Page 111 of Surfer's Paradise

Zach exhaled, nodding once. “Appreciate it.”

He took another long pull from his water, his body finally coming down from the dive.

Isaac rolled his shoulders back, stretching the tension from his arms as he checked his watch.

Almost noon.

They’d been out for hours. Time moved differently out here. You got in the water before the sun, and when you came up, half the day was already gone. He was in the middle of the ocean. He had no idea when he’d be home.

His phone was locked up on base in a secure compartment, useless at sea, and for the millionth time, he thought about how this shit was impossible for most relationships to handle. The sudden departures, the silence, the weeks of no contact.

They had to trust.

Blindly.

Unconditionally.

And most people just weren’t built for this level of uncertainty.

He thought about Rosie.

The promise she made this morning.

The look in her eyes.

The way she made him feel like he wasn’t some heartless, selfish, commitment-phobic piece of shit.

He had no fucking clue what to do with that.

* * * * *

The boat cut through the water, pushing toward the docks with steady precision. The ride back to base took about an hour, standard time for their offshore drills, but Isaac didn’t register the passing minutes the same way civilians did.

Time wasn’t measured in hours out here. It was measured in rotations, training cycles, team readiness—whatever it took to keep them sharp.

By the time they tied off at the pier, he was already running through his mental checklist.

Post-dive debrief. Equipment breakdown. Cleaning and stowing gear. Medical check-ins if needed.

Zach was holding up fine, but Isaac made a note to track his recovery.

They secured the boat and unloaded gear in practiced efficiency, moving with the kind of wordless coordination that came from years of working together.

Shaw, ever the hard-nosed LPO, was already looking ahead.

“Debrief in twenty,” he said, not wasting a second as they hit the dock. “Get your kits cleaned up. I want full reports on today’s run before 1400.”

“Copy that,” Isaac responded, already unhooking his rebreather.

Zach was beside him, rolling his shoulders. No real signs of fatigue. Good.

As soon as they hit the lockers, everyone moved on instinct—breaking down their rigs, rinsing equipment, running post-dive checks without needing to speak.

This was business as usual.

It was quiet work, but Isaac didn’t mind. He liked the methodical routine of it—checking valves, securing hoses, flushing out regulators. The kind of small details that meant the difference between life and death when they were deployed.

Across the locker room, Dom was already done with his gear, drying off with a towel.

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