Fluke: Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings by Christopher Moore
Authors: Christopher Moore
Tags: Humor
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vacuum-packed Greek.
"Papa," said Clay.
* * *
Clair dragged the heavy tank out of the Always Confused 's bait well and tried to attach the regulator in order to hang it off a line for Amy and Clay to breathe from so they could decompress before coming up. Clay had shown her how to do this a dozen times, but she had never paid attention. It was his job to put the technothingies together. She didn't need to know this stuff. It wasn't as if she was ever going to go diving without him. She'd let him drone on about safety this and life-threatening that while she applied her attention to putting on sunscreen or braiding her hair so it wouldn't tangle in the equipment. Now she was blinking back tears and cursing herself for not having listened. When she thought she finally might have the regulator screwed on correctly, she grabbed it and dragged the tank to the side of the boat. The regulator came off in her hands.
"Goddamn it!" She snatched the radio and keyed the mike. "Nate, I need some help here."
"Go ahead, sistah," came back. "He be in the briny blue, fixing the propeller."
"Kona, do you know how a regulator goes on a scuba tank?"
"Yah mon, you got to keep the bowl above the water or your herb get wet and won't take the fire."
Clair took a deep breath and fought back a sob. "See if you can put Nate on."
Back on the Constantly Baffled, Nate was in the water with snorkel and fins fighting the weight of half a dozen wrenches and sockets he'd put in the pockets of his cargo shorts. He almost had the propeller off the boat. With luck he could install the shear pin and be up and running in a couple of minutes. It wasn't a complex procedure. It had just been made a lot trickier when Nate found that he couldn't reach the prop to work on it from inside the boat. Then, suddenly, his air supply was cut off.
He kicked up, spit the snorkel out of his mouth, and found himself staring Kona right in the face. The fake Hawaiian hung over the back of the boat, his thumb covering the end of Nate's snorkel, his other hand holding the radio, which he'd let slip halfway underwater.
"Call for you, boss."
Nate gasped and snatched the receiver out of Kona's hand – held it up out of the water. "What in the hell are you doing? That's not waterproof." He tried to sling the water out of the cell phone and keyed the mike. "Clair! Can you hear me?" No sound, not even static.
"But it's yellow," said Kona, as if that explained everything.
"I can see it's yellow. What did Clair say? Is Clay all right?"
"She wanted to know how to put the regulator on the tank. You have to keep the bowl above the water, I tell her."
"It's not a bong, you idiot. It's a real scuba tank. Help me out."
Nate handed up his fins, then stepped on the trim planes on the stern and pulled himself into the boat. At the console he turned on the marine radio and started calling. "Clair, you listening? This is the Constantly Baffled calling the Always Confused. Clair, are you there?"
"Constantly Baffled," cut in a stern, official-sounding male voice, "this is the Department of Conservation and Resources Enforcement. Are you displaying your permit flag?"
"Conservation, we have an emergency situation, a diver in trouble off our other boat. I'm dead in the water with a broken shear pin. The other boat is roughly two miles off the dump."
" Constantly Baffled, why are you not displaying your permit flag?"
"Because I forgot to put the damn thing up. We have two divers in the water, both possibly in trouble, and the woman on board is unable to put together a hang tank." Nate looked around. He could see the whale cops' boat about a thousand yards to the west toward Lanai. They were alongside another boat. Nate could see the familiar figure of the Count standing in the bow, looming there like doom in an Easter bonnet. Bastard!
"Constantly Baffled, hold there, we are coming to you."
"Don't come to me. I'm not going anywhere. Go to the other boat. Repeat, they have an emergency
"Papa," said Clay.
* * *
Clair dragged the heavy tank out of the Always Confused 's bait well and tried to attach the regulator in order to hang it off a line for Amy and Clay to breathe from so they could decompress before coming up. Clay had shown her how to do this a dozen times, but she had never paid attention. It was his job to put the technothingies together. She didn't need to know this stuff. It wasn't as if she was ever going to go diving without him. She'd let him drone on about safety this and life-threatening that while she applied her attention to putting on sunscreen or braiding her hair so it wouldn't tangle in the equipment. Now she was blinking back tears and cursing herself for not having listened. When she thought she finally might have the regulator screwed on correctly, she grabbed it and dragged the tank to the side of the boat. The regulator came off in her hands.
"Goddamn it!" She snatched the radio and keyed the mike. "Nate, I need some help here."
"Go ahead, sistah," came back. "He be in the briny blue, fixing the propeller."
"Kona, do you know how a regulator goes on a scuba tank?"
"Yah mon, you got to keep the bowl above the water or your herb get wet and won't take the fire."
Clair took a deep breath and fought back a sob. "See if you can put Nate on."
Back on the Constantly Baffled, Nate was in the water with snorkel and fins fighting the weight of half a dozen wrenches and sockets he'd put in the pockets of his cargo shorts. He almost had the propeller off the boat. With luck he could install the shear pin and be up and running in a couple of minutes. It wasn't a complex procedure. It had just been made a lot trickier when Nate found that he couldn't reach the prop to work on it from inside the boat. Then, suddenly, his air supply was cut off.
He kicked up, spit the snorkel out of his mouth, and found himself staring Kona right in the face. The fake Hawaiian hung over the back of the boat, his thumb covering the end of Nate's snorkel, his other hand holding the radio, which he'd let slip halfway underwater.
"Call for you, boss."
Nate gasped and snatched the receiver out of Kona's hand – held it up out of the water. "What in the hell are you doing? That's not waterproof." He tried to sling the water out of the cell phone and keyed the mike. "Clair! Can you hear me?" No sound, not even static.
"But it's yellow," said Kona, as if that explained everything.
"I can see it's yellow. What did Clair say? Is Clay all right?"
"She wanted to know how to put the regulator on the tank. You have to keep the bowl above the water, I tell her."
"It's not a bong, you idiot. It's a real scuba tank. Help me out."
Nate handed up his fins, then stepped on the trim planes on the stern and pulled himself into the boat. At the console he turned on the marine radio and started calling. "Clair, you listening? This is the Constantly Baffled calling the Always Confused. Clair, are you there?"
"Constantly Baffled," cut in a stern, official-sounding male voice, "this is the Department of Conservation and Resources Enforcement. Are you displaying your permit flag?"
"Conservation, we have an emergency situation, a diver in trouble off our other boat. I'm dead in the water with a broken shear pin. The other boat is roughly two miles off the dump."
" Constantly Baffled, why are you not displaying your permit flag?"
"Because I forgot to put the damn thing up. We have two divers in the water, both possibly in trouble, and the woman on board is unable to put together a hang tank." Nate looked around. He could see the whale cops' boat about a thousand yards to the west toward Lanai. They were alongside another boat. Nate could see the familiar figure of the Count standing in the bow, looming there like doom in an Easter bonnet. Bastard!
"Constantly Baffled, hold there, we are coming to you."
"Don't come to me. I'm not going anywhere. Go to the other boat. Repeat, they have an emergency
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