Page 7 of Waters that Drown Us

“So you just watch that screen?” I ask, looking at the tablet-like device she’s set up on one of the bench cushions. “You don’t have to do anything else?”

“Well, I’ll collect some water samples. And if we had any jellies come up close to the surface, I could theoretically place an acoustic tag, but I doubt we’ll be that lucky,” she explains, hovering her hands over equipment and resources as she talks. “But yeah, it’s mostly watching and recording.”

So hours of sitting here, staring at a six inch screen in silence. Perfect.

I lean back in my chair and watch as she unwraps the umbilical cord thing from its reel, glancing over her shoulder at the monitor again and again. When she’s satisfied with the slack, she grips the robot gingerly and leans over the railing, placing it gently on the surface of the water. I stretch so I can observe as the little thing bobs in the gentle waves, tipping side to side before small oxygen bubbles create a skirt around it, and it begins to sink beneath the surface.

And then there’s nothing. The cord slips further over the edge, and it takes a very long time before it is taut. The monitor flickers in strange shades of green and blue. The boat sways, the haze lifts, the birds call.

And Emily sits across from me, staring at her screen.

At least the silence is peaceful. And while still gorgeous, Emily is significantly less intimidating now that I know she’s terrified of the sea. Who could be fearful of something so limitless? Sure, it’s natural to be wary of the unknown, but I’ll never understand how others aren’t calmed by the knowledge that we’re nothing more than a speck of dust in comparison to the vastness of the ocean.

“So, how’d you get into boats?”

When I turn to her, Emily isn’t looking at me, and I wonder if I hallucinated her question. After a few beats of silence though, she glances up from her screen, eyebrows raised.

“Me?” I ask, fiddling with the mouth of my water bottle.

“No, the ROV,” she scoffs, leaning over to the control panel to adjust something. “Yes, you.”

“Right. Um…” I stutter, rolling my neck out and I decide how much of the truth to tell her. Lies are easier to keep the more reality you imbue them with. “My mom loved the ocean. She used to take me out to sit on the docks and tell me stories about mermaids and pirates. Said I should learn to sail, because she never got to.”

That’s about ninety-nine percent true. She never told me to learn to sail. She knew better than to inspire me to dream of things I couldn’t have.

“That’s cute,” Emily says, glancing over the edge of the railing and balancing. “No offense, but I can’t imagine enjoying this.”

I bristle a little, but try to brush it off. People don’t need to love things as much as I do. Not even the people who arepaidto research the things I love.

“I understand why some don’t like it. The vastness can be intimidating,” I admit, though I can’t keep the sliver of wonder from my voice. “ But that’s really what makes me love the sea. The mystery, the endlessness, the knowledge that you’re only a tiny, unimportant organism in the marine web of life, floating like the rest of it.”

“Really comforting, thanks,” Emily grumbles, sounding less congenial than before. “You could work on your bedside manner.”

“I was trying to commiserate," I huff, annoyed at her change in attitude. I get that she’s afraid, but she doesn't need to be so pushy about it. “And also, I’m not your nurse, I’m your chauffeur.”

“Are you always so combative?” she questions, her knees buckling as a particularly strong wave rolls us. I barely have to shift my weight.

“Are you always this much of an ass to the people you hire?”

She whips her head back at me, shock that almost looks like betrayal on her face. It takes her a moment, but she soothes her features, looking down at her shoes and breathing deeply.

“Sorry, caged animal syndrome, you know?” she explains. I get it, I really do. I’m familiar with the urge to bite back with venom when things attack. But it’s not me that she’s afraid of, and I’m certainly not the reason she’s here.

I could continue to be pissed, but it’s not worth the effort. I twist in my seat, readjusting my posture to relieve the pressure in my back.

“Have you always been afraid of the ocean?” I want to make a joke to cut the tension, ask her if she almost drowned or ??????? ???? nibbled on her fingers as a kid, but she doesn’t seem like she’s in the joking mood. And I can’t remember the English word for a??????? ?????.

“It’s more the fear of the unknown. Or not being in control.” Perhaps subconsciously, she adjusts one of the settings on the monitor. Something shecancontrol. “Humans have explored approximately one percent of the ocean, so we have no idea what’s lurking beneath us. Storms can come out of nowhere. Boat engines can stop functioning correctly. And we’re out here alone, with very few resources.”

“With that mentality, you’d have to be afraid of airplanes. And eating at restaurants. Actually, you’d have to be afraid of pretty much everything…”

Emily is staring purposefully at the screen, like she can will away my conclusion by sheer force. I think she’s biting the inside of her cheek.

“Are you really? Afraid of everything?” The concept is foreign to me. Sure, I’m afraid ofsomethings. I truly hate snakes. And obviously I fear my father and Ilya, and what they will do when they find me. But to fear anything I don’t have complete control over?

“It’s complicated,” she mutters, unwilling to look directly at me. “And obviously I face the fears. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but constantly combating your fight or flight instinct has to be exhausting,” I say, for the first time feeling bad for the woman across from me.