The Rapture of The Deep
2023; University of Missouri; Volume: 46; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/mis.2023.0010
ISSN1548-9930
Autores Tópico(s)Ichthyology and Marine Biology
ResumoThe Rapture of The Deep Abby Geni (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Squalus Glaucus, The Blue Shark, from Ichty0logie, ou Histoire naturelle, générale et particulière des poissons (1785–1797), Marcus Elieser Bloch. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel. [End Page 10] Eloise hated and adored her scuba gear in equal measure. On the deck of the Aphrodite, she stripped it away like the plating of an exoskeleton—her monocular face mask, her breathing apparatus, and the sticky second skin of her wetsuit. Sunset stained the sky, reflected in choppy shards across the surface of the ocean. There would be no more diving today. The ship was chugging toward shore. [End Page 11] With a frown, Eloise stowed her gear belowdecks. The metamorphosis was complete: she had devolved once more from a splendid aquatic life form into a boring land mammal. On the one hand, her scuba equipment was a remarkable gift, a marvel of science, allowing her to spend hours in the belly of the sea, moving in three dimensions and carrying a mini-atmosphere on her back. On the other hand, she suffered withdrawal at the end of every single dive. Her coworkers knew not to talk to her for the duration of the voyage back to shore. She needed that time to mourn, to accept the burden of gravity once more. Back in her hotel room, she showered the salt off her skin. The evening air was filled with the roar of waves, the ocean breaking against the beach on the other side of the trees. Eloise wove her hair into a frowsy braid. Daily immersion in seawater had changed its consistency from limp ash-blond to spongy copper. Voices and laughter carried on the breeze from the hotel bar. Stefan and the others gathered there most nights to blow off steam and trade shark stories. Eloise rarely joined them, though her fish tale could have topped them all. She slipped a hand under her T-shirt and ran her fingers along the elaborate scar on the right side of her rib cage: the precise imprint of a tiger shark bite. Four hundred sixty-seven stitches. A mottled red ribbon of teeth marks. Her torso no longer smooth but topographical. Her belly button torn away. On the nightstand, her cell phone lit up and buzzed. Eloise picked it up, observing that she had missed thirty-four calls during today's underwater sojourn. All from her brother. There were a few texts, too: Call me back. And later: The ten-year anniversary is next week. Can you please get in touch so we can figure out what we're going to do? And later still: I won't pick a fight, I promise. Finally: You are such a goddamn brat. Eloise considered several replies before turning her phone off and sticking it in a drawer. ________ In the morning, she led the way down the winding trail through the trees to the beach. The sun was just rising, and the sand glowed bronze between the trunks. Eloise brushed aside the low-hanging branches. Behind her, José tripped on a tree root and swore. Alana and Beth were murmuring together in low voices. At the back of the caravan, Stefan moved with a lithe, easy grace. As always, he carried the bag of gear slung across his shoulders, clanking faintly with each stride. [End Page 12] When Eloise reached the beach, she noted the dark patches by the horizon: moody, dangerous places where the waves prevented sunlight from reflecting. She observed the bite of the wind and the heavy clumps of seaweed tossed up on the beach. The air was filled with energy. A shiver tracked up her spine. The marina lay half a mile down the shore. Alana and Beth set the pace, walking side by side on the firm, packed sand at the water's edge. They had been best friends since joining the team a few months earlier, two marine biology grad students from different universities united by a summer of fieldwork on the sea. Eloise treated them with politeness and reserve; she never got attached to the interns who came and...
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