Bermuda Schwartz by Bob Morris

need a few minutes to decompress since I didn’t have much bottom time.
    I check my air gauge—2,000 psi. Hell, I was just barely getting started. Wonder what made Teddy want to head back?
    That’s when I realize that he hasn’t stopped. He’s heading straight forthe surface. These crusty, old divers. They just don’t play by the rules. The bends be damned …
    I look up the length of the anchor line. I see the hull
of Miss Peg
with its blue antifouling paint.
    I see something else, too.
    The other boat, its red hull sitting right alongside
Miss Peg.

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    By the time I surface, Teddy has already stripped off his gear and is talking to a tall, bearded man who stands on the other boat.
    The other boat’s engine is running. I can’t hear over it, but I can tell that “talking” does not fully describe what Teddy is doing. He’s in the other guy’s face. At least, as much as he can be in the other guy’s face considering the two of them are on separate boats with the gunwales between them. Which is probably a good thing. Because it looks as if Teddy is ready to leap out and grab the tall, bearded man by the throat.
    The other vessel is what we in Florida call a “go-fast” boat—sleek, powered to the hilt, and the favored craft of drug smugglers. The U.S. Coast Guard uses the same kind of boat to chase the bad guys, only the coast guard calls it a DPB, a deployable pursuit boat.
    Whatever the name, it flat-out hauls ass. This one looks like a fortyeight-footer. There’s a second man on it, sitting at the wheel. He’s young, in his twenties, olive skinned with black wraparound sunglasses.
    It’s not until I climb aboard
Miss Peg
that I notice the official seal of Bermuda emblazoned on the side of the other boat, white and green with a red lion in the middle.
    And I hear Teddy shouting: “This is harassment, you son of a bitch, and I’m tired of it!”
    Boggy takes hold of my tank and helps me slip out of my vest.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask him.
    â€œGovernment man,” says Boggy. “He wants to search Teddy’s boat.”
    The other boat rides high in the water so it gives the tall, bearded man the advantage of looking down on Teddy. He stands with his arms folded across his chest, wire-rimmed glasses low on his nose. He looks like a professor, patient and unruffled as Teddy hurls invective after invective at him.
    When Teddy finally stops, the bearded man puts up a hand, trying to calm him down.
    â€œSir Teddy, please,” he says, “I apologize for any trouble that this might cause you. It is not my intent to harass, merely to carry out the law. And the law gives me full authority to board any vessel that I suspect may be in violation of the Salvage Act.”
    â€œI told you, goddammit, I’m not in violation of anything!”
    â€œThen you shouldn’t have a problem with me carrying out this inspection.”
    â€œIt’s an insult. I intend to file a formal complaint with the minister’s office.”
    â€œThat is your right,” says the bearded man. “Still, I will ask one more time for permission to come aboard. And if you do not comply, then I will impound this vessel.”
    Teddy fumes, but he stops arguing. He steps away from the gunwale.
    The bearded man grabs a line from his boat and ties it off on
Miss Peg’s
stern cleat. The young guy behind the wheel shuts down the engine and fastens a line from the bow. Both of them wear navy blue shorts, light blue shirts, and navy blue caps that bear the seal of Bermuda.
    The bearded man hops aboard
Miss Peg.
    â€œAgain, Sir Teddy, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
    â€œJust hurry up with it,” says Teddy.
    It only takes a few minutes for the bearded man to search all the compartments, deckside first, then in the cabin. When he’s done, he walks up to me.
    â€œYou were diving as well?” he