would vacuum water, sand and solid objects. It was as essential to a treasure hunter as a hammer to a carpenter. Used too quickly, or with too much power, it could destroy. Used too carelessly, the pipe would become clogged with conglomerate, shells, coral.
While Matthew ran the airlift, Tate examined and collected its fallout that spewed from the top of the pipe. It was hard and tedious work on both sides. Sand and light debris swirled, obscuring vision in a dirty cloud downcurrent. It took a sharp eye and endless patience to search through the fallout, load the bits and pieces and chunks into buckets to be hauled to the surface.
Matthew continued to make test holes with a steady, almost soothing rhythm. Stingrays basked in the fallout, apparently enjoying the massage of sand and small rock. Tate allowed herself to dream, imagining a slew of glinting gold bursting out of the pipe, like a jackpot in a slot machine.
Fantasies aside, she gathered fused nails, bits of conglomerate and the shards of broken pottery. They were every bit as fascinating to her as gold bullion. Her college studies in the past year had accented her love of history and the fragments of culture buried in the shifting sea.
Her long-term ambitions and goals were very clear. She would study, earn her degree, absorbing all the knowledge she could hold through books, lectures, and most of all, by doing. One day, she would join the ranks of scientists who sailed the oceans, plumbed the depths to discover and analyze the relics of doomed ships.
Her name would make an impact, and her finds from doubloons to iron spikes would matter.
Eventually, there would be a museum carrying the Beaumont name filled with artifacts.
Now and again as she worked, she would catch herself falling behind because sheâd paused to wonder over a broken cup. What had it held the last time someone sipped from it?
When she nicked her finger on a sharp edge, she took it philosophically. The thin drip of blood washed away in the swirl.
Matthew signaled her through the cloud. In the hole, perhaps a foot deep, she saw the iron spikes crossed like swords. Caught between their calcified tips was a platter of pewter.
Forty feet of water didnât prevent Tate from expressing her glee. She caught his hand and squeezed it, then blew him a kiss. Efficiently, she unhooked her camera from her belt and documented the find. Records, she knew, were essential to scientific discoveries. She might have spent some time examining it, gloating over it unscientifically, but Matthew was already moving off to dig another hole.
There was more. Each time they transferred the airlift,they would uncover another discovery. A clump of spoons cemented in coral, a bowl that even with a third of it missing caused Tateâs heart to slam against her ribs.
Time and fatigue ceased to exist. An audience of thousands watched the progress, small fish scanning the disturbed area for exposed worms. If one got lucky, dozens of others would rush in to search for food in a colorful flood of motion.
At his usual distance, the barracuda remained like a statue, looking on in grinning approval.
Matthew ran the lift like an artist, Tate thought. Probing here, then shifting with a delicacy that seemed to remove sand a grain at a time. He brushed away silt clouds with a wave of the pipe. If the wall of sand was parted by an object, he would back off the pipe, work carefully to prevent damage.
She saw with dazzled eyes a fragile piece of porcelain, a bowl with elegant rosebuds rimming its cup.
He would have left it for the time being, knowing that something that fragile when cemented to coral or some other object could be snapped off at the slightest touch.
But her eyes were so big with wonder, so bright with delight. He wanted to give her the bowl, see her face when she held it. Signaling her back, Matthew began the tedious and time-consuming process of whispering the sand clear. When he was satisfied, he handed
While Matthew ran the airlift, Tate examined and collected its fallout that spewed from the top of the pipe. It was hard and tedious work on both sides. Sand and light debris swirled, obscuring vision in a dirty cloud downcurrent. It took a sharp eye and endless patience to search through the fallout, load the bits and pieces and chunks into buckets to be hauled to the surface.
Matthew continued to make test holes with a steady, almost soothing rhythm. Stingrays basked in the fallout, apparently enjoying the massage of sand and small rock. Tate allowed herself to dream, imagining a slew of glinting gold bursting out of the pipe, like a jackpot in a slot machine.
Fantasies aside, she gathered fused nails, bits of conglomerate and the shards of broken pottery. They were every bit as fascinating to her as gold bullion. Her college studies in the past year had accented her love of history and the fragments of culture buried in the shifting sea.
Her long-term ambitions and goals were very clear. She would study, earn her degree, absorbing all the knowledge she could hold through books, lectures, and most of all, by doing. One day, she would join the ranks of scientists who sailed the oceans, plumbed the depths to discover and analyze the relics of doomed ships.
Her name would make an impact, and her finds from doubloons to iron spikes would matter.
Eventually, there would be a museum carrying the Beaumont name filled with artifacts.
Now and again as she worked, she would catch herself falling behind because sheâd paused to wonder over a broken cup. What had it held the last time someone sipped from it?
When she nicked her finger on a sharp edge, she took it philosophically. The thin drip of blood washed away in the swirl.
Matthew signaled her through the cloud. In the hole, perhaps a foot deep, she saw the iron spikes crossed like swords. Caught between their calcified tips was a platter of pewter.
Forty feet of water didnât prevent Tate from expressing her glee. She caught his hand and squeezed it, then blew him a kiss. Efficiently, she unhooked her camera from her belt and documented the find. Records, she knew, were essential to scientific discoveries. She might have spent some time examining it, gloating over it unscientifically, but Matthew was already moving off to dig another hole.
There was more. Each time they transferred the airlift,they would uncover another discovery. A clump of spoons cemented in coral, a bowl that even with a third of it missing caused Tateâs heart to slam against her ribs.
Time and fatigue ceased to exist. An audience of thousands watched the progress, small fish scanning the disturbed area for exposed worms. If one got lucky, dozens of others would rush in to search for food in a colorful flood of motion.
At his usual distance, the barracuda remained like a statue, looking on in grinning approval.
Matthew ran the lift like an artist, Tate thought. Probing here, then shifting with a delicacy that seemed to remove sand a grain at a time. He brushed away silt clouds with a wave of the pipe. If the wall of sand was parted by an object, he would back off the pipe, work carefully to prevent damage.
She saw with dazzled eyes a fragile piece of porcelain, a bowl with elegant rosebuds rimming its cup.
He would have left it for the time being, knowing that something that fragile when cemented to coral or some other object could be snapped off at the slightest touch.
But her eyes were so big with wonder, so bright with delight. He wanted to give her the bowl, see her face when she held it. Signaling her back, Matthew began the tedious and time-consuming process of whispering the sand clear. When he was satisfied, he handed
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