It was loud, so there was little discussion between my stepfather Paul and I as we unloaded and stowed gear.

An old white and rust Ford pickup truck spewing smoke chugged past the boat store and approached the entrance gate to our boat slip. It turned and parked, dousing its headlights. There it sat, with whoever was driving facing us directly.

Weary of yet another group interested in what we were doing, I watched the truck while I was rinsing the gear on the dock. As I was drying fins, masks and regulators, a sudden feeling of familiarity came in through the roof clatter. It was clear as water in the keys, a picture in my head of me walking over to that strange truck; and before I could mention to Paul I was going over to see who was there, I found myself outside the gate and standing in the rain on the drivers side. I could see the shadow of the driver reach down to the bottom of the door and turn the knob. The window rolled down slowly, in increments. A waft of old truck smell drifted out and into the moist air.

“Chehuntamo, Soars with Dolphins,” the driver said.

I gave the ancient looking man a nod. There’s only one set of people in this world who have not messed this name up so far, and it’s the ones who gave it to me: the descendants of the Calusa Indians, Cypress Osceola and his son. It was the son driving. His father gave me that name on my first visit to their house, seeking advice on all the unusual things happening to us in the area of our search. After the father heard that dolphins swam alongside the dive plane while I was underwater flying, he gave me that name. I’m proud of that name, no matter what anyone or any other kid says.

The truck and its passengers, any other day, would be out-of-place here in a modern marina parking lot, surrounded by expensive boats made using fiberglass and other advanced materials. If not for today’s weather forecast, the parking lot would have been scattered with assorted newer cars and trucks, which would make the old Ford truck stick out even further than our green, wood paneled station wagon used to. But here, while the gray chilly rain thumps a vacant lot, it seemed perfectly natural. A slow, cascading sound of deep thunder rolled from behind the dark clouds, like some kind of sound effect. It seemed natural too.

“My father thought it extremely important to speak to you,” the son said, then was partially interrupted by the father speaking native tongue. “He says he’s glad we found you here and alive.”

Why is everyone always surprised I’m still alive except me? “Am I not supposed to be?” I said aloud.

The father then spoke quickly, more rapid than I’d heard before. “Forgive me,” the son said. “My father likes to speak in the old tongue, and I sometimes translate what he says in the wrong order. He meant to say he’s pleased it is you and not something else.”

Something else. At least that’s a little better than “still alive.” I think.

“It’s me… at least the last time I checked it was,” I replied, exploring my wet face and ending with a slight Three Stooges under chin wave. The father gave a big, ancient smile and chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that was actually pleasant if not a little relieving to hear. They’ve come to crack some jokes and check on that dumb kid, that’s all. Who could blame them? I showed up at their house out in the middle of nowhere with some wacky stories and an old statue. They just want to check and make sure they didn’t help drown the kid with their advice.

“We also wanted to find out what happened to the shapeshifter carving you showed us not long ago,” the son said.

I told them we had returned it to the bottom of the ocean, in the exact spot where we found it, at their advice. Doing that was supposed to stop the odd things that were happening at our search site. Nothing has happened since, if you don’t count the Coast Guard vessel stalling out earlier today.

They spoke to each other again in native language while I stood outside the truck slowly getting drenched. Water was dripping off my nose, and I tasted it to see if it was salty, just out of habit.

“Have you seen the living shapeshifter since then?” the son asked.

Okay, translation issues or not, no one had mentioned a living shapeshifter up to this point.

So I had to think a minute about that one, essentially using my own translation of what they might mean. Something in the area outside the bay where we were searching that was unusual or not right. I’ve continually seen shadows in the water, but to me that was mostly due to those leftover mind images you have after something really phenomenal happens to you, like having a massive, dark hammerhead shark pass you underwater within a few inches without mauling you.

I couldn’t recall anything remarkable happening since we re-buried the half human, half shark carving under the rocks with the two grouper watching… wait. Once when Paul and I were pulling a load from the bottom, I thought I saw something in the distance underwater, a long shadow moving just outside of visibility, but I had brushed it off at the time and chalked it up to leftover images that haven’t gone away. Maybe, just like ghosts in the same house, the shark hadn’t gone away either.

“If you mean the hammerhead shark, we haven’t seen him,” I finally said. “I figured he was satisfied and moved on to do whatever sharks usually do… so are you saying you think the hammerhead is a shapeshifter?” It sounded even more outrageous when said aloud.

“Since the time of your visit, my father has met with other elders in the area,” the son said. “They have taken your experience seriously. They believe the shape shifter may be the father of all creation, or the mother of all tribal peoples. Protector of the purity of the spirit. Ready to shed blood to protect the people, the land, the customs and the religion.” He paused, waiting for his father to interrupt again. He did not.

Another deep thunder roll drummed from the clouds. The clacking rain sound from the Ford’s roof stayed even.

I glanced around and again noticed the parking lot was empty, as was the front of the marine store. No one is dumb enough to stand out in the rain, with the exception of the one who soars with the dolphins; the same one who, apparently, now needs a protector himself from all things that can go wild. But this encounter with my two ancient friends still feels familiar, just like having the notion of walking over to see a strange truck before discovering that I’d already approached it.

I glanced back to the marina slip, where the Topaz Beetle was moored. Paul had stopped what he was doing to watch me from under the covered dock. When I looked back to the Ford’s driver’s window, the son was staring at the rain on the windshield. It was the father who was leaning over, intently watching me, gauging reaction. He was looking to see how seriously I was taking this. So I leaned forward and posed my question to him directly.

“So why drive all the way here to tell me this?”

His response came slowly, methodically, in his thick English so as to not get lost in translation: “Because we think you may be… in danger.”

The son spoke native back to the father and there was a discussion. It reminded me of the few occasions when Paul and I would disagree, and those only happened when I thought something we were doing was too risky or dangerous, even by our astonishingly high threshold of what was considered risky.

“The elders believe that long ago, when the protector of the tribe realized it had failed, it transformed itself and has not returned to the land or the people,” said the son. “They say that now it wants to return, to protect again, and keep the tribe from being lost again.”

“I’m missing the dangerous part,” I said, a little snippy but now it’s getting cold.

The son answered. “The Calusa believe people have three souls: one in their shadow, one in their reflection in the water, and one in the pupil of the eye. If the shapeshifter is able to capture one of these from a living person, it can possibly perform… a transference.”

I again tasted the rainwater dripping down my nose. Now it was salty. Maybe from sweat. “You mean intentionally switching places with a human?”

“That is what we believe,” said the father.

Another familiar feeling seeped in, with a picture, and it was my sometimes-but-now-a-little-more-serious inland girlfriend Sissy, saying “How wild does this movie get, Sean?” in her high eyebrow, quizzical style. It was her way of saying, get out of this whole thing, Sean. Get out before something too wild happens.

“How do I protect myself?”

“If the shapeshifter does not return, then you have no worries. If it does return, and gets close to you again, do not let it stay in your shadow, or your reflection. Do not look it in the eye for a length of time,” said the son. His father nodded.

Those things should be easy enough. I noticed my clothes were soaked completely through, and they now felt very heavy on my body. “Thank you for coming out here and telling me this. I will be on the lookout.” I turned to go back to the protection of the dock cover, then thought this a little rude, so I asked them if there was anything else.

“Can you tell us where a Burger King restaurant is,” the son said. “My father likes it his way.” Mr. Cypress Osceola then leaned over and gave me a grin only a custom made, flame-broiled hamburger could inspire.