Shadow in the Deep

Peter Fox was falling away. From the surface. From his retired father’s boat. Deeper and deeper he sank, his black flippers kicking him down. It always seemed like madness, in a way, to willingly abandon the air he could breath and survive in, for the cold blue ocean he could not. It was for this reason, even though it was a relatively short dive, that Peter used an air tank.

He needed it to keep himself calm. It was difficult enough to keep his mind off the murky blue-green all around him, and Peter felt he didn’t care for the added stress of not being able to breath. The steady sound of his own breathing, along with the water rushing past him, was at once calming and unnerving. In his left hand was a long, heavy net with a metal ring at the opening. A short spear, really a knife attached to a rod the length of his upper leg, was in his right hand.

Madness, he said again to himself. If not for abandoning the surface, then for diving alone with no one to watch his back. Chris had called off at the last minute because Emma, his daughter, needed to check in to the hospital. At first, that had been the end of it, no dive this weekend, but then Peter had begun longing for the feeling of being the hero. The brothers started diving on the weekends as a quick way to make extra cash for Emma’s operation. Even if she made a full recovery, there was no telling how long the family would be wracked by medical bills. And what better way for Peter to play the hero than to get some extra money all by his lonesome? Conquering his fears.

The hero, Peter tried to press into his brain. Be the hero. A hero wouldn’t be afraid of turning over and facing the deep. With a slow suck of air from the tank, he quickly flipped over. Inwardly he cursed. All that lay below him was a never ending blue. The reasonable part of his brain told him the anchor line he was following was attached to something down there, but the paranoid part whispered that he might dive hundreds of feet deep.

Thanking God, the ocean floor soon appeared out of the haze. A small hill of piled rocks rose above the rest of the rocky bottom. Barnacles, red leafy plants, and thick yellow-brown grass grew everywhere they could. Dozens of fish milled about lazily, only hurrying when Peter came too close. He eyed the lingcod, ugly bastards with short, wide fan-like fins and spines all along their backs. They were about two feet long, and inexplicably delicious for something with brown blotched scales and long teeth. If they hung around long enough, there was a speargun up on the boat that might turn one into lunch and another into a few extra dollars. For now, he turned his attention to the grass and leaves covering the rocks.

Dotted hear and there, some out in the open, some hiding in the foliage, were dreaded Chinese Mitten Crabs. Perhaps ‘dreaded’ was too strong of a word. The hairy tarantula looking crustacean was only hated by bait fishermen, whose traps the little devils would sneak into, nibbling on shrimp and fish, then chew or tear their way out of. The Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife didn’t much care for them either, as bait fishermen had to trap in ever greater numbers to make up money lost. By typhoon or ship ballast water, the invasive crabs were in ever greater number. Oregon’s native Rock Crab tended to sort the problem out by itself, but when that species of crustaceon suffered due to whatever the hell ‘mircoplastics’ were, it allowed the foreign species of crabs to slowly creep down from upriver and move into estuaries and brackish waters. Thus, it was up to Peter and other freelance divers to knock back the invaders. For a price. And one that could be double dipped too.

For when Peter and his brother hauled a dozen or so crabs to shore, they could get paid by the Department, then pick out the biggest two to be marked with a non-toxic paint. Those two crabs would then be sold to the closest Chinese restaurant, who thought the crab a delicacy. The Department and state police would then occasionally stop by to make sure all crabs being cooked were marked, and that an illegal farm of crabs was not being kept in secret. One that the crabs could brake out of and repopulate the rivers all over.

With his short spear, Peter hovered over one of the spike-backed crabs. Slowly, he moved the tip of the blade over the creatures shell, then a short thrust and crunching sound, and the crab was impaled. Into the bag it went.

Today was going well, fantastic in fact. The brother’s secret spot was an anomaly, as Mitten Crabs usually didn’t care for this depth or distance from fresh waters. It was only by sheer luck that Peter had stumbled upon the little rock hill one day, half a mile from the South Fork River outlet. By ten minutes, Peter had four crabs in his net. It was going so well, that he hardly had time to think about shadows around him.

That had done it. He couldn’t keep his mind away from it forever. For a while longer, the goggles helped him tunnel vision onto the next crab. Thrust. Into the net. There was even a starfish out in the open, clinging to one of the few places not occupied by barnacles. Then suddenly, the goggles were only an impediment. There was no Chris to watch his back. Something could be right next to him and he wouldn’t know. Silently hovering, a shadow in the depths where light barely reaches.

Peter snuck a glance, then a full look around him. Nothing, just the green-blue ocean, shadows of fish, and the sound of his breathing. The breathing called him back. Too quick, using too much oxygen. Focus on Emma. Kid should be learning basketball from her uncle and father, laying in a hospital. His pause to steady himself slowed his respiration.

Then the rock moved. Below and to his right. Peter flinched, dropping the net and aiming his spear. A lingcod sped away and over the edge of the rocks.

Damn fish! Peter cursed to himself. He was definitely going to kill one of them now. Not even caring if was big enough to sell. Once more, Peter slowed his breathing and searched for his net. The murky water made it difficult to see the netting, but it was easy enough to spot the dead crabs within. He grabbed the metal ring, then immediately stopped. Another lingcod, just barely out of arm’s reach. The blotched scales allowed the fish to camouflage against the rocks and barnacles. It seemed now as if this fish was so confident in it’s camo and hiding spot, that it didn’t think Peter knew it was there, and therefore did not flee.

Peter could hardly believe his luck. The fish was closer to three feet than two, and if he could just get it to stay still for a bit longer….

Slowly, he drifted down, and behind it. His fist gripped the spear, aiming, but not getting too close and possibly spooking it. Gently, he drifted, closing in. When he was just within arm’s reach, he lashed out. The fish had started to bolt, but the spear struck it in the side. In pain and fear, the lingcod thrashed and twisted on the blade. Peter grabbed the tail and pulled it close, then shoved it’s writhing body against the rock while he reached for the knife strapped to his leg. With a quick stab to the head, the fish went still, it’s blood rising in the water like smoke from an extinguished candle.

Peter sighed, choking a bit on the air piece. That was the first time he’d ever speared a fish by hand. Old-school like. A sudden sense of manly over-confidence filled him.

Me spear fish. Me make money to save niece. Difficult to smile with a mouthpiece, Peter dumped the fish into the net and turned his attention back to the crabs. Today couldn’t get much better. Thrust. Into the net.

He was nearly to his net’s maximum capacity, when he came across a strange looking crustacean. At first, it appeared to be fat, but at a closer look, there were eggs attached to the mother’s underside. Hundreds upon hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tiny little egg sacs all clinging underneath her. This gave Peter pause. Should he kill this one? It would certainly help to curb the population, but it seemed cruel. Also, there was to consider how long this cash cow of crabbing would last. Oregon didn’t have nearly as much trouble with Mittens Crabs as California did. Particularly San Francisco. He had a host of crabs, and had brought to port a host of them for the past month. Surely, he was doing a service to curb the population. Wouldn’t it be right to let this mother go?

As he was pondering, in his narrowed periphery, the darkness flickered. With particles and debris floating around, the tide created a fairly steady movement, but rarely did it ever move back as he was almost certain it had done. He peered into the dark for a while, back and forth. Only his breathing and the lazy movement of the flora. Most of the fish were gone. Odd, but then, he had just killed one of them.

At any rate, his net was nearly full and time to head back to the surface after catching one more crab. If he could get his chills under control, he’d dump the contents and head back down for another haul. Under normal circumstances, he’d be heading back to port with two.

He saw more movement. Unmistakable, and making no attempt to hide now. A shark slowly glided out of the darkness. A great white, over twenty feet long. No. Water magnified things, perhaps it was fifteen feet, coming right for him. It stayed that course just long enough for Peter to stare into the black spheres it had for eyes. Then, it diverted, aiming now to swim just past him. Peter froze, gripped by ice from within his own soul.

What do I do? His terror whispered. The rational part of his brain threw out every fact from every shark show he’d ever seen on TV.

Punch it in the nose! Fat lot of good that would do. The thing was nearly three times as long as he was, and perhaps ten times stronger.

Don’t wear Yellow!

Don’t swim with an open wound!

Don’t wear anything shiny!

He wasn’t doing any of those! Why was this shark here? He and Chris had ensured that there weren’t supposed to be any Whites here this time of year. They were all supposed to be in Hawaii or something!

As his panic sucked air from his tank, the shark diverted once more, perhaps only a body length away, revealing a grizzled tear in the flesh between jaw and gills, scarred black with age. With two swished of it’s tail, the creature was back into the shadows. Peter’s terror halved. At some point he’d grabbed the short spear with two hands to defend himself. He stayed there, every muscle in his body clenched, for several more minutes, glancing all around. It was gone. Chill filled him with the silence of it all. It hadn’t come at the insistence of a cello heavy orchestra. No one to scream ‘SHARK! GET OUT OF THE WATER!’ The shadowy depths had silently morphed into a massive predator, and then just as silently, slipped back.

What if he hadn’t been looking in that direction? Would his head have been ripped from his shoulders by a thousand teeth? Would he have surfaced without an arm? A leg? He shook his head. Best not to think about it, the terror would have him here till he ran out of air.

It was time to surface. Net full, half out of air, shark off on it’s own business. He waited a minute or so longer to confirm that last one, but saw no flickering shadows. With a kick, he ascended. Above, he could see his father’s boat, barely, and he cursed the cloudy day. He wouldn’t be calm until he saw the sky clearly. On land. In a dessert, far from any water.

Against his wishes, his mind returned to the silent monster. How he could have missed it if he’d have turned even a few feet to his left. With one hand on the anchor line, the other holding the net and spear, Peter turned back.

It was there, just feet from him. Upon seeing him turn, the shark quickly nosed away, farther behind him and faded into the blue. Peter’s fist was white knuckled around the anchor line. It had smiled at him. He was sure of it. Ghost black eyes and a mouth filled with rows of saw blades. Why was it coming after him, and why did it suddenly stop? He searched the shadows and his mind for answers. Then it occurred to him. The shark was trying to get behind him. It had nearly been upon him by the time he’d turned. The only reason it stopped was because he’d looked at it.

Peter spun around.

Nothing. He turned back to where the shark had disappeared. Still nothing. The only thing he could see around him in any direction was blue-green ocean and flecking particles. Even below.

The surface. He had to get from the surface. Here, he was helpless. With a mad dash, Peter kicked with all his might. He rose so slowly. He was almost certain he was sinking back down. Yes, he was being weighed down by his diving weighs, his air tank, and his filled net. Drop it! He had to drop it all and escape!

No! The net was the reason he was here in the first place. But was half of Emma’s monthly medical bill worth his life? In a half-thinking panic, Peter started with his gear. Frantically, he reached for the weights at his belt. He looked down just in time to see the fleshy maw reach out to tear him down into the depths with a thousand blades, until his lungs shrieked for air and his veins burst and bones splintered from the pressure.

He screamed and desperately thrust out the spear and the net. At once, the shark turned and faded into the shadows, though not entirely. He could still see it, a dark shape gently undulating in the deep.

Why the hell was this thing after him? He asked, kicking upward again. These things weren’t supposed to hunt humans. They weren’t even supposed to-

The fish! The goddamn fish in the net! It had smelled the blood and thought it was coming from him!

Peter fumbled with his gear as he kicked. The shadow below rose until it again took shape, growing bolder. He grabbed the tail of the lingcod and, in his desperation, threw out it as well as a mitten crab. The rising beast took no notice, it’s tail flicking side to side, drawing ever closer. It was locked on now, moving in for the kill.

With a final burst, the shark’s eyes blanked white, it’s jaws flung open, shooting out to grab it’s prey. Peter stabbed down like a madman, striking something. Once more the shark diverted away to the shadows.

Peter looked up. He was close, but not nearly enough. The speed of the creature would allow it to close in on him once, perhaps twice more before he broke the water’s surface. He kicked and kicked, his legs had never felt so heavy. The shark was gone, back into the depths. Peter scanned in every direction but couldn’t see where it would come from next. Was it right below? Circling behind?

Kicking and kicking, he closed on the surface. When his head breached, he gasped for air, unaware he’d been holding his breath. The ladder was feet away. He reached, his hand were filled with spear and net, and he flailed about getting his upper half onto the ship while trying to kick with what energy he had left to get his lower half out of the water. He could feel it, the beast below. It would grab his legs and drag him down to hell.

Frantically he clawed at the deck until enough of him was aboard to heave the rest out of the sea. He quickly spun, waiting for the beast to break out of the water in one last desperate attempt to feast.

There was nothing. Only the gently rocking waves. Slowly, Peter began to lay down on the boat floor, before collapsing entirely, nearly as dead as the crabs beside him. He spat out the air piece and demanded his insubordinate white-knuckled hands to pull off the diving mask, but they stayed disobedient.

Perhaps he wouldn’t go back for a second haul today after all.