The Erotic Expeditions - Complete Collection (46 page)

Kirk touched the spot on his chest where the San Juan medallion usually hung. He’d stowed it below before Mel could see or ask about it. No sense in opening old wounds–especially now.

Mel got up from where she’d been sitting and made her way aft. It must have taken all of three seconds to get her sea legs. She’d asked to sleep on the boat because she always slept better on board. Kirk was the same. Even so, to see her show up with her luggage and gear had been strange.

Mel disappeared from view and Kirk checked the ladder behind him. She was coming up from the cockpit below. Before he had a view down her cleavage, he looked away. In moments, she was standing next to him.

“How long to Navassa?” she chirped, her face beaming.

Her whole attitude had changed once they’d cleared the harbor. As she’d checked her scuba gear and then the tanks, she’d been humming. She’d jumped to help him with the ropes, carry boxes of food, and top off the fresh water tank. It was more than being familiar with boats. She was happy, as though a storm had cleared. He smiled at her before touching the screen of the GPS to bring up a different view of the map.

“Another five hours,” he said.

With the deep sea fishing clients, that kind of time estimate usually elicited groans. But Mel’s eyebrows flew up and she grinned.

“We must be doing better than twenty knots,” she said.

“Better than twenty-five,” he said, winking. “When she’s handled correctly.”

He saw her eye the helm, taking in the gauges, the GPS, and the radar. Despite the fact that she was ten years his junior, she’d spent more time on the ocean than he had. Mel looked aft, stern, and then back to him.

“She’s beautiful,” Mel concluded. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I’ve always been fond of long, clean lines,” he said smiling, careful not to look at her legs or the sinuous twist of her torso. This was Mel, the daughter of his mentor, the man who’d taught him everything about diving for treasure–good and bad.

“Then you’ve got the boat that suits you,” she said, smiling. “How long have you had it?”

He thought about it for a second.

“Eight years,” he said.

He’d been about to say after finding the Margarita–the wreck her father had abandoned to search in vain for the San Juan. The Margarita wreck had made Kirk’s fortune while the San Juan wreck had sucked Mel’s father dry.

As he watched Mel do the mental math, her smile faded. She looked aft and forward again as though she were seeing the boat in a new light. The chop of waves changed and she put a hand on the back of the other helm chair. As she gazed to the horizon, her eyes took on a distant look. And though the sun was bright and the smell of salt spray filled the air, Mel was miles away.

Maybe it was only natural. The Captain had only been dead six months. But her knuckles on the back of the helm chair were turning white. Something more than grief was at work.
 

But what? Anxiety over the Gold Fleet of 1605?

“Once we get to Navassa,” Kirk said. “We’ll probably drop anchor. No sense wasting gas getting out to the site only to have the sun set.”

Mel only nodded, not looking at him.

“Not unless the site is close,” he said.

In his office, she’d known the bearing that they’d take from the island. But she’d never said how far out the wreck or wrecks would be. Without knowing the distance, the bearing was useless.

“Tomorrow is fine,” she said, the words clipped.

Without another word or look, she turned on her heel, backed down the ladder and was gone.

• • • • •

Mel looked back to the boat anchored in Lulu Bay and then forward to the low hill on the southeast of Navassa.

“Dunning Hill,” Mel said, pointing at it.

She and Kirk stood at the base of the lighthouse. The late afternoon sun cast the long shadow of the needle-like building to the east and they both stood in its shade to be out of the heat. Dunning Hill was the first point of reference on her map, which she had committed to memory.

Kirk, hands on hips, turned to look in that direction.

“Then the lighthouse,” Mel said, turning toward the second point of reference.

They’d seen it jutting upward from the nearly flat little island from miles out. Like the home of the lighthouse keeper next to it and the tiny town they’d walked through at the coast, it was abandoned. She’d given Kirk the short version of the island’s history from her research.
 

Discovered by Christopher Columbus in 1504, while he was stranded on Jamaica, the island was called Navassa because it was plain and featureless. Without
agua fresca
, fresh water, it was of no use and so had been avoided for the next 350 years. It wasn’t until an American sea captain realized that it was a guano island that anybody took notice–and then interest was high. Though the birds were long gone, they’d left their droppings, virtually petrified, in the millions of tons. Guano was a rich and valuable crop fertilizer and mining operations began almost immediately. Lulu Town was created to house the slave miners and Lulu Bay, where Kirk’s boat was anchored was the only reasonable approach to the island, ringed with limestone cliffs. They’d used an inflatable dinghy to come ashore.

“They say it’s haunted,” said Kirk, looking up at the lighthouse. “That the last light keeper threw himself off the top.”

“Really?” she said.
 

Somehow that piece of information hadn’t been in any archives.

Kirk nodded.

“Haunted and a place for black magic ceremonies,” he said. He crooked up one corner of his mouth. “If you believe in that kind of thing. But it’s something the tourists like to hear.”

“So you’ve been here before?”

“No, never,” he said, shaking his head. “Just a bit of seafaring lore to toss out on a long ride.”

The climb up the narrow path along the cliffs had been steep but Kirk had lead the way and Mel had enjoyed the view from behind. It was so easy to slip back in time to when she’d first met him. At twenty-five, he was ridiculously old and yet the first man that she’d ever thought about as a man. At thirty-five, he might be even better looking. His strong calves and thighs had worked easily up the trail. His tank top clung to the wide muscles of his back. The straps appeared small as they spanned his thick shoulders.

He began to hunt around the base of the lighthouse and, like the old days, Mel couldn’t take her eyes from him. She wanted to trust him, tell him everything she knew about the wreck, share the excitement with someone, someone who understood. But her father’s voice rang in her head.

“The man ruined me. He can’t be trusted.”

Sooner or later, though, that’s exactly what she’d have to do. She’d have to tell him the location of the wreck.
 

“What’s this?” he said, circling the lighthouse.

As Mel followed him, an arched doorway appeared but a metal grate that fit the opening barred the way. Kirk put both hands on it and shook it and a flurry of rust flakes rained down. He picked up a heavy chain and lock that was wound several times around the grating and a giant eyebolt set into the stone doorway. He scowled down at it.
 

“This looks new.”

Just inside the grate, something caught Mel’s eye. She crouched next to Kirk to get a better look.

“Good grief,” she gasped.

Kirk crouched next to her.

A small wooden statue, a foot high, stood a yard inside the door. The room was dark and the paint was no longer fresh but its bizarre head was still easy to make out: two horns protruded above either ear. The grinning face was extra long to accommodate all the eyes. Two rows of them flanked the thin nose, six pairs in all. But that wasn’t what made Mel stand. At its base was the decaying head of what looked like it might have been a rooster, set on its severed neck and looking at them. It’s detached feet lay to each side, little withered twigs at this point.

Mel put a hand to her chest and backed up a pace.

“So,” said Kirk, trying to get a better look. “Not a rumor.”

“What is it?” Mel whispered.

“I’d say something to do with black magic, voodoo, though I’ve never seen anything quite like that.”

Mel couldn’t take her eyes away from the horrific little scene and a shiver ran up her spine.

Kirk stood and she heard his footsteps wander off a few paces.

“No sign of any other boats,” he said.

Mel stared at the sunken eye sockets of the rooster head.

“Mel?” she heard Kirk say. She blinked and backed up a couple more paces, directly into him. Startled, she jumped and quickly stepped away. “Are you okay?”

She spun to see him reaching out. His smile was easy though his eyes were worried. For an instant, she imagined falling into those arms but the moment passed as he lowered his hands.

“I’m fine,” she said, still flustered. “I just didn’t expect to see something like
that
in a place like this.”

“Maybe we’ve done enough exploring today,” he said. “Tomorrow will be an early start.”

Even the thought of diving on the wrecks didn’t dispelled the strange gloom that seemed to come from the lighthouse.

“Right,” she said and nodded. “Right.”

As Mel sighted down the anchor line under the clear morning sky, she couldn’t help but say it out loud.

“Today’s the day,” she whispered.

Though Kirk was below putting on his wet suit, she wouldn’t want him to hear. It was something Earl had said at the start of every day and it was her little ritual, now that he was gone. The water was a clear aqua and she almost felt as though she could see bottom.
 

She’d given Kirk the range this morning, 4.6 miles on a bearing from Dunning Hill, through the lighthouse and over the northwest spur of Navassa. Now he knew almost as much as she did. What he didn’t know could be gained from charts, knowledge of the currents, and the archives. Sonar had said the sea floor rose and fell in long troughs, varying from depths of twenty-two to forty feet. It was shallow, as she’d known it would be. Even the Spanish crown had known it’d be shallow. Several searches were made in vain attempts to find the Santa Domingo and her lost sister ships. The vast wealth that they represented was easily worth the money for those expeditions. They’d looked near and far for any sign that the fleet had run aground on reefs.

Kirk came bounding up the stairs, holding his fins and mask. His skin tight body suit was a two-toned blue and black and he looked like a superhero in it.

“Pink,” he said, looking at her. “It suits you.”

Hers was a similar style though pink with light blue accents.

“I’ve checked the gear,” she said, standing. “Tanks and regulators.”

“Good,” he said, setting down the fins and mask and picking up her buoyancy control vest with the tank already attached. “Let’s get started.”

The buddy system of diving applied from the start. He held the tank and vest as she turned and slipped her arms through. As she buckled the waist strap and felt the weight of the tank settle on her shoulders, Kirk checked the regulator and the gauges with test bursts. She checked her watch and the diving compass, tugged at the knife strapped to her thigh, and turned on the underwater flashlight clipped to the vest. When they were done, she picked up Kirk’s vest and tank and he slipped it on. They then performed the same checks on his gear.

Carrying fins and masks, they made their way to the diving platform at the stern. Mel was suddenly reminded of the old days. She, her father, and Kirk had dived almost daily. At first she dove for the fun of diving, then she’d dived for the thrill of the hunt, then she’d dived to be near Kirk.
 

Holding on to the ladder, they put their fins on and then their masks. Last came the regulators and a couple of test breaths. With a quick okay sign, as though they were in a synchronized dance, each held their mask and regulator and took a giant stride forward.

• • • • •

As Kirk kicked a few times, he tested his buoyancy and checked his gauges. He breathed normally and listened to the muted sound of bubbles and the swishing water in his ears. He glanced at Mel and, with two more okay signs, they were diving.

As though she already knew where she was going, Mel turned and headed north while descending. Kirk followed close behind and noted the anchor biting into the sandy bottom. Visibility was excellent. The deepening hues of aqua were pierced with undulating shafts of filtered sunlight. The white sand below was nearly smooth and the only reefs that were remotely close were in the distance behind them, on the other side of the boat.

As Kirk watched Mel kick toward the bottom, only a few feet away, he had a chance to appreciate the fit of her body suit. Of course, it wasn’t
how
it fitted, since body suits necessarily fit well, sometimes worn under a wet suit in colder waters. It was the body underneath it–the long clean lines of the sensual woman that Mel had become.

I wish I hadn’t known her as a teenager
, he thought, as a vague pang of guilt stabbed in his chest.
But little Mel wasn’t little any more.

As she continued to kick for the bottom, Kirk realized she couldn’t possibly know which direction to head. She was just excited. As he took another look around, he found he was excited too. Her medallion had said it all. Someone, maybe her father, had found the 1605 Fleet. Though it seemed as though a bearing and distance were all that was needed, that was far from the truth, especially in the days before GPS. Wrecks were sometimes found only to be lost again, some of it due to being scattered by the forces of the ocean, some of it due to inaccuracies in mapping. Even with this supposed location in hand, they could dive for weeks in order to zero in on the wreck and ultimately the mother lode. Nor was there any point in looking for something that looked like a ship. The wood of the hull and masts would have decayed long ago. Instead, they were looking for metal and gems–bronze cannons, gold pesos, silver bars, and emeralds.

As they neared the bottom, Mel leveled out. Kirk checked his watch and gauges. A safe, no-decompression dive on these tanks would be an hour. The current wasn’t strong and conditions were ideal. An hour would be easy.