Page 4 of The Captain
Just the churn of my own thoughts, the same as always.
Before I knew it, my watch buzzed against my wrist. One hour. I stopped, treading water, the surface choppy but manageable. The shore was a smear in the distance, Charleston’s skyline a low bruise against the horizon. I was alone out here, two miles from land, nothing but sea and sky and the weight in my chest.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let myself sink. Down and down, ears popping, pressure building like a fist around my ribs. The water darkened, green light streaking through the blue, and I opened my eyes, searching. Hoping. For something. Anything. Her.
But it was just the deep, same as every time—silent, endless, offering nothing but its own indifference.
My heart shuddered, a familiar ache, and I kicked back toward the surface, breaking through with a gasp, gulping air as the sun burned my face.
Then it came—the thwump-thwump of rotor blades, low and mean, cutting through the quiet. A Coast Guard helicopter roared overhead, its wash blasting the water into a frothy mess. Before I could curse, a diver splashed in twenty feet away, slicing through the surface like a dart.
Great. Just fucking great.
I treaded water, watching as the chopper hovered, lowering a rescue basket. The diver swam toward me, head up, assessing. I waved, forcing a grin.
“You okay?” he shouted over the rotor noise, his voice sharp with protocol.
“Just out for a swim,” I called back, keeping it light.
He stopped a few feet away, treading water, his mask pushed up. “You crazy?”
“Not since my last psych check.” I wasn’t so sure, though. The thought flickered—maybe I was a little nuts, chasing ghosts in the deep like this. But I shoved it down.
The diver shook his head. “You can’t be out here, man. It’s not safe.”
I didn’t argue. No point. “Fine. Lower a couple harnesses instead of that basket. Save you some trouble.”
He snorted, glancing up at the chopper. “Nah, that’s a waste of fuel. Post commander hates that shit.”
“Let me guess,” I said, smirking. “The kind of CO who counts your toilet paper squares and checks the bowl after.”
The diver laughed, a real one, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah, something like that.”
I shrugged and swam toward the basket, climbing in without a fight. My Marines would’ve roasted me for this—Captain Dane, hauled out of the ocean like a stranded tourist.
The basket jerked as it lifted, water streaming off me, the chopper’s roar swallowing everything else. Up top, the crew chief—a grizzled guy with a wad of chew tucked in his lip—hauled meaboard. I pulled on a headset, the static crackling in my ears as the pilots glanced back, their expressions easing when they saw I wasn’t some idiot in distress.
“Where we headed?” I asked, voice steady despite the salt burning my throat.
“Back to base,” the chief said, spitting into a bottle. “Gotta file a report.”
“Is that necessary?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, dripping onto the deck. “I’m good for a round at your favorite bar. Drop me back at the beach, forget you saw me.”
The copilot—a woman, her voice crisp through the headset—chimed in. “One round? You’re paying for the whole night, including another crew.”
I grinned. “Deal.”
The chief squinted at me, his eyes narrowing like he’d caught a scent. “Jarhead, right?”
I shrugged, wiping salt from my goggles. “That obvious?”
“Yeah.” He tucked another pinch of tobacco in his lip, smirking. “My brother was a Marine. You Devil Dogs live by a different creed. Who else swims two miles out to sea with nothing but his cock and balls?”
I laughed, short and rough. “That’s about right.”
They kept their word, banking the chopper toward Folly Beach instead of the base. The crowd down below had swelled since I’d left, a knot of people clustered near the water’s edge, phones out, gawking at something. Probably that shark, or whatever it was.
The chopper set down a ways off, kicking up sand, and I climbed out, fins in hand, giving the crew a nod. The crew chief handed me an actual business card, and mimed a ‘call me’ sign.
