“So that’s it now,” I said. “No more fooling around. Accidents can happen too easily.”
“Believe me,” she said, rubbing her foot. “He meant to do it.”
The parking spots around the Playa Chica were assigned according to an unwritten law. Bernie’s white minibus with WONDERDIVE written on its sides was parked in the no-parking area near the steps leading to the boardwalk; he and his people were already in the water. As always, my vehicle was in the entrance to the old Spaniard’s place; once a day, he came out of the house to remind me of what he planned to do to me if I damaged his fence. Theo was leaning against my VW van, waiting for us. He took the cigarette out of his mouth to kiss Jola on the forehead, and she snuggled against him. “No more antics from now on,” I admonished, and both of them nodded as if they understood. I spread the canvas on the ground and set out wet suits, buoyancy compensators, diving cylinders, fins, and masks. I took off my shorts and slipped my feet into my sandals. Jola’s eyes strayed briefly over my swimming trunks.
“Take a look,” she said to Theo. “That’s what I call equipment.”
The way she stressed the that had the power to bury a man’s ego, but Theo just kept gazing with furrowed brow at the diving regulators and inflator hoses and trying to remember how such things worked. With his big, loose swimming shorts, which covered him almost entirely from the belly on down, he was going to have a hard time getting into a neoprene suit.
To refresh their knowledge, I put them through the whole beginners’ program. I showed them how they could use the inflator to pump air into their buoyancy compensators or let it out again; how to hook up the diving regulators they’d breathe through, which adjusted the high-pressure scuba-tank air to the ambient pressure; how to fasten a tank to a buoyancy compensator and get the whole thing onto your back. I laid special emphasis on fundamental principles: caution, prudence, and cooperation between diving partners. They listened, asked questions, and helped each other with their equipment.
One hour later, they were floating in their inflated buoyancy compensators like two corks on the water. I showed them how to read the pressure gauge to determine the fill level of their tanks, explained the hand signals, and gave tips about blowing water out of the diving masks. We practiced supplying one another with air in an emergency by means of passing the so-called octopus, a second diving regulator through which one could breathe air from a diving partner’s tank. My two clients acquitted themselves well. We swam some distance out into the bay. I made a circle of my thumb and forefinger, the signal for “okay.” They repeated the gesture to show that everything was in order. We dove down.
After descending barely three meters, we were kneeling on the ocean floor. They were both breathing a bit too fast and holding on to their regulators with one hand, as if they might fall out of their mouths. But this was normal for beginners. Most clients suffered a mild shock when they breathed underwater for the first time. After that, reactions differed. Some would feel incredible euphoria, a kind of mental orgasm triggered by the fact that with the aid of technology they had been able to put one over on a hostile element; totally enclosed in water, guests in a strange environment, they could nonetheless breathe as freely as fish. Others didn’t feel so good. They sensed they didn’t belong in this world, didn’t trust the apparatus that was supplying them with oxygen, and were tormented by the impression that they must go back up to the surface at once. Such persons couldn’t relax underwater. Only a lot of practice could make good divers out of them.
It was immediately clear to me which of my clients belonged in which category. Despite Theo’s mask, I could discern a beaming smile on his face. His knees only lightly touched the sea bottom; he was already on the point of giving himself over to weightlessness. The parrot fish he was following with his eyes came closer, looked us over, peered inquisitively into Theo’s goggles, and finally moved off in the direction of the solidified lava stream. I knew what Theo was experiencing: one of the happiest moments of his life.
Jola, by contrast, turned her head frantically right and left, as if an attack could come from any direction. The sand she was swirling up with her fins obstructed her vision. She kept one hand clamped to her regulator and waggled the other to maintain her balance. I swam close to her and showed her the “okay” signal. She stared at me uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before responding in kind. By way of distracting her, I gave her some little tasks. She had to swim a few meters, use her inflator, check her pressure and depth gauges. I demonstrated how she could balance herself by consciously inhaling and exhaling and pointed out a couple of sardines that were flashing through the water like lightning bolts some distance away. We moved deeper almost imperceptibly. At last, she smiled and nodded.
I waved to Theo to join us and take part in the exercises. We began with “hovering,” trying to remain motionless in the water for a minute or longer. Theo and Jola hovered close to each other, their arms folded, and concentrated on breathing so smoothly that the amount of air in their lungs caused them neither to float up nor to sink down. I looked at my watch to see if the prescribed minute was up, and then suddenly Theo grabbed his diving regulator and made a few frantic turning movements. He tore the octopus out of its holder, clapped it to his mouth, and threw it away again at once. Although he was too unfamiliar with the routine to give the correct sign, I nevertheless understood that he wasn’t getting any air through either of his mouthpieces. Before I could reach him and offer him my octopus — as we’d discussed doing in emergencies — he pushed off the bottom and shot toward the surface. I had no chance of holding him back. At a depth of eight meters, that presented no problem. At greater depths, such a move could in the worst case cost a diver his or her life.
I quickly followed him to the surface, indicating to Jola that she should also come up. It took some force to keep Theo from swallowing more water as he coughed. With eight kilos of lead in his belt, he lay in my arms like a concrete pier. When I tried in vain to fill his buoyancy compensator with air, I guessed what had happened. Jola, who was shaking with laughter, made any further explanation superfluous. While they were hovering, she’d reached behind him and shut off his valve.
By the time we reached the beach, I was so furious I had to clench my teeth to keep from screaming. We were barely ashore when the rage burst out of me. I told them I had something I needed to make crystal clear. I told them they’d had their last chance. I told them that if one of them dared to pull any such shit again, any such childish and moreover dangerous stunt, their training would be at an end, and it wouldn’t make any difference who they were, who they thought they were, or how much they paid. On land they could bash each other’s head in for all I cared, but underwater they had to follow my rules. When they were down there, they had to behave like adults. Underwater they were partners, I said, their lives were in each other’s hands.
There was a stunned silence. Even Theo looked aghast. Apparently they hadn’t thought me capable of such an outburst. I announced that I was going to get a cup of coffee. During my absence, I said, they could consider whether they wanted to stick to the rules or whether our working relationship should cease at once. And with that, I left them where they stood. The Wunder Bar café had German cheesecake. Just what I needed sometimes. My rage calmed down, but only very slowly.
JOLA’S DIARY, SECOND DAY
Sunday, November 13. Afternoon.
He blew his top. Right after we came back. I barely had time to put down the bags and hang up the wet towels before he grabbed my arm and threw me across the room. Not because of the prank with his air valve. Not because of my “equipment” remark. But because I showed him up when we were swimming. Well, what was I supposed to do, old man? Swim clumsily on purpose? So you wouldn’t seem like such a slowpoke? He said we both know I miss no opportunity to make him look ridiculous. I had to apologize, he said, or he was going to slug me. I said, You’ll slug me anyway, sooner or later. He grabbed my hair. I get anxious about my hair. My hair is part of my capital. I said, I apologize. He let me go but kept that look on his face.