Salvage of the Tatiana

Miles took a deep breath and closed the bypass valve again. Delightfully warm water flowed across his skin.

He dropped through the hatch opening and found himself staring into the abyss, the blackest cavern of the human soul, turned inside out, but the abyss held less terror for those who faced it often. 

The feeling of being outside the bell was both wondrous and frightening. He felt a hundred pounds lighter. He hung on the frame of the bell, and practiced scissor kicks. He enjoyed the freedom of movement. He stared through the water. Eyes stared back at him.

He drifted downward, suspended in the weightless medium, and grabbed the cable leading to the holdback anchor. He climbed down the cable hand over hand. When he reached the anchor, he stopped and checked his diving gear. He took a few quick breaths and was satisfied the regulator was functioning properly. He checked his weight belt, making sure it fit snugly around his waist. He tugged once on his umbilical, the signal for Kelly to stop dropping slack into the water.

His eyes adjusted to the twilight world. The vista that appeared before him took his breath away. “I can almost see the whole ship!” Miles hung on the anchor cable, mesmerized. “I’m surprised I have such good visibility.”

Miles let his gaze roam across the enchanting seascape. The hull of the freighter rested in quiet slumber on the ocean floor. The funnel had broken off and lay in the mud. Fish of all sorts and sizes swam lazily along the monstrous ship, some disappearing and reappearing through huge gaping holes in the structure. Sunlight filtered down in diffuse rays, and Miles thought he saw a black spec, which was the L.B. Meade on the surface. The bell umbilical snaked to the surface, and the bell, encased in a weak aura from its two floodlights, rose and fell with a slow rhythm. Directly below Miles, the holdback anchor touched a hull plate. Sea growth covered the hull and the railing along the deck. Anemones, tunicates, and corals grew in abundance. Toward the stern, twisted metal revealed where the plates had ruptured.

“Tatiana is definitely on her port side. She’s leaning about thirty degrees. I can see the bridge and the railing on the starboard bow. It’s already covered with slime.”

“Where is the bell in relation to the ship?” Beyers asked.

“I’m near the bow. The anchor is scraping against the hull about ten feet down from the deck.”

“We’ll reposition the barge. I want to be near amidships.”

“Roger.”

Miles crawled up the anchor cable. “Pick up my slack.”

Excess umbilical was drawn up toward the bell. “All stop.”

“We’re all stop on your umbilical.”

“I’m ready. Let’s tighten up the stern anchors and see which way I move.”

“Stand by.”

With only his thoughts and the sound of his breathing for companions, Miles hung on the anchor cable close to the bell as the barge adjusted its eight-point mooring. He studied the anchor below him to judge which direction the barge was moving.

He felt water resistance as he moved laterally. “I feel like a lure on the end of a fishing line.”