Bermuda Schwartz by Bob Morris Page B

it worked, you invested lots of time, lots of money, risked your life, and often for naught,” says Teddy.
    â€œYou’ve done pretty well by it though.”
    â€œAh, technology lent me a hand. I was lucky enough to be a youngman with his eye on salvaging when scuba first came along. Doesn’t mean I was any brighter than the rest.”
    â€œCome on,” I say. “Something tells me that even if scuba hadn’t come along you would have still found a way to do what you were obviously meant to do.”
    Teddy smiles.
    â€œYeah, you’re right about that,” he says. “Five years old, I was going out in a rowboat with a bucket, the bottom cut out and a piece of glass stuck in it so I could see what lay down there. By the time I was twelve I’d rigged up this little gasoline motor to pump air down a garden hose. Didn’t occur to me that I needed to figure a way to filter out the carbon monoxide when I did it. Almost killed myself the first time I tried it, had to work out the kinks. I was seventeen when I first strapped on a scuba tank. Seldom been far from one since.”
    â€œAnd the rest, as they say, is history.”
    â€œYeah, I had a good run at it. But that was in the so-called good ol’ days, before the new salvage law took effect.”
    â€œChanged things, did it?”
    â€œIn a big and everlasting way. The Historic Wrecks Act, they called it. Said all shipwrecks within three hundred miles of shore are historical sites that belong to the nation of Bermuda. Created a fancy-ass position, curator of the wrecks—that would be our man Frazer—and said anyone who discovers a site of potential salvage must register for a permit with his office. Some joke that is.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œCare to guess how many people have registered for permits since the new laws went into effect?”
    â€œDon’t have clue.”
    Teddy holds up a hand, touches index finger to thumb.
    â€œExactly zero,” he says. “Nary a one.”
    â€œThe permits cost a lot of money?”
    â€œNo, man, they’re free. Don’t cost a damn thing.”
    â€œSo, I don’t get it. People have just stopped salvaging?”
    Teddy cuts me a look.
    â€œWhat kind of fool ya be? Of course they haven’t stopped. Salvaging goes on like it always did. Only these days when folks go out there to look for something they just don’t find it. You know what I mean?”
    â€œThey salvage on the sly.”
    Teddy nods.
    â€œWho’s to blame them? The law says the government retains ownership to anything they find.”
    â€œAnd doesn’t have to pay them for it?”
    â€œOh, the law provides for just compensation,” says Teddy. “But it’s the government that gets to decide the compensation. And believe me, it’s nowhere near just. That’s why, people who salvage nowadays, when they find something of value, they sell it on the black market to some rich collector who secrets it away for his enjoyment and his alone. The public doesn’t hear about it. And worse, the public doesn’t get to share in the history of what was found. All the Historic Wrecks Act did was make sure people would never get a chance to see historic marine finds again.”
    â€œIt was different when you found Schwartz’s Scepter, right?”
    â€œOh yeah, it was altogether different. It was years before the wrecks act when I found Betty’s bat.” He looks at me, winks. “That’s what I called the scepter. I never much liked the idea of naming it after me. Better to give a nod to Queen Elizabeth I. A beauty it was.”
    â€œSomething to behold, huh?”
    â€œOh yeah, man, like you’ve never seen. Three dozen emeralds, the biggest, fattest ones you can imagine, and better than a hundred diamonds. All set in the finest gold. Weighed nearly a hundred pounds it did. I was the proudest man on the face