The Achilles Heel (24 page)

“Suddenly, it wasn’t one hundred and ten degrees outside; coolness just kind of washed
over me, sending chills right to my bone. I’m surprised I couldn’t see my breath.
It wasn’t an actual voice that said, ‘Yes, Francis Hutchinson you’re going to live!’
but more of a peace that came over me. I felt the hands of God upon my shoulders that
day, and knew I would be okay. It was the most defining moment of my life, and it’s
beyond fascinating what we can hear if we are just willing to listen.”

I sat frozen with shame and
could not
have felt any smaller. This man, basically a stranger, had shared a life changing
experience with me, and I had spent the better half of six months lying to my best
friends and treating people almost as poorly as I had treated myself. A change in
the way I lived my life was in order. I needed to start making a difference; I just
didn’t know how yet.

“That was the most touching story I’ve ever heard, and can’t express to you how much
it means that you would share it with me,” I professed, dabbing at my eyes, trying
to pretend like I wasn’t crying.

“Happy to do it, just don’t let it be in vain,” Hutch said, as he gave me a fatherly
smile and patted my hand again. “Now, you look like you could use some rest. Why don’t
you go on home and relax so you’re raring to go tomorrow when we head out to sea.”

“More good advice; you’re a wealth of knowledge,” I said, as I pulled my purse off
the back of the chair and threw down a twenty.

“Well, I’m old, and I’ve done a lot of living in my years. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,
Annie,” he said as he gave me a squeeze, his sasquatch hand engulfing my thin shoulder.

“I can’t wait,” I replied, giving him a wave as I walked out the door.

ANNIE

T
he gravel lot was half full when my Jeep pulled into the Soggy Bottom around eleven
forty-five. Fat with sliver-green clouds, the sky looked as if it had an upset stomach
and would hurl a storm any minute.

“Only a light rain, nothing to worry about,” said a voice from inside a tiki hut with
a thatched grass roof.

“Hey, Hutch! Good to see you again!” I beamed, walking over and giving him a hug.

“Did Kessler come with you? I forgot to ask about him yesterday,” he inquired, looking
around.

“No, he was called back to the States on business. I’m not sure if he’ll be back to
the island,” I said uncomfortably, staring down at my feet while drawing a circle
in the gravel with my shoe.

Hutch must have sensed my reluctance to discuss Kessler, so the questions about him
ended. However, he did offer his opinion on the subject.

“Huh.” He looked perplexed. “You know, I’ve known Kessler for near five years now,
and he’s never introduced me to a lady friend of his before. In fact, you’re the first
woman I’ve ever seen Kessler take an interest in. Now, I know it’s none of my business,
but both nights you came to the bar, he must have asked me ten times if a woman matching
your description had shown up yet. Almost pained me to have to keep telling him no,
but I saw his face when you finally walked in; made a point of it, cause by that time,
he had me almost as interested in you as he was, and my curiosity got the better of
me about this mystery lady,” he declared, as he leaned his elbows on a small wooden
cabinet. “I certainly see what the fuss is all about.” He grinned as a toothy smile
stretched across his pasty white face.

I smiled back, not sure how to accept the compliment.

“Any who, let’s get down to business. Have you been diving before?” he asked, completely
changing the subject.

“Yes, but it’s been awhile.”

“How much do you remember?”

“Not a lot of the technical stuff, but enough to do a shore dive at the pier.”

“Well then, let’s get you suited up,” he stated, as he pulled out a wetsuit and measured
me for a weight belt.

The island of St. Croix is shaped much like a foot, with Cotton Valley situated on
the toes. We made the forty-five minute drive along the ball of the foot, over the
arch, around the ankle and finally we arrived at our destination, the Achilles’ heel.

How appropriate that the pier is in the exact spot the Achilles’ heel would be located
on a foot? The irony is uncanny.

Greek mythology never interested me, but I’ve heard the legendary story enough to
understand the modern translation is one of weakness even in immeasurable strength.
It was beyond the inspiration I needed, and my spirit flooded with a potent dose of
moxie as Hutch’s little pickup rattled to a stop in the parking lot across the street
from the pier. We made small talk during the first fifteen minutes of the trip, and
I told him that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the story he’d told me yesterday.

“Well, it wasn’t meant to keep you up at night, but the stories that really speak
to us somehow do,” he pointed out, never taking his eyes off the road.

Neither one of us had much to say after his poignant comment. Small talk seemed pointless
and somehow beneath us, so we let the air from the open windows do the talking for
us until we were ready to unload.

“Start getting your gear organized. I’m going in here a second to get a little help,”
Hutch said, as he pointed to a tiny yellow restaurant behind us.

Once I started taking my duffel bags out of the back of the truck, I realized it would
take more than one trip across the street before all of my gear was on the beach.
Just then, Hutch came out the back door of the restaurant with a big burly man whose
chest and arms were covered in tribal tattoos.

“This here’s Donnie, and he’s going to be our pack mule to the beach. I’ll lock up
the truck, so leave anything you aren’t diving with in the glove box,” Hutch instructed
me.

With the help of our tribesman Donnie, we had everything in a pile on the sand in
only one trip. Hutch gave him a twenty dollar hand shake, and he made his way back
to the restaurant, never speaking one word to either of us.

I thought I’d be uncontrollably nervous by this point; I’d been thinking about this
dive since Gail and I concocted this plan in her living room almost a month ago, but
I was more anxious to just get it over with than anything else. I zipped up my wetsuit,
put my mask and snorkel on my head and opened my duffel bag. With his back turned,
Hutch hooked up the air to my vest as I pulled out my knife and retractable-shaft
shovel, and laid them next to my flippers.

“Oh, you won’t need those,” he said, pointing to my knife and shovel as he turned
around noticing them. “These are protected waters and are considered a National Monument.
Whatever you pack in, you have to pack out and nothing more; no souvenirs.”

I just stared at him in silence as I hooked my knife belt onto my thigh, sliding the
jagged blade into the holster once it felt tight. Picking up my shovel and jamming
the pointy edge down into the sand so it stood erect on its own; the silence between
us came to a head, causing a meeting of the minds. We stood there for a minute or
so awkwardly looking at each other while the sky grew greyer and thicker with moisture.

“We aren’t going diving for fun, are we?” he surmised.

“I’m afraid not,” I answered.

“Um, I’m not sure what you’re after, Annie, but like I said yesterday, my curiosity
has a tendency to get the better of me, so I’ll go along for the ride. I could use
a mission to get my blood pumping, like back in my Vietnam days. Just know, if anyone
is patrolling the beach when we surface, we don’t know each other. Got it?” he stated
emphatically.

“I got it,” I calmly replied.

We put on our buoyancy control device, or BCD, which is a vest worn while scuba diving
that inflates and deflates depending on whether the diver wants to sink to the bottom
or rise to the surface. The ample vest coupled with the weight of the air tank made
out-of-water movement difficult, as we gaggled towards the water like moronic penguins,
trying to retain an ounce of dignity. I was aware that Hutch kept glancing over at
me and shaking his head with choice words he kept to himself.

The water was waist high when he turned to me and said, “It’s your show, Annie. You’ve
got a little over an hour of air, depending on how well you regulate your breathing.
I’ve got less since I’m twice your size; just tell me where you want to go.”

“Let’s kick out on the surface to the end of the pier, and save our air for the dive.
We’re going to the last column on the right side, and once we get down to the bottom,
I’ll take it from there,” I said in a surprisingly authoritative voice.

“I’m assuming you already know it’s like swimming five football fields to even get
to the edge of the pier. That’s a hell of a long way. Can’t we just walk to the end
of the pier and jump?” he proposed.

“No, we’ll be less noticeable in the water, and the extra oxygen tank is too heavy
to carry that far. Don’t worry about me, but if you need to stop and float for a while,
just tell me and I’ll be happy to rest with you,” I answered, as it started to rain.

“I didn’t realize we are trying to go unnoticed. Is there a chance you’re going to
tell me why?” he asked.

Again, I answered with silence.

“Well, I didn’t think so,” he mumbled to himself.

I couldn’t have asked for a better weather scenario than rain. People instantly packed
up their conversations and fishing rods, and the pier was basically vacant except
for one man who seemed more interested in his fresh catch than us; the less people
the better.

Hutch fit the shovel in between the back of my wetsuit and vest, so I didn’t have
to drag it through the water. Biting down on the mouthpiece of the snorkel, I echoed,
“Let’s swim!”

Totally underestimating how exhausting the swim out to the pier was, we had to stop
three different times to rest. As we bobbed up and down with only a hundred yards
to go and taking our final rest, I was reminded of the day that Jack died. I felt
this exact same sensation of floating when I passed out in my entry way. At the time,
I had considered myself weak, much like the Achilles’ heel, but today, out here in
the ocean, I knew I was more like the arrow that brought the Greek God to his knees.
I couldn’t help smiling as the rain pelted my face, slipping off my cheeks, and becoming
part of the ocean. I liked this new Annie, and she would be sticking around.

“You mind telling me what’s going on right now in that pretty little head of yours,
‘cause I’m already wiped out, and you seem almost giddy. Do I at least get to know
what you plan on doing once we get down there?” he sputtered, as water ran off his
beard in a continuous stream.

“Time will tell.” I smiled. “Last push, we’re almost there.”

When finally reaching our target, we worked together to strap the extra air tank around
the column in case one of us needed more air, and to also use as a descending line.
Hutch went under first, and I took the extra few seconds to clear my mind and steady
my breath.

Breathing underwater is entirely unnatural. It takes a moment to wrap your head around
the process of sucking in air when your brain is fully aware; oxygen isn’t available
below the surface. It takes even longer to begin to relax. Humans are the minority
below the waterline, and even if it never crossed your mind before the dive, once
you are submerged, it’s extremely evident; even a small mistake can cost you your
life. I had a habit of fidgeting with all of my gadgets the first few minutes of a
dive, much like how a batter fits and refits his glove before each pitch. It was my
check system, and it always helped to calm my nerves.

I deflated my vest a tiny bit at a time, watched the bubbles rush to the surface breaking
free of the ocean, and in return, started to sink. With one hand on the descending
rope which was attached to the column, and the other hand pinching my nose, equalizing
my eardrums with a popping sound every few feet, the bottom became more visible. Hutch
kept requesting an OK sign made by my fingers, to let him know that I was, in fact,
OK.

The colors under the ocean are insanely bright and each dive is like seeing them for
the first time. Up there, the pier is just gray concrete, but down here, it’s an underwater
aquarium, kept secret from those who aren’t willing to take the risk and sneak a peek.
I allowed myself to enjoy the scenery of a watery city bustling with fish and other
odd-shaped swimmers. Once my feet touched the bottom and the stirring of sand quieted,
Hutch pulled on his tank knocker to get my attention.

“Tink, tink, tink,” the knocker sounded.

He pulled out his underwater wipe-erase board and wrote, “Now what?” Shrugging his
shoulders in an exaggerated motion, he moved in close enough for me to read his note.

I wrote back, “Let me look a sec,” and he gave me his favorite OK sign.

Please be here. I came all the way to St. Croix; please let me be right.

I circled the ten foot radius of the column covered in barnacles and tall seaweed;
nature’s graffiti splashed upon the concrete like neon’s in a bar. Random plants and
overgrowth surrounded the base, and tiny fish darted out of their suburban homes as
I ran my fingers through the gulfweed. Then I saw it, a small patch of bare sand on
the ocean floor where nothing grew, except a miniature, shredded, yellow fringed,
American flag. My breath grew shallow with excitement as I struggled to plunge my
fingers into the salty grains, but continued to float up and away from the floor.
All the air in my vest was already drained and I still couldn’t keep my feet in the
sand. Hutch noticed, and expertly slipped ten extra pounds in my weight belt, immediately
sinking me back down to the bottom.

Annie, you smart, smart girl!
I screamed at myself from inside my mask.

Anything underwater is hard to accomplish; we are slow moving blobs with relativity
no strength. Hutch helped me pull out the shovel that was still wedged on my back
and even that small task took two of us. I hovered over the bare spot, stuffing the
flag down the front of my wetsuit; law or not, I was damn sure leaving with this souvenir.
I began wiping away the sand, but of course, most of it just fell back into its original
spot. Next, I tried digging an actual hole which seemed to work somewhat better, but
after each new attempt, I had to wait for the sand around my mask to clear before
digging again. The job seemed endless.