When Grant drove down from Newquay in search of a dive boat, he met Chaz Davis. Davis was one of the owners of the dive shop, Ro An Mor (in Cornish means “Pride of the Sea”), and the dive boat — Goin’ Down. When Davis asked about Grant’s diving qualifications, Grant simply said he was a Navy diver on leave.
Davis, thirty-two years old, was nearly six feet tall, with straight, sandy-colored hair hanging just below his ears. He looked as if he worked out at the gym everyday, but it was the constant lifting of scuba tanks and swimming in strong currents that kept him in shape.
He reached for a small underwater slate and pencil attached to his weight belt. He wrote: “Reef?”
Grant responded with a thumb’s up, and the two swam side by side toward the granite pinnacle.
The granite pinnacle of the Runnel Stone rose from one hundred fourteen feet or more, to within twenty feet of the surface. At one time the pinnacle used to show above the surface at low water. In 1923, the SS City of Westminster was headed to Rotterdam when it struck the pinnacle, knocking the top off. The remains of the ship rested in ninety-eight feet of water, jammed into a gully on the eastern side of the stone.
The position of the Runnel Stone, one of the most dangerous areas for ships, was currently marked by a buoy with a flashing light and bell that pealed with the movement of the waves.
Ascending the reef slowly, they encountered a variety of marine life, then with one arm reaching straight overhead, they broke the water’s surface.
Grant removed his mouthpiece, spitting out seawater. Treading water, he raised the face mask, letting it rest on top of his head. Davis was next to him, waving for the dive boat.
“That was one helluva dive!” Grant said with a grin, as he shook water from his head, then wiped a hand over his face.
Davis gave a thumb’s up. “Wait until tomorrow when you see the next spot!”
The dive boat pulled alongside. The two men handed their swim fins to one of the crew, then they climbed the ladder onto a teak platform on the stern. They sat on the edge, their legs dangling over the side, as a crewman helped them with their tanks.
Grant pushed his wetsuit hood back, as he was handed a towel. “So, where we going tomorrow?”
Davis scrubbed his hair with a white towel, as he answered, “Mount’s Bay. There’s a wreck of a steamer down about thirty meters. Her hull is pretty much intact, with the screw and rudder still in place.”
Grant nodded. “Hey, isn’t that where St. Michael’s Mount is?”
“It is,” Davis answered. “Want a tour?”
“When we’ve finished touring underwater!”
St. Michael’s Mount is the Cornish counterpart to Mont Saint Michel in Normandy, France, with the same wicked tides. It was simply known by the local Cornish as “The Mount.”
“Ready to head in?” Davis asked, as he stood on the platform.
“Let’s go,” Grant responded, as he followed Davis into the boat. Grant changed into a pair of jeans, white T-shirt and sneakers. A shower would have to wait until he got back to the hotel.
Once the boat was docked in the harbor and the gear offloaded, the two men rinsed their wetsuits with fresh water, then Grant stored his in a wetsuit bag.
Davis walked with him to the rental car, a British racing green MGB roadster. The convertible top was down.
“Where are you staying in Newquay, Grant?”
“The Atlantic,” Grant answered, dropping the wetsuit bag in the boot (trunk). He went around the side and reached over the door, lifting his baseball cap from the seat.
“Have you been to the pub, the Sailor’s Arms?”
Grant shook his head, as he put on his cap. “No. Something special?”
Davis laughed. “Well, it was until you Yanks invaded!”
Arching an eyebrow, Grant asked, “We invaded a pub?”
“Yank Marines and Navy from St. Mawgan have called it ‘home’ for several years now. Why don’t I drive up and meet you there tonight? We’ll lift a pint or two.”
“Sounds good! How about 2100 hours? That’s nine p.m. Brit time,” Grant smirked. He eased his 6’1” frame behind the right-hand drive steering wheel, then started the engine, and shifted into first gear.
Davis slapped the car door. “Stay on the proper side of the road, Yank! That’s the left side to you!”
Chapter 3
Built in 1892, the Atlantic Hotel sat on ten acres of headland, overlooking Newquay Bay, the harbor, Towan Beach, and the rugged Cornish coastline. During World War I, the hotel was transformed into a hospital. After the war, alterations were made and it re-opened as a hotel, having undergone several renovations since.
Grant’s hotel room was small but comfortable, had simple but new furnishings. A single bed, directly opposite the door, was covered with a plain, dark blue quilt. Next to the bed was a nightstand with a green glass reading lamp on it, the kind with a pull-chain. There was just enough room for a white rotary-dial telephone. There was a wing chair next to the window on the opposite side of the bed, offering him a convenient place to hang his slacks and shirt.
After showering and shaving, he put on his dark gray slacks, then a light blue, short sleeve shirt. As he was tucking his shirt into his trousers, he drew back one of the white curtains.
He looked out across the headlands, with a totally unimpeded view of Newquay Bay. Tonight he probably wouldn’t get to see the sunset. He had a feeling his time at the pub would go well beyond that.
He opened the wardrobe and sorted through his clothes, looking for his windbreaker. Sliding it from a hanger, he stopped for a brief moment, realizing there were only civvies hanging inside. There hadn’t been many times when he wasn’t packing a uniform or two. He closed the door, thinking he didn’t miss seeing them.
As he started down the staircase, he glanced at his watch, thinking there was still time to grab a bite before meeting Chaz. He thought he’d try a Cornish pasty. A Cornish pasty was made by filling a circle of thick dough with beef, sliced potatoes, turnips, onions, then folded in half with the edges crimped. It was an easy to carry, hearty meal Cornish tin miners brought to the mines for lunch. The thick crust protected the contents and acted as an insulator.
An hour later, he pushed the heavy glass door open and stood outside the entrance to the brightly lit hotel lobby. As he put on his windbreaker, he breathed in a lungful of clean sea air. Downtown Newquay was less than a third of a mile away, so he decided to walk, avoiding a parking problem.
Within a few minutes he was at Newquay Harbor, as if he’d been drawn to it. Taking a slight detour onto North Quay Hill, he had a good view of the harbor. To the right, at the bottom of South Quay Hill, was the harbormaster’s office. Next door, tucked behind a multi-pane glass door that opened electronically like a garage door, was a large rubber boat. The Newquay lifeboat was the same color orange as a life vest. It rested on a “dolly” to allow swift movement to the water.
The lifeboat was owned by RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution) and manned by volunteers. Only the boat coxswain was paid.
The harbor itself wasn’t considered large. There were two breakwaters, the north and south. The north one jutted out from land running parallel with the beach, while the second extended from the beach toward the bay. A narrow entrance to the harbor separated the two.
Inside the harbor were small fishing boats, and several private motor craft, all under thirty feet, but most were either simple motor boats, sailboats or rowboats.
By the time he headed back to the hotel later that evening, street lamps along both breakwaters would light up the entire harbor.