The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [107]
Grinning, she motions to my pants. I strip down to my boxers and tug my way into my wet suit, which is more tight-fitting than I expected. Especially in the crotch.
“Don’t worry,” Gillian says, reading my expression. “It’ll loosen up when it gets wet.”
“Me or the suit?”
“Hopefully, both.”
Shoving my arms in, I practically run to catch up with her. In the back of the boat, she props up both scuba tanks and opens each with the twist of a knob. “This is your regulator,” she says as she points to the top of the tank, where she attaches a small black gizmo that has four hoses snaking out in every direction. “And here’s your mouthpiece,” she adds, handing me the short black hose on the right.
Following her lead, I put it in my mouth and take a long deep breath. There’s a slow Darth Vader hiss as a cold rush of air plows down my throat and fills my lungs.
“That’s it… there you go,” she says as I exhale and do it again. “Nice and slow—you’re a total natural.”
It’s easy praise, but as my breath wheezes through the tube, the testosterone starts wearing thin. “What’re all these other hoses for?” I ask nervously.
“Don’t get freaked by the minutiae,” she says as she zips the front of my wet suit and pats me on the chest. “When you scuba, there’s only one life-or-death rule: keep breathing.”
“But what about the regulator and these tubes—”
“All the equipment runs automatically. As long as you’re breathing, it keeps the air flowing and regulates the pressure. After that, it’s like driving a car—you don’t need to know how the engine and combustion and everything else works—you just need to know how to drive.”
“But I’ve never driven before…”
Ignoring my comment, she motions for me to raise my hands in the air, hooks a thick yellow belt around my waist, and buckles it with what looks like a plastic version of an airline seat belt. “How much do you weigh?” she adds as she loads the belt’s Velcro pouches with square lead weights.
“About one-sixty. Why?”
“Perfect,” she says, sealing the last pouch. “That’ll sink you like a mob stoolie.” Refusing to slow down, she cuts behind me. I spin around to follow, but the extra weight on my waist and the bobbing of the boat send me slightly off-balance.
“Don’t I need to be certified for this?” I ask.
“You love rules, don’t you?” she shoots back, putting on her own weight belt. “The only thing those classes teach you is how not to panic.” With that, she angles my arms into an inflatable red vest. Strapped to the back of the vest is the scuba tank and its tentacles of hoses. As I squat down, she lifts the vest onto my shoulders and I almost fall over backwards from the thirty pounds of extra weight. Gillian’s right there to catch me.
“I’m telling you,” she promises, making sure my vest is clipped in place. “I wouldn’t take you down there if it weren’t safe.”
“What about the bends? I don’t want to wind up in some sci-fi decompression chamber.”
“We’re only going down twenty feet. The bends aren’t a risk until you hit at least sixty.”
“And this is only twenty?”
“Only twenty,” she repeats. “Thirty at the most.” Squatting down, she hoists her own vest and scuba tank onto her shoulders. “Not much more than the length of this boat.” When she’s done adjusting her vest, she reaches for one of my four hoses and pushes a button on the end. There’s a sharp hiss. The vest fills with air and tightens around my ribs. “If all else fails, you even have a life jacket,” she points out, making it sound like I’m afraid of drowning in the kiddie pool.
Inflating her own vest, she grabs a mask and flashlight, slips into her flippers, and steps up on the cooler at the back of the boat.
“Gillian, wait…”
She doesn’t even turn around. There’s a splash and the boat rocks from the loss of weight. Off the back, she sinks out of sight, then bobs right back up again. “Ooooh, you gotta feel this!” she shouts.
“It’s warm?”
“It’s freezing! We’re talking iceberg in my pants!” She laughs out loud, like it’s the party of the year. And the more I watch her, the more