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

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Photo © Bruce Bowker

Sampler

"Captain!" I opened an eye to see Peter Schroeder, who I knew best as Diver No. 43, take a seat on the lounge next to me. He was what we called a "Golden Tank," which meant that he was a frequently returning visitor to Bonaire.

This was about his eighth trip, so he was no stranger and knew his way around the island as well as I did. He had been onboard a week, and the evidence was his deep tan. And his carefree attitude. The real world was a week behind and forgotten.

Peter was a good man. I liked him, and hoped the feeling was mutual. I found him an excellent teacher in matters of psychology, diving techniques, and jungle warfare, and wondered if women thought him better looking than me. The way he parted his hair, held his age, spoke a precise English and, above all, acted like a gentleman. This brought me to the conclusion that he must be a square.

"Don! Were you in a fight last night?" He was looking at the numerous scuffs about my head and shoulders, then brought his attention to my swollen ear where my earring had been rudely yanked out.

How could I have told him? He never would have believed about the drunk who had stumbled onto his girlfriend and me in the middle of the night, down on the dimly lit beach, pouring hot coffee over the naked foot of a beach-comber, a victim of a sea wasp.

Really it was all quite innocent, not as though there was any hanky-panky going on. Actually she was ...was my nurse ...yes, nurse. Everybody knew her. Some called her the Gypsy, a lady who had her own special charm.

Rich black hair to the waist. Skin the color of coffee with three milks. Eyes of emerald green, and a body from the pages of Omar. However, the extraordinary point of this girl's body works was her tattoos. Three to be precise, all similar in text, and reading almost like a country-western song: A wheel, a scarf and a set of high riding bars. Some wings and a chain with a one-eyed skull peeping over a hard, knobby tire. Each tattoo floated over a name. Like: "Mad Dog" or "Skullbreaker." One starboard, two to port. And if you were to ask any diver who swam astern of her what he had seen, he would have said, "*@!#$!+$^%!"

"Don," Peter repeated, "did you have a fight last night?"

I looked him straight in the face saying, "No Peter, I didn't have a fight... but he did." I pointed to the boisterous biker-type fellow, tattoos and a hairy back, strutting on the beach. Peter, being polite, waited.

"He really didn't get mad about me on the beach with his girl. Until he asked me if I were an instructor or something. I told him I was something. When he asked me what, I told him diver, bartender and underwater fornication instructor. I think that's when he went for my earring."

Peter listened, absorbing what I had told him, then asked, "Was she the..." and he placed a hand on his butt. I looked down at my feet, no words, and just nodded my head.

Then he said, quite matter-of-factly and totally off the subject, "I want to name a reef with you!" I cleared my throat and blinked several times, then said. " Really! What makes you so special that we should do that?"

"I know the royal family," he boasted.

That one stopped me. "Okay," I said, "that gets you into the boat. What else."

"I can speak Dutch," he quickly added.

I had to laugh at that one. "God, I hope so. You've been announcing for Radio Holland for how many years? Okay, Peter, meet me on the pier about 3 o'clock, and you can tell me more about the royal family."

He was obviously determined and there was a place on the north side of Klein Bonaire that I wanted to scout out for a new mooring. As good a time as any.

Forty minutes later we were cruising at 40 feet. Peter had taken a liking to the kids I had brought along, shepherding them down the reef exploring on their own. I started looking around for a good mooring location. When half an hour was up I started down the reef looking for Peter and the kids.

I found them at about 60 feet, give or take several yards, gathered around a pinnacle. It was perhaps five feet in height and only six inches around. On the top there was a sizable platform, like a giant tray almost five feet in diameter. On this tray was an array of coral, one of everything, like a box of chocolates.

It was a breathtaking display. Coral, sponges, gorgonian pups. I knew the table well and always enjoyed viewing it. "Time's up," I pointed to my watch and gave the "up." It had been a fine dive and the kids were enthralled.

"Will you pierce my ear?" Peter asked me as we were rinsing our gear. By now nothing surprised me. He seemed to always come at me out of left field. I finished with my wet suit and hung it up. "I have decided I would like an earring like yours," he continued.

"Well Peter, why not?" and I turned back to the rinse tank, grappling about for my knife. I'm not sure that was the answer he expected and he sure didn't like the look of my knife. He left quickly.

Peter hadn't spoken about the naming of the dive site since our return and I chose to leave well enough alone. Then about mid-morning the following day he found me in my office. He stuck his head in the door and said only: "Sampler." Then he was gone. I smiled to myself knowing exactly what he meant. "Sampler" it is.

That afternoon, same day, I saw Peter again. He found me in the harness room fitting up a new diver. He came over and stood directly in front of me. His mouth was a slash of a smile, not saying a word.

"Hi, Peter," I mumbled and I started to move away. Then my eyes fell to the dollar bill neatly rolled and stuck through the shiny new earring dangling from his right ear.

"Don, can your arrange for me to get a tattoo?" He gave me a broad smile and placed a hand on his buttock. Guess he's not a square after all. Something of a SampIer himself.

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