CaribSeek Books | Oil Slick | The Adventures of Captain Don by Donal A. Stewart

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Oil Slick

Captain, there's someone looking for you," Henky said as he slid my drink across the bar. "Over here." A dozen people stood where he pointed. I already knew eleven of them so the twelfth must be her.

I walked over and introduced myself and she handed me a black plastic business card with gold-embossed letters. The print was small the light was bad. I looked at the card, squinted, moved it to full arm's length and gave up. "What's it say?"

She laughed. "Sorry. I'm Diane Cumberland. I'm with the outfit building the new 35 million-dollar oil terminal here on Bonaire, and I have an important job I'd like you to handle for us." I'd heard rumors of an oil depot here and my face must have shown how I felt about it. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked.

My friend Aad quickly jumped in saying, " Don is a self-imposed conservationist and doesn't like hearing about spear fishing or coral collecting, let alone oil depots coming to Bonaire."

"Well, we can't stop progress, can we? Also, this means 125 jobs for the island. Plus, our technology has advanced to a point where pollution is virtually impossible. Environmentally speaking, it's one of the safest businesses in the world." Her set speech. I guess my look hadn't changed because I felt her gray eyes come down on me and I sensed her molars grinding.

"Okay Buster," she hissed, "are you going to help us or what?" I was going to remark that her eyes were the same color as reef sharks, then thought better of the idea.

"I'm always ready to help a pretty lady," I said. "When do I start? What's the pay? Where do I have to go. What do I have to do?"

Just then, the band started and the conversation stopped. Drink, dance or go home. I did a little of all three and made an appointment for the following evening in her room where she said she had this screw device that she wanted to show me. I was interested.

The next day's meeting was short and to the point. I found her completely unconcerned about my experience in California's oil-polluted Long Beach harbor. She assured me her terminal was safe. I cautioned that even the vibrations from hammering in the pilings would kill coral polyps. She countered with more about the new technology. Neither of us was convincing the other.

The screw device tuned out to be a fifty-pound core drill that had to be rotated by hand. What she wanted, in five days, were core samples of the bottom from 110 feet for which she would pay me $300. That was the "when" and "what." I was the "how".

"Okay," I said, but inwardly I worried whether the risk was worth it. Yes, I wanted to be inside the enemy camp, but I would still have to lead three to four guided dives each day after this deep early morning dive.

Still, something was missing. "And exactly where do I take these samples from?" She was hesitant and wouldn't hold eye contact. "Where?" It came out harder than I had intended. She was silent, then looked up from her notes and said softly, "Colombia."

"Colombia?" I had to think. "Oh, yeah, big plantation. Cuts right across the middle of the island, a beach on both coasts. Right?" She didn't say a word, just sat listening to me, her eyes never leaving my face. "My God!! You want to build a deepwater terminal on the weather side of the island? You're mad"

She still didn't speak, but only watched me. I started to say something, and then the penny dropped. She wasn't thinking of the weather side at all. I felt the blood rush from my face, and slid back into the chair.

"Barcadera! You wouldn't! You couldn't do this to our island."

"No, Don, not Barcadera. A little farther this way. Just south of the Dutch World Radio Towers," she said. "The tank farm will be on the cliff, above the loading docks." There was nothing to say. We both sat in silence for a bit.

"Well, Diane, 'progress' will put your damned docks right in the middle of some of the finest coral gardens in the world. "Progress" you say!" I snatched up the core drill on the way out, not bothering to look back. I knew that the drilling would be done with or without me. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

The dive itself, 110 feet, wasn't any big deal; 210 would have been another story.

First step was to plan the dive. Drag the core drill down to location, set up a 15-foot decompression stop where I'd tie off a second tank. Set a static line from the drill site to dive entry. And then, I needed a way out. While a nine-foot giant stride entry was no problem, a nine-foot jump back out of the water was a bit much. Day one found me cutting footholds in the cliff-face at 0630.

During the dive I allowed myself 20 minutes at depth. Swapped tanks at 15' and spent my decompression time scouting out the reef. This is when I had time to do nothing but observe and to think.

Looking out over the rich wonderful living corals, I knew it would all be destroyed. It was depressing. Nothing could survive the building of a pier of this magnitude. I had a serious talk with myself and I knew that it was time to stop thinking and take some action. But what?

Four more days passed like the first. Twenty minutes of furious drilling followed by 20 minutes of decompression, looking at the doomed reef and trying to think of what to do.

Day five, the last day of core sampling, went as the others. I finished my decompression stop, hauled my tank to the base of the cliff, secured it to the rope, hung the core sample above the tank and swam over to the ascent area. I muscled myself over the top and found that I was not alone. Diane was intently peering down from the ledge into the transparent sea that was alive with shallow-water corals.

Neither of us spoke. I pulled up the core sample, "Number five," I said. "Wish you dived, or even snorkeled. It would be nice for you to have a memory of what this place is like."

I held out the core to her. "Take this damned thing, will you... I wish you nothing but the worst of luck with your pilings," and turned my attention to gathering my gear.

She said nothing but stood looking down at the core sample. Then she opened the plastic tube, slid the short core into her hand and raised it to her face for a close examination.

Finally she spoke. "So these are the roots of this island?" she asked and looked up at me. "To build an island on these in two million years is Progress. She flung the core out into the sea. "Buster, this is a small island and you can't afford to lose a single root."

Then she smiled. A real smile; the first I had seen. Slowly shaking her head, she said, "You conservationists are going to drive me crazy some day!" She turned and looked up at the silent, looming radio towers and laughed. "Thank them, Buster. They saved your precious dive site."

The oil depot had been moved further West due to possible danger from the strong radio waves and also because the frontage proved to be too short for safety.

On 17 September 1975, the first pier was finished and, as promised, the Bonaire oil terminal became one of the finest in the western hemisphere. And, in its new location, has had practically no impact on our dive sites.

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