Page 4 of Claimed By the Deep
"I check anchor placement when fishing structured bottoms," I explain quickly. "Ensures I'm not hung up on something that'll cost me tackle."
Not entirely implausible—many fishermen perform basic underwater inspections. But LeBlanc appears unconvinced.
"Rather sophisticated equipment for anchor checks. And that wetsuit in your cabin seems rated for technical diving."
Wind gusts harder. Deep Pockets pitches in growing swells. Their zodiac bumps against my hull, prompting Ross to adjust fenders.
"Weather's deteriorating,” Ross notes. "Should we conclude?"
LeBlanc studies the darkening sky before returning his attention to me. "Captain Montgomery, let me be perfectly clear. We know someone conducts illegal salvage operations in these waters. Anyone caught diving here without proper authorization faces federal charges and vessel forfeiture."
Vessel forfeiture. They could take Deep Pockets. People say Canadians are nice, but they've obviously never met the Coast Guard.
"Completely understood," I manage. "Just fishing today. I'll remain outside sanctuary boundaries henceforth."
"See that you do." He returns my dive gear, his expression conveying warning rather than dismissal. "We're increasing patrols here. I suggest finding alternative fishing grounds."
The radio crackles as they motor back through increasingly rough seas. Fergus's voice breaks through static.
"Deep Pockets, clear of trouble?"
"For now," I reply, watching their zodiac vanish into mounting swells. "Heading back."
"Coming in?" he asks bluntly.
"Yeah, finished for today." I start the engine and turn toward the harbor. "Coast Guard paid a visit."
"Figured as much. Charlie Morrison looked like shark-bait when they showed up earlier and started questioning about local salvage operations."
The harbormaster knows my activities too well to plead ignorance, though he's always been fair. Coast Guard pressure on him signals escalating problems.
"They name anyone specifically?"
"Not directly, but how many people run solo salvage operations from thirty-two-foot workboats around here?"
Fair point. Subtlety isn't my trademark.
The return journey takes twice normal time, battling strengthening seas and winds shifting unpredictably. Harbor mouth finally appears as rain begins pelting my windshield and small craft advisories crackle over radio channels.
***
Fergus waits dockside, rain jacket already deployed against worsening weather.
"Rough day?" he asks, catching my bow line.
"Getting rougher." I pass him my gear bag before stepping onto the dock. "The Coast Guard knows someone's diving sanctuary waters. Patrols are increasing."
"Shit." He secures the line with practiced efficiency. "How long until they connect you directly?"
"They've made the connection. Just lack proof." I glance back at Deep Pockets riding restlessly in her slip. "Need new hunting grounds or new occupation."
"Legitimate salvage operations exist. Plenty of wrecks outside sanctuary boundaries."
"Legitimate means permits, environmental impact statements, and splitting my finds with the government. I'd barely cover fuel costs."
Fergus doesn't argue. We both know the reality. Profitable sites have been claimed by corporate operations with legal departments and political connections. What remains for independent operators like me exists in legal gray zones—or outright forbidden territories.
Rain intensifies as we hurry toward harbor offices. Through windows, Charlie Morrison sits at his desk wearing the expression of someone confronting unwelcome complications.
