“Not so fast,” Pitt said. He circled to the other side, where they could see it was actually a dugout canoe.
“Will you look at the size of that?” Giordino said as he reached up and activated an external video camera. “It must be over thirty feet long.”
“That’s a major league dugout canoe,” Pitt said. “It must have been used for interisland travel.”
The canoe was half buried and facing away from the depression, but its interior was free of sand and debris. Pitt eased the Starfish along its length, allowing the video camera to capture a thorough record of the vessel.
“I count ten benches,” Giordino said, “wide enough to seat two oarsmen each, with plenty of cargo room to spare.”
“Probably used by the local Taíno Indians for trading goods.” Pitt pointed to the hull. “Looks like they knew how to modify a canoe for the open seas.”
Carved planks had been pegged to the topsides of the canoe, creating a freeboard that extended an additional ten inches. Both stem and stern featured raised angular end pieces that had been attached to the base log.
“I don’t know what they were carrying,” Giordino said, “but it’s a cinch it wasn’t mercury.”
Pitt nodded. As he swung around the end of the canoe, the submersible’s thrusters blew away a patch of loose sand, exposing a small rectangular stone.
Giordino caught sight of the object. “Something on the bottom there.”
“I see it. Why don’t you try to bring it home?”
Giordino was already activating the controls of the manipulator, extending its silver claw as Pitt brought the Starfish over the object. He easily grasped the stone and pulled it from the sand. As he held it to the viewport, he and Pitt could see it was a carving of a native warrior. The image had squat legs, a large nose, and wore a breechcloth.
Pitt glanced at the carving before purging the ballast tanks to surface. “Possibly of ancient vintage,” he said.
“He kind of reminds me of our high school wrestling coach, Herbert Mudd,” Giordino said.
Pitt grinned. “I’ll wager young Herbert there would have an interesting story to tell, if he could talk.”
The carved warrior remained clutched in the manipulator’s claw, peering into the cockpit as the submersible rose to the surface. Although Herbert would leave the talking to others, the little stone statue would ultimately have a lot to declare.
26
The pinging melody from a sidewalk steel drum band greeted Dirk and Summer as they exited Montego Bay’s Donald Sangster International Airport. Summer listened a moment, then dropped a five-dollar bill into the band’s Rastafarian-knit collection hat, eliciting a nod from the trio. She hustled to catch up to Dirk, who was shrugging off an aggressive taxi driver before making his way to the rental car kiosk.
“Space B-9,” he said to Summer, dangling a set of car keys.
Stepping toward their assigned parking spot, they found a Volkswagen Beetle convertible. “A Beetle?” Dirk asked with a pained expression.
“Best the office could reserve on short notice.” Summer grabbed the keys away from her brother. “I think they’re cute.”
“Cute and functional don’t always go hand in hand.” He stuffed their suitcases into the small trunk. It was too minuscule to hold their dive gear, so Dirk wedged their equipment bags into the backseat floor.
He shook his head. “We’ve still got to pick up our magnetometer and some dive tanks.”
“We can just stack things up,” Summer said, lowering the top.
She slid behind the wheel on the car’s right side and passed her brother a road map. “I’ll drive and you can navigate our way to the dive shop.”
As Dirk climbed in the passenger seat, he grunted something about needing rum. Summer drove the car around to the air cargo office, where they picked up a small crate. She then headed south toward Montego Bay. Summer melted into the late-afternoon traffic. Steering down the road’s left lane, a vestige from Jamaica’s British colonial past, she drove with a focused vigilance.
They motored another five minutes before Summer pulled off the road, her knuckles white. In that short span, they’d been nearly sideswiped by a moving van and rear-ended by a bread truck. “They drive like crazy here!” she blurted.
“Too many potholes,” Dirk said, “or maybe just too much pot.” He hopped out and stepped to the driver’s door. “I’ll take it from here, if you like.”
“Gladly,” Summer said, sliding to the passenger seat.
Dirk took off, a grin forming as he joined the aggressive drivers. Where Summer felt intimidated, Dirk felt a challenge, one he fulfilled at home by racing a 1980s-era Porsche in local sports car club events.
They found the dive shop near one of the luxury hotels on Doctor’s Beach and rented four air tanks, which they piled on top of their other gear in the VW’s backseat. Reversing course, they passed by the airport, leaving the outskirts of Montego Bay behind them as they followed a narrow coastal road along the north shore.
They passed a conglomeration of resorts and scenic plantation houses, a reminder of Jamaica’s slave-produced sugar industry that prospered in the eighteenth century. The traffic and development withered as the road skirted the jungle-kissed waters of the blue Caribbean.
Summer checked the road map. “White Bay should be coming up.”
The road wound through a dense patch of jungle before opening above a shallow cove ringed with white sand. Dirk turned onto a narrow dirt road, escaping a tailgating taxi that had been pestering him since they left the dive shop.
The dirt road curved past a lane of ramshackle houses to a band of beachfront cottages that lined the cove. Mostly foreign-owned vacation retreats, the cottages appeared sparsely occupied.
“The rental agent said the third house on the left.” Summer pointed to one of the bungalows. “The yellow one there, I think, with the white trim.”
Dirk nodded and pulled into the bungalow’s open carport. A gentle surf rocked the beach just a few dozen yards in front of them. “Accommodations right off the wreck site,” he said, gazing at the waterfront. “Can’t get more convenient than that.”
“The keys are supposed to be under the mat and the house already stocked with groceries, so we can stay put and work until the Sargasso Sea makes port.”
“And a workboat?”
“A Boston Whaler with extra fuel tanks is supposed to be waiting at a pier around the cove.”
They unloaded their belongings into the modest two-bedroom bungalow, opening all the doors and windows to catch the afternoon breeze. After hauling the dive tanks down to the beach, they walked to the nearby pier.
They found the workboat tied to the pier, appearing as though it had been sitting there for years. Its fiberglass finish was dulled by the sun and its brightwork was consumed by rust. “Looks like it was built during the Civil War,” Dirk said.
“Same goes for the dock.”
They stepped single file onto the rickety pier, which was little more than a handful of narrow planks atop some rock pilings. Dirk placed their dive tanks in the boat and pulled the starter on the outboard motor. The engine fired on the second pull. “Not the Queen Elizabeth, but it’ll do.”
“The cove is smaller than I expected,” Summer said as they walked back to the cottage under a setting sun. “It looks less than a mile across.”
“With luck, we ought to get it surveyed in a day.” Dirk stopped and stared into the waves. Like his father, he was drawn by an almost primeval need to explore the sea. The remains of the Oso Malo were calling just off shore.