Vanguard | Post-Apocalyptic YA

Part 21: Murky Water

The water is colder than before, or maybe it just seems like it because of the relentless wind. However, not everything is all bad. Since the plastic hose is sealed and there's a small buoy on one end, I'm able to put some of my weight on it and use it to help me float out to where I'm hoping the Skipper will still be.

I begin to quickly paddle with both my arms and legs, but I struggle against the wild waves. If I'd stop even for a few seconds, I would immediately get washed back toward the rocks and would have to start all over again. It's slow going, but by the time I'm twenty feet out, I figure I should be directly above the craft. However, getting my bearings one more time, I see that I've drifted sideways. Now I'm farther north than when I started out.

Great. Take two.

This time, my goal is to move parallel to the shore, making sure that I keep the distance from the rocks constant. At the same time, I have to travel down far enough that I'm right across from the lighthouse. I soon find out that this is easier thought than done.

While I usually don't have trouble concentrating on multiple variables at once - I am a highly trained pilot, after all - the cold and the rain have really become a distraction. It takes me at least twice as much effort as it should to finally get even remotely near the Skipper and by then, I'm exhausted. However, I don't have any time to waste so I find the end of the hose that I'll need to attach, take a deep breath, and dip below the surface.

I barely get anywhere before the slack on the hose is gone and I can't pull any more of the plastic tubing behind me. I give it a few more tugs, but I'm running out air, so I have no choice but to return to the top.

While exhaling the useless carbon dioxide from my lungs, I also shake the seawater out of my eyes. The cool air refreshes me and treading water with just my legs, I use both of my arms to untangle the hose. Satisfied with the results, I hang on to the bouy for a few seconds to rest and then dive once more.

This time the coil follows me easily, but I now realize how murky the water is.

Damn storm. It's allowing me to be outside right now, but it's also making it impossible for me to see my only way out of here.

I figure that the seafloor would be about twenty feet down, making the top of the Skipper ten feet below the surface. Nearing that depth, I try to rely on touch to get oriented because the farthest I can see is just a few inches but, the submarine is nowhere in the immediate vicinity.

I have to resurface again.

My eyes are now not only burning, but I can also feel the fine grains of sand scraping against my eyeballs every time I blink. Checking my location, I see that I've drifted away from the lighthouse again, so I first have to reposition myself - still tugging at the vacuum hose - before I can even consider another attempt to find the craft.

I'm gasping for air and I have to force myself to breathe evenly. I see that the clouds in the distance are getting darker and the rain is making it increasingly harder for me to see the lighthouse's white silhouette. My legs are starting to cramp up and I know that I don't have enough energy left for any more failures. If I can't find the Skipper and hook the hose up on this next attempt, I'm going to have to return to shore for an extended rest. And with the way the storm is evolving, it may get too rough for me to try again today.

So basically, if I fail this time, I'm screwed.

I take three deep breaths, holding in the last and hoping that it'll be enough. Kicking with my legs as hard as I can, I dive straight down.

Five, six, seven, eight.

My counts approximate the depth I've reached, but from my previous tries, I know that I still have farther to go.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen--

A dark mass directly below distracts me. Two quick kicks later, I get a renewed burst of adrenaline.

The Skipper!

Now I just have to find the ballast release port that Dunstan modified to accept the hose. Unfortunately, with such bad visibility, I can't readily tell which way is the stern and which way is the bow on the nearly symmetrical craft. I have to waste precious seconds again to feel around the side, hoping to find the tell-tale opening.

My lungs are burning - yearning to exhale - and I can feel myself getting light headed from the lack of oxygen. I'm temped to head back up, but my instincts tell me that this is the last chance I have.

Will, don't give up now!

With my search so far unfruitful, I'm about to move to the other side of the Skipper when my hand slips into a circular depression.

It's the port.

Now all I have left to do is make the connection, but my fingers have gone numb from the cold and I fumble with the hose. Worse yet, I'm having trouble concentrating on what I'm doing since my body is telling me is to get back to the surface for more air. Black spots begin to appear in front of me and the port suddenly no longer seems round, but rather changes shape before my eyes. The undulating images taunt me and every frantic attempt that I make to shove the hose into the hole ends up missing its target. If only I could take one quick breath . . .

I feel myself choking, but I no longer know where I am or what to do. My legs are kicking on their own accord and my entire body is now thrashing instinctively in a final attempt at ensuring my survival.

But it no longer matters. In the brief moment between when my head hits the metal skin of the Skipper and my loss of consciousness, I know I've failed.