“What’s the problem?” Greg asked with sincerity.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is. I’ve got my balls in a sling trying to protect my family on the one hand and by being greedy and fucking stupid on the other — that’s what's wrong.”
Dick looked pale and drawn.
“I think it will be better if we don’t go fishing today. I have so many problems to sort out. I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking into Greg’s face.
“That’s OK old friend,” Greg agreed. “Perhaps another day OK?” He turned to go. “Listen if you’ve got a problem, Oscar’s a great man to talk to. He has lots contacts for finance or especially other difficulties,” he intimated, emphasising other difficulties and tapping his nose. “You know where we are. So pop in if you want, OK?”
“Thanks — but this is something I have to sort out myself. See you,” he replied lethargically, waving goodbye with an equally modest gesture.
The diving operation at the oilrig was going well; the damaged manifold had been successfully pulled back into position and repairs to the buckled valve were almost complete.
“One more day should do it,” Big J declared to John. “I’ll be pleased to go ashore for a bit of recreation after this lot.”
He ran a strictly dry ship.
“Diving disciplines and alcohol do not mix,” Big J frequently lectured his team. “There’ll be plenty of fun, once the job is done,” was his oft-fulfilled promise.
The men in the decompression chamber suffered considerably for the first twenty-four hours. The painful effects of the bends, caused when nitrogen in the blood is compressed and trapped, especially in the body’s joints, is excruciating and occasionally fatal. It also causes a severe dent in a diver’s pride, providing a fundamental lesson that they must never forget.
Almost all-commercial diving now involves the use of a variety of gases, which provide for safer deep diving and help to prevent the bends.
Eager to experience the latest technology and the space age equipment being made available to them, the other Chinese divers had integrated well with Big J’s team. Especially during the long hours of rest time when traditionally all divers talk endlessly about their various experiences. The Chinese were no exception; their endless stories of Japanese treasure hidden aboard the hundreds of ships sunk towards the end of World War Two had Big J’s team listening to every word with obvious excitement.
“Of course we haven’t actually found any treasure ourselves yet, but with the benefit of our advanced training we will be starting our own ‘Treasure Diving’ business,” the leader of the Chinese team announced confidently. “We know many sites, especially in the Philippines, so if any of you boys want to come along, I could maybe arrange it!”
“Who’s going to finance this great venture eh?” one of the Australian divers asked. “Do you have any idea just how much a project could cost to set up?”
“Don’t you worry — we’ll find the money alright,” came the easy reply — and so it would go on, each of them wallowing in their own individual fantasy of sunken treasure and a life of luxury.
The crew knew that repairs to the wellhead would be completed in the next few hours so there was an undercurrent of excitement in anticipation of being allowed ashore in Hong Kong for the promised seven days “Rest and Recreation”. That also allowed the seven days for three Chinese divers to be trained to operate the underwater vehicles within the safe confines of the harbour as well as being taught to teach basic training to other new divers.
The enthusiastic young Chinese divers knew that they would have to work hard to convince Big J if they were to be awarded with an instructor’s certification.
Late the following afternoon, the last giant clamp was tightened and the valves were eased open. The remote camera hovered above the repaired manifold, sending its pictures up to the control room on the tug above. Big J, John and the technicians watched in silence for two minutes. The new joints were examined from every angle. They showed no sign of movement under the immense pressure — nor were there any signs of a leak.
“I’d say that’s a good one boys. Well done everybody!” Big J finally declared.
The men watching the screens all cheered and patted each other enthusiastically.
“Thank God for that lads — Hong Kong here we come!” one of them called. The news spread around the ship within seconds. Men lined the rail looking into the sea; the underwater workshop and diving chamber was already being winched to the surface.
They sailed at first light the following morning. Three hours later, they picked up a pilot and entered the busy Hong Kong harbour. While Big J was accustomed to the teaming traffic of the Far East ports, he was quite startled when the pilot took the wheel and simply barged straight through the mêlée of sampans and junks plying back and forth apparently regardless of the “rule of the road”. There were frequent near misses but the pilot maintained his course regardless; he did however give endless blasts on the horn shouting. “They know! They know!” was the only comment he made; his deadpan expression never changed. Eventually the tug pulled into a large empty basin in an apparently derelict part of the old docks and moored to the crumbling quay.
“This area is soon to be developed and has been cleared for your training exercises OK? You always moor this side of the basin — easier for your crew to go ashore, yes?” The expression didn’t change. They thanked him and he went ashore.
Big J spoke to the crew, “Well lads we’re here but I can’t let anyone ashore yet. We have to meet with their customs and harbour officials first.”
There was a groan.
“How long will all that take?”
“I honestly don’t know but don’t forget we also have to finish the contract and to set up this bloody training programme. That means no heavy boozing or you’ll be off the dive schedule. That means no pay — clear?”
The crew drifted away; they knew the routine but there was always something special about going ashore after a long spell at sea. They were impatient but their disappointment was easily managed. Three hours later, the Customs and the harbour launches appeared in flotilla and pulled alongside the tug. Three uniformed customs officers and two harbour officials climbed aboard.
“Looks like a takeover,” someone commented as they watched the uniformed officials climb up to the bridge.
Big J had changed from his usual jeans and sweatshirt into a pair of neatly creased tan slacks and a shirt with Captain’s epaulettes; he was not wearing his regulation hat but it was positioned strategically near the helm.
“It’s my bridge, so I don’t need to wear the cap. That way I don’t have to salute anybody,” he winked to John who was also standing neatly attired in his First Mate’s uniform. “They like lots of documents and paperwork. That’ll be your job OK?” Big J stepped to the entrance to the bridge. “I’ll handle the talking and social stuff — here they come.”
The officials climbed the steep steps to the wing bridge and crowded into the wheelhouse. Big J welcomed them aboard and introduced them to John.
“My first officer, John Lawrence. He has the crew manifests together with any other paperwork you may need,” Big J said, addressing the customs officers. “If I leave him with you gentlemen?” he said smoothly and looked towards the harbour officials, indicating the door to the rear of the wheelhouse. “Perhaps we can go into the saloon to sort out the other matters?”
They nodded agreement and followed Big J.
“I may be the Captain but everyone calls me Big J, OK?” he smiled cheerfully.
“I’m Martin Ho. My colleague Manuel Pestana.”
They all shook hands again and then Big J invited them to sit at the table.