The Reef

Sea of Japan. There’re so many places to see. Once I finish college, I’m going to see them all.”
    “Marine archeology, right?”
    “That’s right.”
    He skimmed a glance over her. Her bright cap of hair was tousled by the salt and wind. She wore baggy cotton slacks, a skimpy T-shirt and square, black-framed sunglasses.
    “You don’t look much like a scientist.”
    “Science takes brains and imagination, not looks or fashion sense.”
    “Good thing about the fashion sense.”
    Unoffended, she shrugged. In spite of her mother’s occasional despair, Tate never gave clothes or style a thought. “What’s the difference, as long as you’ve got a good wet suit? I don’t need a wardrobe to excavate and that’s what I’m going to spend my life doing. Imagine getting paid to go on treasure hunts, to examine and study artifacts.” She shook her head at the wonder of it. “There’s so much to learn.”
    “I never thought a whole lot of school myself.” Of course, they had moved around so much, he’d never had a choice. “I’m more a fan of on-the-job training.”
    “I’m certainly getting that.”
    They took a cab into town where Tate could drop off her film. To her pleasure, Matthew didn’t seem to mind when she wanted to poke around the shops, dallying over trinkets. She sighed for a while over a small gold locket with a single pearl dripping from its base. Clothes were forkeeping out the weather, but baubles were a nice, harmless weakness.
    “I didn’t think you went in for stuff like that,” he commented, leaning on the counter beside her. “You don’t really wear any bangles.”
    “I had this little ruby ring Mom and Dad gave me for Christmas when I was sixteen. I lost it on a dive. It really broke my heart, so I stopped wearing jewelry in the water.” She tore her eyes away from the delicate locket and tugged on his silver piece. “Maybe I’ll take that coin Buck gave me and wear it as a charm.”
    “Works for me. You want to get a drink or something?”
    She touched her tongue to her top lip. “Ice cream.”
    “Ice cream.” He thought it over. “Let’s go.”
    Sharing cones, they strolled along the sidewalk, explored narrow streets. He charmed her by plucking a creamy white hibiscus from a bush, tucking it carelessly behind her ear. While they shopped for Marla’s essentials, he had her gurgling with laughter over the story of Buck and Blackbeard’s ghost.
    “We were off Ocracoke, on Buck’s birthday. His fiftieth. The idea of half a century behind him had Buck so depressed he’d finished off half a bottle of whiskey. I helped him work on the other half.”
    “I bet.” Tate chose a bunch of ripening bananas and added it to her basket.
    “He was going on about all these might have’s—you know what I mean. We might have found that wreck if we’d looked another month. If we’d gotten there first, we might have hit the mother lode. If the weather had held, we might have struck it rich. Between the whiskey and the boredom, I passed out on deck. That melon’s not ripe. This one.”
    He switched fruit, chose the grapes himself. “Anyway, the next thing I know, the engines are roaring and the boat’s lurching off southeast at a good twelve knots. Buck’s at the wheel, screaming about pirates. Scared the shit out of me. I jumped up, tripped, knocked my head on the rail so hard I saw stars. Nearly went overboard whenhe swung to starboard. He’s yelling for me and I’m cursing him, fighting to stay upright as he circles the boat. His eyes are about six inches out from his face and white. You know he can’t see more than three feet in front of him without his glasses. But he’s pointing out to sea and shouting all this pirate cant. ‘Avast, ahoy, shiver me timbers.’ ”
    Tate’s laughter turned heads. “He did not say ‘shiver me timbers.’ ”
    “Hell, he didn’t. He nearly capsized us doing a jig and singing ‘yo, ho, ho.’ ” The memory of it had a grin tugging at his mouth. “I almost had to knock him out to get the wheel away from him. ‘The ghost, Matthew. Blackbeard’s ghost. Don’t you see it?’ I told him he wasn’t going to be seeing anything either after I poked his eyes out. He tells me it’s there, right there, ten degrees off the forward bow. There’s not a damn thing there but a little mist. But to Buck, it was Blackbeard’s severed head, smoke curling from the beard. He claimed it was a sign, and if we dived there the next day,