experimentally. "Sacre nom d'iliac!" I know the pain is there to stay a
while. Better to say nothing about this for the time being. It just might go
We load up the
station wagon and Coles's hired Hillman. Paraphernalia and food for five divers
with cameras makes a wonderfully heavy and unwieldly tangle of glass, rubber,
steel, plastic, wicker and cloth. We roll 8 miles through dank, hot mist to
Coral Harbour pier at the south end of the island. Clouds roll in faster. The
Big Seven, a 50-foot cabin cruiser, is standing in, 100 yards offshore. Rain
comes down in sheets around her as she noses to the pier.
Art's friend Don
Seiler, 6 feet of muscle and bone in white shorts, is poised, hawser in hand on
the prow. The artist of Black Beard's has a red beard, and a gold button glints
in his right ear lobe. The very model of a model Nordic pirate.
We go aboard, and
Sydney Laverty, our slim black skipper, points the Big Seven out to sea.
I brace my aching
back against a hard rubber cushion in a corner of the main cabin's bunk. Louisa
spreads herself placidly on the bunk opposite and begins to rummage in our
basket for drawing pad and pencil.
so beautiful to draw," she says happily.
Dave squats on
the floor, going through the many delicate adjustments of inserting Leica and
flash gun into underwater plastic housing. Then he wraps the camera in towels
and lies down on his back on the wet linoleum floor, folds his hands over his
convex stomach and closes his eyes.
tummy," he says grayly.
"He was up
all night," Coles adds.