Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“Andddddd I read classic shit too every once in a while. No Cap? Pretty sure Mr. Caterham wanted to be a pirate rather than the spy I’m pretty sure he was.”
“Lee Shore,” I recapture the conversation in tandem with redirecting us to the route I need to go on the vessel to get changed, “isn’t a pirate-”
“Captain? First mate? Quartermaster?” Zero quickly questions. “”Cause my program-”
“It’s not a person, it’s-”
“Don’t say song,” he interrupts once more. “Because that cheugy needle drop from the 1700s by that hockey player or whatevs doesn’t fit into the vibe of the clues at all.”
Outrage and disbelief drop my jaw in preparation to spiral when Garcia lovingly beats me to the wheel by gently grabbing his chin and wolfishly chastising, “Be a good boy for Master and stay quiet for Princess.”
His obedience is immediate.
And appreciated.
Diving irritated rarely works out in my benefit; although, anger – on the occasion – is a positive motivator.
“Lee Shore is a nautical reference,” escapes in my continued backwards movement. “A lee shore means a shoreline toward the way wind is blowing. This is typically a problem because the wind is basically bullying a ship out of the water for the land.”
Both men – to my surprise – appear slightly confused.
“It’s a bad thing. Wind and waves pushing a boat – of any kind – towards the land when you don’t want it to is dangerous shit.”
Understanding sinks in simultaneously.
“It does give us pinnacle directions for where the ship was coming from based on that information.”
Nods of comprehension are executed.
“Gale is also not a person.”
Zero’s forehead crinkles in obvious confusion prompting Garcia to lightly squeeze his fingers as a reminder to remain silent.
“It too is a reference except to weather instead of specifically boats.”
“Gale force winds,” casually states the man currently allowed to speak.
“Yeah, but before modern characterization…in its more basic etymology roots…it was just a reference to strong wind, and then they’d attach descriptors to it to aid in defining just how strong or dangerous.”
“Meaning… ‘no life left in this tale’…”
“Combined with Lee Shore was all about how fucked they were in this very spot.”
“How they were likely to die.”
“Here.” I abruptly come to a stop. “All the other clues and riddles and wording people tend to follow refer to the journey they were making, where they had been, where they were headed, where they hoped to land, all thrown out to keep people off their actual location; however, that last clue, that last journal entry line that Weslington brought us was about where all the shit ended. Where they were most likely to – and most likely did – die.” My hands slide into my back jean shorts pocket. “Starting here, I’ll navigate outward. Using the information Zero and his program came up with, I have a pretty clear path to search for his ticket to freedom.”
Garcia let’s a curious eyebrow quirk. “His ticket or your ticket?”
My lips press together in a refusal to answer.
It’s definitely his ticket to not get royally fucked – pun intended – but finding the shit to salvage is technically mine too.
The type of payday that can take me anywhere I wanna go.
Anywhere that’s not here which is where I swore, I was done wanting to be.
And that’s true.
Or at least it was true.
It’s getting harder to pretend that that hasn’t changed.
A lot like it’s getting harder to accept this fling to fuck off situation is now more like a fling to possibly forever one.
Changing into my diving gear is mostly done to the sound of Zero re-reading every and any fact about our current location he managed to whip up – with his handy 1s and 0s at the helm – and Garcia loudly sipping tequila, his telltale sign he’s nervous yet unwilling to admit it.
Fact is…I’m a bit nervous too.
If we’re wrong…fuck, if I’m wrong…we’re dead.
Prince Problem Child will kill Zero and then us because no one likes loose ends.
Normally, when I’m wrong, who fucking cares.
We load up the boat.
We try again the next day or the next or whenever we can because that’s the nature of the salvage whale, but this time…if I’ve missed the mark…it’ll cost us all our lives.
The first plunge into the water is baptisingly beautiful.
Cleansing.
Refreshing.
Between the space from the shore and the space from those that keep tugging at my soul, it feels like I can finally breathe in spite of sinking further and further down into depths not meant for the untrained.
Gently sweeping the light back and forth both entices and repels creatures alike.
I maintain a steady, slow pace along with being mindful of the sharp rocks and narrow crevices.
Keeping the illumination trained down on the ground occurs in hoping the beam will bounce off of something important.
Except it doesn’t.
Rocks.
Sand.
Pancake batfish.
Yes.
Gold?
Silver?
A fucking dining fork?
Nope.
Giving up would be logical and easy and probably the smartest idea – according to the amount of air I have in my tank – but very un me.