Beneath Calm Waters...

Photo inspired entry for the November 2009...Short Shots Official Contest.

Beneath Calm Waters

The boats floated at anchor in the shelter of the bay. The placid waters were still, as calm and unmoved by tidal currents as a lake, until the ocean's surface, ruffled by the caress of a land bound breeze, broke into tiny waves. The slight rocking movement lulled the boats on their moorings and the thick twists of hemp, binding them steadfast, rubbed against the painted, wooden hulls. The creaking of the ropes chafing on the timber broke the natural silence.

Shafts of sunlight kissed the clear waters, breaking through and reaching down into the depths. There, in the underwater world, it sparked and danced like phosphorescent plankton in an ethereal ballet of light. There were four divers on the corral reef. Their strong, brown bodies naked but for the hide loincloths they wore. They worked hard and swift with deft movements exercised in a gravitational slow motion. Their strong, wide-bladed knives held, clenched, between their teeth, as with their bare hands they pulled at the brittle branches until the rigid white twigs broke free. Once loosened from the main reef they pushed them into the net bags belted at their hips.

Samson had been below the longest. The first dive of the morning had gone well, he had already culled three good pieces. He exhaled. A bubble emerged from his lips and rose through the water, gathering force. It spiralled up, growing in size, a bud transforming to full bloom, until it touched, then broke through to the surface. It rippled in an array of concentric circles, dispersed and disappeared.

He needed air.

He slipped his knife into its sheath, bent his knees and with a soft push against the sea-bed, he glided upwards through the depths until he reached the surface. The crown of his dark head broke through and he gulped at the fresh air. He lingered, treading water for a few moments. Droplets of seawater trickled through the thick of his black hair and ran down, un-noticed, into his eyes He glanced towards the shore, the boats where still there, undisturbed, where they had left them. A flock of long-necked pink flamingos disturbed the serenity of the blue sky as they flew over, heading inland towards the silt of the estuary in search of food.

With a last deep breath, Samson filled his chest to bursting and submerged back beneath the water. A shoal of red fish swam in his wake as he dove down, darting to and fro in a colourful formation behind him, oblivious to his presence. In the haze of the underwater world he rejoined his companions at their task on the reef, collecting bright souvenirs for the tourists.It was a hard and dangerous way to earn a living. Even on this shallow reef, death lurked, ever present. They considered it worth the risks. The larger the intact piece the native divers harvested, then the higher the price they would ask for it in the market.


Samson's arm jolted as he worked the knife. The scraping sensation of the blade chipping against the corral travelled through his taut tendons. He'd been down too long, his head was heavy and thumped from lack of oxygen. Slow and lethargic, he knew he needed to surface. With a final effort he grasped the loosened corral in his bare palm, with one last twist it broke away. His eyes widened at the size of the piece he now held. It was huge, worth at least what he could hope to earn in a week. He pushed the rough stalk into his net. It snagged and caught on the opening, too big to fit.

A sharp pain seared through him as the scratch opened on his thigh. As the salt sting of sea water entered his grazed flesh, he lost his grip on the corral and it floated down, out of reach, to rest on the ocean bed. A cut stood out, white-pink, against the tan of Samson's skin. It oozed. A droplet formed on his skin, deep red, before dispersing. His heart thumped with panic. one drop was all it took. He raised his arm up in one swift motion, the ever-watched for warning signal to leave, and fast. Three divers headed in unison for the surface. Samson had no intention of leaving his prize behind.

With his hand clasped to his thigh, covering the wound, he dove down to where it nestled in the soft sand. He closed his hand to grasp his treasure and the shadow appeared, its menacing presence gliding along the white sand of the seabed. A grey reef shark swam overhead. It swayed as it moved towards him. Its streamlined body curved and then hunched, its pectoral fins dropped down, like a seal's flippers. It swam fast, ready for the attack.

The octopus lay, semi-camouflaged, on the reef. Tentacles spread in the search for food. In one swift, unconscious movement Samson slid his knife from its sheath and cut into the undulating flesh. A swirling, dark, pink cloud rose in the water. The rough, sandpaper skin of the shark's flank brushed his shoulder and the water eddied with an invisible surge as the shark wafted its tail and swam past. A boiling froth of bloodied turbulence broke out. It had taken the bait


With a heave Samson dragged himself from the water, rasping his chest against the hard wood as he pulled himself, breathless, into the boat. A tall grey fin broke through the surface of the bay and swam in a direct line, heading towards the cluster of boats where the divers huddled in restrained silence. It turned and in one graceful movement, was gone, heading back out to scour the reef in search of other prey.

Samson sat in the boat and shivered. The cut on his leg still seeped crimson. He picked up a conch shell and pressing its hard edges to his lips, he blew. A melancholic call sounded, echoing across the shore. It was the signal to their village, all corral cutters had safely left the water.

Samson admired the stark white, blood smeared, shard of corral laying in the bottom of the boat. He knew without a doubt he wouldn't be diving again for at least a week.

Word Count : 1054