Steven Lebowitz’s passions, it also earned him a decent income. He had learned the island hotspots for flounder, halibut, cabazon, and greenling and made a few extra bucks on the side supplying red rock crab and shrimp to the local eateries. The outdoors agreed with him, but last winter had been harsh. This year he planned to head south to San Diego sometime in late September.
For the last twenty minutes, Lebowitz had been watching a tall, athletic man and his short brown-haired girlfriend work their way across the docks, receiving turn down after turn down from the other charter boat captains. When it became clear he was their next stop, Lebowitz covered what remained of his thinning salt-and-pepper hair with a Lebofilms baseball cap, and then stepped out on deck, busying himself with one of the rigging stations.
Thirty-year-old professional diver Lucas Heitman paused at the edge of the dock to speak with his business associate, Donna Johnston. “This is the guy I told you about. Do it just like we rehearsed.”
The twenty-seven-year-old native of Edinburgh, Scotland, twirled a blue-dyed strand of hair while her eyes focused on Steven Lebowitz. “You’d better convince the ole bampot . My dealer’s leaving for Frisco tomorrow afternoon and wants everything crated tonight.”
They headed down the pier, Lucas waving as Steven turned to face him. “Morning, captain. Beautiful boat.”
“She’ll look even better when she’s paid for.”
“Maybe we can help. I’m Lucas. This is my boss, Donna Johnston. Donna flew in last week all the way from Scotland to hire me to film B-roll for her documentary.”
“No kidding? I used to be in the business … Lebofilms.” He pointed to the transom. “What kind of B-roll do you need?”
“Underwater footage,” said Donna. “Kelp forests, a few shots along the bottom. Lucas found the perfect spot, only no one has the bollocks to go out.”
“Who can blame them; did you see the news coverage? Just out of curiosity, were you going to shoot using a drone or a reach pole?”
Lucas grinned sheepishly.
“An open water dive? Boychick , you’re crazy.”
“The Megs were after orca; the attack occurred in the deep waters off the west coast of San Juan Island. We’re shooting in the shallows. Are you familiar with Obstruction Pass?”
“Are you kidding? I could practically spit there from here. Still, it’s too risky.”
Donna removed an envelope of bills from her jacket pocket. “Here’s five hundred dollars for about an hour of work. You’ll receive another thousand when we get back to port.”
She handed the envelope to the former movie producer, who thumbed through the cash. “An hour, huh? These hour shoots tend to be more like three. Where’s your gear?”
Lucas pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “There’s two crates on wheels in my pickup truck. We can be loaded in twenty minutes.”
Donna rubbed the captain’s arm. “I’d love to have a peek at your film. Maybe you can show it to me while Lucas is fetching his gear?”
Steven Lebowitz removed his cap to wipe sweat beads from his receding forehead. “Sure, I can do that. Grab your gear, Lucas. And make sure you don’t have any open wounds.”
* * *
The MH-65C Coast Guard helicopter cruised at a pedestrian thirty knots over the placid green waters of Haro Strait, its bright orange skin glistening in the late afternoon sun. Instead of a tail rotor, the search and rescue craft possessed a fenestron—ten blades spinning inside a circular housing at the base of its tail fin.
Two pilots manned the cockpit. The flight mechanic sat behind the 7.62mm M240B/H machine gun mounted by the open bay door. A spotter was harnessed next to him, his binoculars trained upon the surface glistening a hundred and sixty feet below. The chopper’s rescue swimmer was assigned the 7.62mm shoulder-fired precision weapon which rested on his lap.
Captain Michael Royston, the U.S. Coast Guard
For the last twenty minutes, Lebowitz had been watching a tall, athletic man and his short brown-haired girlfriend work their way across the docks, receiving turn down after turn down from the other charter boat captains. When it became clear he was their next stop, Lebowitz covered what remained of his thinning salt-and-pepper hair with a Lebofilms baseball cap, and then stepped out on deck, busying himself with one of the rigging stations.
Thirty-year-old professional diver Lucas Heitman paused at the edge of the dock to speak with his business associate, Donna Johnston. “This is the guy I told you about. Do it just like we rehearsed.”
The twenty-seven-year-old native of Edinburgh, Scotland, twirled a blue-dyed strand of hair while her eyes focused on Steven Lebowitz. “You’d better convince the ole bampot . My dealer’s leaving for Frisco tomorrow afternoon and wants everything crated tonight.”
They headed down the pier, Lucas waving as Steven turned to face him. “Morning, captain. Beautiful boat.”
“She’ll look even better when she’s paid for.”
“Maybe we can help. I’m Lucas. This is my boss, Donna Johnston. Donna flew in last week all the way from Scotland to hire me to film B-roll for her documentary.”
“No kidding? I used to be in the business … Lebofilms.” He pointed to the transom. “What kind of B-roll do you need?”
“Underwater footage,” said Donna. “Kelp forests, a few shots along the bottom. Lucas found the perfect spot, only no one has the bollocks to go out.”
“Who can blame them; did you see the news coverage? Just out of curiosity, were you going to shoot using a drone or a reach pole?”
Lucas grinned sheepishly.
“An open water dive? Boychick , you’re crazy.”
“The Megs were after orca; the attack occurred in the deep waters off the west coast of San Juan Island. We’re shooting in the shallows. Are you familiar with Obstruction Pass?”
“Are you kidding? I could practically spit there from here. Still, it’s too risky.”
Donna removed an envelope of bills from her jacket pocket. “Here’s five hundred dollars for about an hour of work. You’ll receive another thousand when we get back to port.”
She handed the envelope to the former movie producer, who thumbed through the cash. “An hour, huh? These hour shoots tend to be more like three. Where’s your gear?”
Lucas pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “There’s two crates on wheels in my pickup truck. We can be loaded in twenty minutes.”
Donna rubbed the captain’s arm. “I’d love to have a peek at your film. Maybe you can show it to me while Lucas is fetching his gear?”
Steven Lebowitz removed his cap to wipe sweat beads from his receding forehead. “Sure, I can do that. Grab your gear, Lucas. And make sure you don’t have any open wounds.”
* * *
The MH-65C Coast Guard helicopter cruised at a pedestrian thirty knots over the placid green waters of Haro Strait, its bright orange skin glistening in the late afternoon sun. Instead of a tail rotor, the search and rescue craft possessed a fenestron—ten blades spinning inside a circular housing at the base of its tail fin.
Two pilots manned the cockpit. The flight mechanic sat behind the 7.62mm M240B/H machine gun mounted by the open bay door. A spotter was harnessed next to him, his binoculars trained upon the surface glistening a hundred and sixty feet below. The chopper’s rescue swimmer was assigned the 7.62mm shoulder-fired precision weapon which rested on his lap.
Captain Michael Royston, the U.S. Coast Guard
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