Spirits of the Pirate House (4 page)

“Okay, so who’s the foist victim?” said Capt.
Kenny mischievously.

“Me. I’ll go first,” said Bortnicker,
standing wobbly on the pitching vessel. “If I don’t do it now, I
never will.”

“Good man! Well, over the side wit’ you,
Bortnicker!”

T.J. watched with admiration as his friend
inched his way to the stern, swung his flippered feet onto the dive
platform that jutted out over the foaming waves, adjusted his mask,
gave him a tentative thumbs up, and then goose-stepped into the
harbor’s ominous waters.

Capt. Kenny gave him a couple minutes to
hopefully find the guide rope and make his way to the bottom.
“Hasn’t popped right back up,” he announced finally. “Well, that’s
a good sign. I’ll stay down there to wait for the rest of youse.
Just follow the rope till you reach the bottom. I’ll find you down
there.” With that, he assumed a sitting position on the inside of
the gunwale then nonchalantly flipped backward into the water,
leaving the remaining candidates alone with their thoughts.

Minutes passed on the rocking boat. Another
diver threw up over the side, and T.J. closed his eyes, wondering
how Bortnicker was doing. Then, realizing he was working himself
into a panicked state, he forced his mind to go elsewhere. He
thought of LouAnne and palm trees.

After an interminable wait, Bortnicker bobbed
to the surface near the platform, gave a small wave, and was pulled
aboard by his classmates, who eagerly awaited his report. He
removed his mask, spat out the mouthpiece, and grandly announced,
“Piece of cake, guys.”

“I’ll go next,” volunteered T.J. Bortnicker
escorted him to the platform with a smile, but at the last second
pulled him close and whispered, “Watch it. It’s dark down there.”
With a quick nod, T.J. stepped off.

The water wasn’t as cold as he’d imagined it
to be; maybe it was the sweat he’d generated, imprisoned in his
wetsuit, that was keeping him warm. He found the anchor rope and
started following it down, equalizing his ears every ten feet or
so, telling himself, “If Bortnicker can do it, so can I.” What he
didn’t learn until later was that, as soon as he’d gone beneath the
surface, Bortnicker had quickly excused himself from the group and
gone below where, locking himself in the head, he’d firmly grasped
the sink with both hands until he was able to stop himself from
shaking.

At the last moment, T.J. felt the sandy
bottom come up to meet him. He couldn’t believe, in all this inky
blackness, that he was only 25 feet below the surface. Letting go
of the rope, he brought himself to a standing position, looking
around for Capt. Kenny. “He’s just testing me,” he wuffed into his
mouthpiece. When Kenny tapped him on the shoulder, it was all he
could manage to keep from collapsing in fright.

But Capt. Kenny was a pro who’d seen it all.
He quickly calmed the teen, who much appreciated the small light
attached to the top of Divemaster’s mask. Then, through a series of
gestures, he initiated the test exercises.

All three of the tasks were difficult for
T.J., but none held as much terror as when Kenny snapped off his
headlight, lifted off his student’s mask, and handed it back to
him. Biting back the bile rising in his throat, T.J. shakily
repositioned and cleared the mask, relief washing over him when he
made out Capt. Kenny giving him a thumbs up. He gained a bit more
confidence with the switching of breathing apparatus exercise and
then powered his way through the orienteering maneuver. It was on
the swim back from the buoy anchor that he thought,
Of course I
can do
this. I stared down a Confederate cavalryman
on the field of battle and didn’t run
. He returned to where
Capt. Kenny awaited by the anchor rope, received an emphatic “OK”
sign and a pat on the shoulder, and then ascended to where
Bortnicker and his classmates anxiously anticipated his return.

“Were you scared?” asked Bortnicker, pulling
him on board after taking his flippers.

T.J. gave him a wry smile. “Not any more than
you.” They burst into laughter and smacked a high five.

An hour later, Capt. Kenny’s mate hauled up
the anchor and they headed back to Bridgeport Harbor. Only one
trainee had panicked and thus failed his test, not counting the
woman who’d bailed at the beginning. Overall, Capt. Kenny was
pleased.

As they pulled into the boat slip T.J. could
see his father, Thomas Jackson, Sr., and Bortnicker’s mom, Pippa,
waving from the observation deck of the Fisherman’s Rest seafood
shack, which boasted the best lobster roll sandwich around.
Bortnicker shot them a “thumbs up” to signify they’d passed their
exam, and then the boys began gathering their belongings, including
a change of clothes for dinner upstairs.

They were about to exit the boat when Capt.
Kenny told them to sit down. “Listen, youse two,” he said
seriously, “ya done real good down there, barely a hitch, so it’s
my pleasure to issue the both of you your own gen-u-ine PADI card.
But that don’t mean you’re some kinda experts. In fact, in da big
picture, you don’t know
squat
. That’s why I got my doubts
about you divin’ on some wreck in Bermuda, even if it is in fairly
shallow water.

“A’course, if you could dive in
this
crap,” he flung a hand out toward the harbor’s churning waters,
“youse can dive in anything. In Bermuda there’s probably gonna be
like unlimited visibility, and in June, the water temp is like your
bathtub.” Both boys broke into broad grins at the prospect.

“But you gotta promise me that, no matter
what, you don’t take any stoopid chances down there, and whatever
else you do,
never
dive alone. Somethin’ goes wrong down
there, you need a buddy. Understood?”

“We gotcha,” said T.J., extending his hand.
“Thanks for everything, Capt. Kenny.”

“Yeah, right,” the old seadog replied,
engulfing the boys’ hands in his huge paw. “Just make sure you
flash my shop’s logo on camera whenever possible. That would be
nice.”

“I bet we can even get you a ‘special thanks’
in the closing credits!” chirped Bortnicker.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Now youse two
clowns get outta here and let me wash down this tub.”

Chapter Four

“
Lobster roll’s a
little too mushy—they should’ve eased up on the mayo,” said
Bortnicker, dipping a French fry into his little paper cup of
ketchup.

“Well, maybe if you’d actually
chewed
it you’d have enjoyed it more,” quipped T.J. “I can’t believe you
got your appetite back so quick after being seasick.” He had only
nibbled at his own sandwich and had avoided the greasy fries
completely.

“What can I say?” grunted Bortnicker through
a mouthful of food. “Now that I’m back on land I need
nourishment!”

The sun had broken through, and the day had
actually become quite pleasant. They had found a vacant picnic
table with an umbrella on the deck of Fisherman’s Rest, which was
becoming crowded with boat people and other harbor visitors passing
the late spring afternoon. The wind had died down a bit, and the
harbor’s waters looked less threatening than a couple hours before,
when Capt. Kenny’s 36’ dive boat
NeverEnuf
had ferried the
boys out to the mouth of Bridgeport Harbor for their SCUBA
certification dive test. A slightly overweight waitress dressed in
faux pirate gear dropped off a second round of iced teas.

Pippa Bortnicker, who earned a good living as
a feng shui interior decorator to the well-heeled of Connecticut’s
“Gold Coast,” smiled warmly at her son as she plucked a cherry
tomato from her garden salad. “He’s become quite the food critic,”
she commented with a wink. “I’m getting a complex about my
cooking.” With her 70s style peasant blouse and long, frizzy hair
tied back with a pink bow, she looked like a rather attractive
middle-aged refugee from Woodstock. Her son could have countered
that Pippa’s strict vegan diet severely cramped her creations, but
he chose to let it go. The day was going too well.

“I, for one, think it’s great that he’s
picked up a hobby that’s useful,” said Thomas Jackson, Sr., who was
decked out in his standard uniform of golf shirt and khakis. “Some
girl is going to be
very
lucky.”

“And model railroading isn’t useful?”
countered Bortnicker, referring to his first love.

“Oh surrre,” said T.J., rolling his eyes for
effect. “Girls really dig it.”

Pippa delicately wiped her mouth with her
napkin and placed it on the table. “All right, gentlemen,” she
began, “now that the diving exam is over, could you tell me again
how this whole excursion is going to work?”

The three males looked at each other, hoping
someone would take the lead. Tom Sr. ran a hand through his stylish
salt-and-pepper hair and spoke first. “I’ve been in touch with The
Adventure Channel people, as well as Mike Weinstein, the host of
Gonzo
Ghost Chasers.
They have arranged for us to
occupy four efficiency units at the Jobson’s Cove Apartments Hotel
on the South Shore. Mike and I will have our own units, the boys
will share one, and T.J.’s cousin LouAnne will have the fourth.
This has all been cleared with my brother-in-law, Mike Darcy.”

“I really appreciate this, Tom,” said Mrs.
Bortnicker. “It will allow me to attend the Feng Shui workshop in
New York City during that week. I signed up for it ages ago—”

“We know, Mom,” interrupted Bortnicker,
obviously hoping to derail a long monologue on the benefits of Feng
Shui living that had become Pippa’s trademark.

“Anyway,” continued Tom Sr., “the boys will
be allowed to take their freshman finals a week early and we’ll hop
a plane to Bermuda that first Friday in June. Mike Weinstein is
supposed to be there already, and he’s bringing all the equipment.
LouAnne will be a couple days behind us because she has finals and
a big track meet to close out her spring season that she refuses to
skip. So, she’ll fly out of Philadelphia, and we’ll pick her up at
the airport.

“After that we’re on Mike Weinstein’s
schedule. Make no mistake—although Bermuda is the ultimate vacation
destination, the kids are going to have to put in a lot of hard
work to finish up in their allotted time of under two weeks.”

“Such as?” queried Pippa.

“Well, for starters, Mike will have to verse
them on the usage of the various ghost hunting gadgets used on the
show—the electronic voice phenomena stuff and whatnot. Remember,
there’s no film crew on site. The team does its own filming as it
conducts the investigation. Mike’s involvement on site will be
minimal—that’s the whole idea of this
Junior Gonzo
show or
whatever they’re going to call it.”

Mrs. Bortnicker frowned and furrowed her
eyebrows. “And you really believe in this stuff, Tom?”

The elder Jackson chewed on the inside of his
cheek, realizing that the boys’ eyes were upon him. “Pippa,” he
said evenly, “if you’d asked me this a year ago I’d have told you
that
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
was just another schlocky
paranormal show and that the idea of spirits and ghosts moving
among us is a bunch of baloney.

“But last year, something happened to those
kids down in Gettysburg that they all swear to. And what’s more, so
does my brother-in-law, whom I’d trust with my life. So, to answer
your question: yes, there are a lot of ridiculous, exploitive ghost
shows on TV, and
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
can be as over-the-top
as any of them. But if there is a pirate’s ghost in Bermuda, these
kids are as qualified as anyone to prove it.”

T.J. felt his chest puff out with pride at
his father’s words, and Bortnicker lightly kicked him under the
table in agreement.

“But where does the SCUBA diving come in?”
she asked worriedly. “Why is it so necessary?”

“Apparently, this William Tarver had a sloop
called
The Steadfast
that may or may not have been
discovered off the reefs near where he established an estate, no
doubt financed by the spoils of his pirate adventures. It sits in
only 25 or so feet of water. So, The Adventure Channel wants them
to check it out for any clues as to its age or use.”

“And they’re qualified to do this?”

“Of course not!” laughed Tom Sr. “But
remember, it’s a ghost hunting show, not some treasure quest.”

“Of course, Mom,” broke in Bortnicker
sweetly, “if we do find jewels and stuff, you’ll get your cut.”

“Very funny. I’m just worried about sharks
and such.”

“Well,” said Tom Sr., “if it makes you feel
any better, the dive shop owner who found the wreck, Jasper
Goodwin, will be the guy running us out there on his boat, for
which The Adventure Channel’s paying him some serious money. He’s
supposed to be one of the top diving guys in Bermuda, and since
it’s he who discovered the wreck, he has exclusive rights to dive
on it for a period of time. I’m sure he’ll keep a close watch on
the kids. And I’ll be there, too, whenever I can.”

“I still can’t believe how you worked this
out, Tom,” smiled Pippa, sipping her tea. “Such fortuitous
circumstances!”

“It’s pretty simple, actually. Bermuda is one
of my favorite places on earth, and I’ve been just about
everywhere. While most guys were going down to Daytona Beach or Ft.
Lauderdale for Spring Break, my college buddies and I preferred
Bermuda. It was cleaner, safer, and a lot less crazy, though we
managed to have our fun. Plus, we could play golf and swim in
pristine waters. We’d rent a couple mopeds and have a blast.

“Then, when I got married, T.J.’s mom and I
went there on our honeymoon, and I fell in love with the place all
over again. Cheryl and I visited a couple more times, including
once when T.J. was around two years old, and as an architect I
hoped to someday be able to work on a project there, something that
would blend perfectly with traditional Bermudian surroundings and
add to an already fantastic landscape.