Caribbean treasure hunt. We divers float
in pale blue shafts of light by jagged wall:
impromptu reef where the liner tore apart.
She bore a fortune in gems. They spilled
into reef-caves as her hull ripped asunder.
Locals risking their necks dived under
her wrecked decks, scoured halls quilted now
in slow coral. Men lost; no jewels found.
So we sound blue holes beneath--but they're
an even narrower maze. Our leader owned
the liner; so won a last permit--one final try
before this death-trap reef is banned forever.
Some Caribbean holiday! I'm the only girl
and only teen. Bearded roaring Russians tall.
Voyage of the Hairy Papa Bears! I feel
lost in a herd of bellowing thew and thong
and hideous Speedos. Treat me like stray
kitten. Or they leer. I didn't ask to cruise!
Treasure-mad Dad dragged me along.
I'm scuba-trained, but I free-dive;
not even a snorkel. Less junk to snag.
More agile. Confident. That plus my size
lets me slip in holes beyond the guys.
So I'm no mascot but a scout! Spying out
where to chip and cut and run
airhoses and lights. Spelunky fun.
A few yards down is a pool of sky
with a jagged hole--the shattered glass roof
of the liner's dining hall. The Grand Stair
is now the safest gullet down through
the sad ship-corpse to the caverns below.
Local legend claims such blue holes are
oft portals to spirit worlds. So far,
no lionfish or wardrobes. But currents seethe
like kraken mouths and gills must breathe.
My breath lasts two minutes--too brief
to thread the deeper tunnels of the reef.
So the captain urges "Try a minimal rig--
this new air-pod I built is slim--not big,
but good for five-ten minutes." I try...
and it works! I still can worm down throats
so twisted grown men'd die.
I float, magenta minnow, down stairwell, hall,
till the coraline wreck-grid abruptly narrows to
drunken meandering monster-gut. I'm in.
I wriggle into cyan dusk. Light on.
Gold-magenta splendor slaps the eye.
Labyrinth, but the trachea never fails.
Three minutes in, a polyp closet. Pause,
check air. Near time to turn. But then
a faint gleam ahead. Douse my light--
Yes! I wiggle on...
Wry, tight lips spit me into a hall
rotunda-domed, where bubbles pool
and shimmer silver. Blob-stars. Dim
greenish side-lights slink warily in
from holes in scalloped edges like I'm
inside the living mouth of some
Captain Nemo dream by Verne:
a thirty-yard-wide clam.
But I smell danger. No, taste. My tongue
tangs of rotten eggs. Shiver of fear.
Hydrogen sulfide! A toxin known to gnaw
through neoprene seals--can infiltrate my air.
