Chapter 8: Black Betty

From the air, the dredging process looked surreal. The salvage barge was anchored over deep water and there was a drastic line of delineation between the clarity of the Caribbean and the light brown ribbon of muddy detritus that was discharged over the side, once the silt was sucked up to the surface and then screened thoroughly before it was eliminated. A long widening stretch of discoloration faded as the current swept it away. Clouds of hopeful flying scavengers flew and swam about the lee side where the thick muck drained overboard. Anchored adjacent to the massive barge was the majestic Celtic Dreamer, the Hartley 55’ single-masted diving charter sailboat, and moored directly to the barge was the professor’s cabin cruiser Tortuga III.

“Man, the environmental groups would be out here in droves if this were happening off the US coast,” Kirk commented into his headset as he flew a wide lazy bank around the small flotilla before setting up for an upwind final. The LA-270 Sea Fury amphibious airplane leveled off on its approach before settling gracefully onto the calm surface, creating a small but lively wake as it coasted to taxiing speed. The powerful Lycoming 270 turbo-charged engine propelled them easily alongside the deployable jetty beside the barge. Kurt killed the engine while Bobby opened the hatch and prepared to toss a painter to one of the deckhands who came down to assist. Across the short span, they saw Jennifer, her son, and Damien waving from the cockpit of the Dreamer.

“I likee!” Bobby quipped as he jumped out and tied off his line before assisting his parents to disembark from the seats immediately behind his and Kurt’s. After Chad and Jessica climbed out, he helped his beloved who appeared slightly green around the gills as she stepped out of the confined cabin. He held her close as she leaned into him.

“You okay babe?” he asked quietly, not wishing to draw any attention to her predicament. Since she became pregnant, she suffered from sporadic bouts of nausea and was easily debilitated by motion sickness. This was particularly embarrassing to her since she grew up on the water and had never been seasick in her life. She patted his chest and turned to smile brightly at her father who leaned over the bulkhead with his pipe in hand to greet the new arrivals. Despite the amount of industry apparent, the floating dredge was relatively quiet. Once aboard they could feel the humming of powerful pumps and motors below deck but, for the most part, they were able to carry on a conversation without having to raise their voices.

“Good God Almighty, Dad!” she griped as she walked up the slender ramp. “What is that fecking awful smell?”

“Dregs of the sea’s bounty, my dear,” he replied as he hugged her. There was a strong lingering odor of rotten ... things that mingled with the typical shipboard smells she was accustomed to. It was not an appealing combination for the expecting mother who was already hypersensitive to everything from the taste of cheese to the sound of Bobby’s chewing.

She accepted his cheeky kiss with a grimace before pushing him away. “Good grief, Mon. You smell even worse!”

He chuckled as he led them across the huge sunken deck between the raised prow and stern ends. “Did you want to see your gun?” he asked as he pointed his pipe stem towards a heavy winch and crane assembly, outfitted with a swinging boom. At the base of the crane was a series of stacked blocks upon which set a large, heavily corroded chunk of iron. Despite its condition, it still resembled a 17th-century naval cannon. It was still damp from its recent and prolonged submersion. “We just pulled it up an hour ago,” he said. Other than the large gun there were stacks of sodden decking and gunwale planking, set about in no particular order.

“How many divers do you have down there?” Bobby asked, biting back his envy at not being a part of the initial salvage start-up. But he had to prioritize his time between his family, school, and the opportunities that often presented themselves out of the blue — such as the six-seater amphibious plane he had just flown in on. The LA-270 practically fell into his lap over lunch in the university cafeteria when a classmate mentioned that his dad ‘drove a flying boat’ for the NOAA, whenever they paid a visit to the Commonwealth. Because the Sea Fury was marine-rated, it was ideal for the organization. When the classmate, Callen Freeman, also mentioned that it was coming up on its due mandatory (and expensive) maintenance and overhaul — and that his dad was kicking around the notion of selling it rather than forking out the dough to keep it airworthy, Bobby insisted on going and checking it out immediately. Since it was kept in a floating hangar in the nearby marina, they walked into town and onto the docks where many seaplanes were moored.

“We are operating with four-man teams,” the professor answered, sweeping his arm toward the crewmembers who were managing the umbilical hoses. “We keep one team down for forty-five minutes and have a second team standing by to relieve them as they off-gas at six meters. After two dives they have a mandatory 24-hour rest before they can go down again.” There was a subtle vibration in the deck beneath their feet and he grimaced. “This being the second day at it, we are running into problems with the main pump. Apparently, it’s not handling the sludge we are sucking out of the wreck, as well as it should. So, we have to shut it down every so often and clean out the intakes.” He nodded toward a huge black rigid pipe that disappeared over the side. It began shifting and jerking in time with the changes in vibration. “Looks like we’re gonna have to shut it down again.”

It was only 3:30 in the afternoon when the dredging operation halted so that the huge pump could be taken apart and cleaned out. It took Spencer and Damien less than five minutes to climb into the inflatable dinghy tied to the stern of Dreamer and motor over to the barge where they began helping the salvage crew to sift through the massive tubs of filtered detritus. Of course, they were only interested in the shark teeth and had a bucket set aside for their treasures as they worked. Tavia could only tolerate the smell for thirty minutes before she had to be shuttled over to the sailboat with the other two women. Chad returned to the barge after running them across the narrow stretch.

Bobby noticed that many of the local crew members promptly gathered their fishing gear, as soon as dredging halted and began hanging over the edge of the barge with their lines in the water.

“The Howler doesn’t bother most of the fish down there,” the professor told the three men as they watched the crew members begin pulling in fish as quickly as they cast out their lines. “So, they fish for dinner every chance they can.” There was a small chorus of cheers when one of the barefoot, shirtless islanders landed an impressive Skipjack.

“Why the hurry?” Kurt asked as he studied the almost frantic effort to catch as many fish as possible.

“Because we don’t run the Howler any longer than necessary to deter the sharks from the salvage area,” Dr. Ashanti mused. “The barge foreman will shut it down here in a few minutes to conserve energy. At night we pull the array up and check it over to make sure it’s fully operational before we deploy it again.”

Clearly, the foreman wanted his dinner as well because the electronic shark deterrent was left operational for another half hour while another team worked below deck on the pump assembly. A groan from the fishermen was the first clue that the sonic emitter had been quelled. One of them landed what would have been an impressive barracuda if it had retained its body. The others laughed as the fisherman tossed the head back into the sea.

“I guess the sharks are back,” Chad surmised.

The professor nodded. “Before we developed the Howler there were a lot of injuries and near misses from the bloody things. Hammerheads and Bulls are the worst, but blacktips, lemons, any reef species will get out of sorts when we go down and start digging around. The smell drives them crazy and they become dangerous when agitated.

Bobby leaned over the bulwark into the murky water. “If it smells this bad to us, I can only imagine what it’s like for a shark with olfactory senses a hundred million times stronger than ours.”

“Indeed,” the professor agreed, quietly impressed with the lad’s observation. “Hence our diligence in maintaining the Howler at optimal performance.”

An hour later the foreman advised the professor that the primary pump was damaged to the point that it required a new impeller assembly which would keep it out of commission until the following afternoon. Fortunately, they had all of the parts necessary and a mechanic capable of performing the work. Chad volunteered his expertise as a certified diesel mechanic to help with the work.

Kurt took the Sea Fury back to the West Bay marina, with Bobby and a crewman who had suffered a laceration to his forearm. Bobby lifted the aircraft off and banked it gracefully to the southwest maintaining an 800-foot altitude for the 18-minute hop. He was eager to make his first water landing and grinned triumphantly as he coasted toward the seaplane dock.

“I’m buying it,” he declared adamantly into his headset as he shut down the engine and let the plane drift gracefully into the slip. “I don’t care how much the overhaul costs. This baby is sweet!”

“How much is he asking for it?” Kurt asked as he released the latch that secured the cockpit canopy and stepped out to tie the plane securely to the dock.

“A quarter mil,” the young man answered as he helped the injured crewman out of the cabin. “Mr. Freeman estimates the A&P maintenance and overhaul to run another $50,000. I guess everything is more expensive when you put it in salt water.”

“It’s not likely that you will find a qualified A&P here in the Commonwealth,” his friend and flight instructor stated as they escorted their passenger to a waiting truck that transported him to the urgent clinic. “I have a colleague who can take care of it in Fort Meyers.”

“Sweet.”

The return trip necessitated a stop for groceries and a cooler full of ice cream. There was no predicting what flavor his pregnant wife would fancy from one moment to the next, so Bobby made every effort to buy every kind available. Kurt let him handle the return trip but only stayed long enough to allow him to disembark via the open dive well at the stern of Dreamer. Chad and the boys helped unload the groceries and take them below where the twins and Tavia sorted them and stowed everything away. Bobby waved to the other pilot as he shoved off and secured the canopy before starting the plane’s engine, and then departing.

“Where is he off to?” Chad asked as he grabbed an apple box full of vegetables. The twins were busily storing the food as they discussed what to prepare for dinner.

“He and Evie have the place to themselves, dad...” Bobby smirked as he stood on the hatch over the diving well. He peered into the clear blue water able to penetrate the glaring surface with his polarized shades. Visibility was about twenty to twenty-five feet down he guessed as he noted the darker shelf where the anchor was set in. “He will return tomorrow with a resupply for the barge crew.”

“Looks like there is some interest in what we are doing,” the older man replied as he accepted a beer from below deck and straightened. Bobby followed his gaze and noticed the distant forms of several boats anchored nearby.

“I hope for their sake none of them get any bright ideas about encroaching on our find after dark.”

Chad looked back at him. “You think they would be bold enough to try and steal something at night?

His son smiled grimly back at him; his sunglasses concealed his knowing expressive eyes. “They’ll only try once.” He noted the curious look on his father’s face and indicated the massive barge. “I overheard the surveyors talking a few months back when we brought Dreamer out here to map and scan,” he explained. “They have a freaking brilliant way to deter pirates when operations are halted for the day.” He sat in the pilothouse and took off his shoes and socks, piling them with Damien and Spencers’.

“Do tell,” Chad replied as he took the pilot’s swivel chair. Jen and Jess came up from the galley with drinks of their own. Jess offered Bobby a cold glass of iced tea which he accepted gratefully. He took a long drink and sighed. “So, you see — during operations, we try and keep the sharks away with the Howler,” he explained. “The last thing we want is an injured diver because of a shark gone mad from the smells.” He took another drink as the ladies sat across from him in their bikinis. “Well at night they sort of reverse the process by shutting down the emitter and dropping a 55-gallon vented barrel full of chum over the side. I imagine they keep topping it off after they clean their catch every day.”

“Wouldn’t it be awesome if Black Betty came along and ate one of dem poachers?” Tavia chimed in from where she stood on the aft cabin ladder. She held a frozen container of ice cream in one hand as she dug into it with a spoon.

“Better them than me,” Bobby retorted.

Jennifer got up and leaned over the edge glancing into the water, oblivious of the effect her nearly naked ass had on her husband. “Do you think she’s come back?”

“Carcharhinus leucas are nomadic,” Tai replied as she licked her spoon. “They don’t take up residence per se, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Betty put down her fins here to have her babies.”

“Oh great,” Bobby groaned. “She’ll be even more disagreeable with a calf.”

“Pup,” the Jamaican girl replied, her attention fully absorbed in her cool treat.

“Huh?”

“Baby sharks are called pups, Mon,” she replied with her mouth full.

“But they are ‘Bull’ sharks,” he scoffed with amusement.

She rolled her eyes at him like he was an imbecile. “And they don’t whelp their young, fool. Once the baby is born it’s on its own. Which is why I think she hangs around here to deliver them where they will be safer and have plenty to feed on.”

“When do they have their babies?” Jessica asked as she turned to join her twin looking at the water.

“In the summer,” Tai replied. “Black Betty looked like she was ready to pop when we ran into her, last year. Which is probably why Bobby is still here to talk about it.”

Her husband turned to gawk at her incredulously, “Not feeling the love, here.”

“It’s okay, Mon,” she replied glibly as she turned back into the galley. “I have Spencer as my backup, Hartley.”

The following morning found Bobby in his drysuit preparing to go down and see for himself, the progress that had been made. Since the dredge pump was down for the rest of the morning a survey team planned to remap the wreck. Chad was helping him with his dual tri-mix tanks, while he programmed the dive computer on his watch.

“How long can you stay at depth?” Jess asked as she unpacked the new camera they bought for the charter business. She was placing the Sony A9 body inside a two-handled Red Dragon housing and attaching the lens securely.

“About 30 minutes with full tanks. I need one de-gas before I surface,” he replied as he tested his regulator and double-checked his BCD vest and equipment harness.

“Please be careful with this camera Bobbers,” she cautioned. “It’s state-of-the-art and the A9 alone cost six grand.”