Page 6 of Waters that Drown Us

The wind tangles my hair as we make our way out to open ocean. It’s overcast, like it is most mornings, haze blotting out the horizon. It comforts me like a blanket. Out here in the middle of the water, with such little visibility, I’m no one. No target on my back, no fear of who I’ll see on the street, no scheming—finally the ghost I’ve always wished I could be.

Emily, it seems, is not comforted by the fog. That, or her fear of the ocean is more serious that I realized. For all that charm and all those muscles, she isn’t as brave as I imagined she would be. She’s clearly trying to exude confidence, with her arm stretched out over the back of the cushioned-lined seats and her ankle crossed over her knee, but her white-knuckled grip on the railing gives her away.

She was chatty when she first turned up at the ticket booth, laden with a backpack and two heavy-looking black waterproof cases. But the closer we got to the dock, the more her smile seemed forced, and her answers to my logistical questions became shorter and more clipped.

I’m taking it slow for her sake, but it still only takes us a little over an hour and a half to get to the starting coordinates sheprovided me. It’s been a silent trip, and I’m pretty sure Emily’s keeping her mouth shut so she doesn’t puke.

“We’re here,” I say, killing the engine. The sudden silence makes Emily blanch, which I guess I can understand. Surrounded by mist, without the distraction of a machine pushing you along, you can feel very vulnerable out here.

Or so I’m told.

“Right, do you need to drop an anchor or something?” she asks, still gripping the railing tightly. She hasn’t moved a muscle.

“This anchor chain is about thirty-five feet,” I say, less gently than I probably should to someone who looks like they’re barely suppressing a panic attack. Emily swallows hard, donning a very wobbly smile.

“I assume the ocean is quite a bit deeper here.”

“Aren’t you a professional marine biologist?”

She laughs, a too-loud cough that seems to shake her of some of her nerves. She lets go of the railing and scrubs her face before shaking out her hands.

“Actually, I’m a toxicologist,” she says, almost like it’s a joke. “I specialize in cnidarians. Corals, jellies, anemones, stinging things. But most of my work so far has been in a lab. Field work is new to me.”

Something about her explanation feels…off. Sure, she seems afraid of the ocean itself, but she handles the equipment with ease. She fiddled with a lot of the gadgets as I prepared the boat, and she seemed pretty familiar with them to me.

I’m about to press, but I stop myself. There’s no point. She doesn’t owe me honesty, and I’m certainly not going to be able to provide it in kind. I’m the last person to judge someone for half-truths and omissions.

“A few nautical miles offshore, we hit the continental slope. It goes down almost three thousand feet, though we’re not at the deepest part.”

Emily breathes in deeply through her nose, that slightly crazed smile locked on to her face.

“That makes sense. Black Sea Nettles live all along the ocean column, but they like cold water because of the abundant food. In Baja they’re found closer to the surface, but here…well, that’s what I’m here to research, right?”

I really don’t know what she’s here to research, but I nod, and she seems to take that as encouragement. She starts unloading equipment—sampling bottles, very fancy looking cameras, things I couldn't identify with a gun to my head. She lifts what looks like a drone out of the larger case. It has a long, umbilical cord-like tether attached, and she works like it’s muscle memory to set everything up.

Not familiar with field research. Sure.

I don’t ask any more questions. I shouldn’t have asked any to begin with. I know they’re almost always returned, and I can never respond honestly. But it feels so easy out here, in the heart of the sea. No one can hear the words you whisper. No one could even hear you scream. The thought should be terrifying, especially with a stranger who is clearly physically stronger than me. Instead, like everything the ocean offers, it puts me at ease.

I sip from my water bottle, listen to the waves roll against the hull, watch the GPS to ensure we don’t drift too far from Emily’s coordinates. She hums to herself. Turns things on and off and back on again. Checks and rechecks her equipment.

The sun rises a bit more, and the haze slowly starts to burn off. In the distance, I spot the spout of a whale. My fingers twitch instinctually to move toward it, but I grin at the little puff of smoke dissipating into the air.

“I’m going to drop the ROV now.”

Emily’s voice is like lightning in a rainstorm, and I startle enough that I drop my metal water bottle, which thunks soloudly it makes Emily trip over herself. We’re both apologizing, talking over each other as we lean to grab the bottle.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to…” she starts, getting to the dented bottle first and holding it out to me.

“No, I dropped—” I reply, avoiding her gaze as I snag it from her, accidentally brushing over her hand as I do. We both apologize again, and I grip my beloved water bottle even tighter to stymie the tingling feeling in my fingertips where my skin touched hers.

Excitement and guilt tangle themselves up in my chest again, and I shove the nausea-inducing feeling deep down. Not because I’m ashamed of my attraction to her this time—she’s objectively gorgeous, and I’m a human being with eyes—but because we’re both working. And from what I can tell, we’re both lying to each other. And to top it all off, I’m putting her at risk by letting her be this close in proximity to me for so long.

It’s complicated.

After a few beats of silence, Emily gestures to the little robot balancing on the edge of the railing.

“I’m going to drop the ROV into the water, and then I’ll have to optimize the depth and confirm the settings. Then I can monitor the feed for the rest of the time,” she explains slowly, like she’s trying not to spook me.