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One last inhalation that barely puffed out his lungs and he relaxed, exhaling small breaths to compensate for the declining pressure as he rose from the depths. The hiss of his air bubbles leaving the regulator diminished as his lungs ran dry.
The surface appeared so close he could reach out and touch it when his lungs began to burn. It was a spiteful illusion. The waves were still 20 meters (66 feet) away.
He put some strength into his kick as a huge elastic band seemed to tighten around his chest. Soon, the desire for air became his only world as darkness started seeping around the edges of his eyes.
Pitt became entangled in something that hindered his ascent. His vision, blurred without a dive mask, failed to distinguish what was binding him. Instinctively, he thrashed clumsily in an attempt to free himself.
A great roaring sound came from inside his brain as it screamed in protest. But in that instant before blackness shut down his mind, he sensed that his body was being pulled toward the surface.
"I've hooked a big one!" shouted Joe Hagen joyously,
"You got a marlin?" Claire asked excitedly, seeing her husband's fishing pole bent like a question mark.
"He's not giving much fight for a marlin," Joe panted as he feverishly turned the crank on his reel.
"Feels more like a dead weight."
"Maybe you dragged him to death."
"Get the gaff. He's almost to the surface."
Claire snatched a long-handled gaff from two hooks and pointed it over the side of the yacht like a spear. "I see something," she cried. "It looks big and black."
Then she screamed in horror.
Pitt was a millimeter away from unconsciousness when his head broke into a trough between the waves. He spit out his regulator and drew in a deep breath. The sun's reflection on the water blinded eyes that hadn't seen light in almost two days. He squinted rapturously at the sudden kaleidoscope of colors.
Relief, joy of living, fulfillment of a great accomplishment-- they flooded together.
A woman's scream pierced his ears and he looked up, startled to see the Capri-blue hull of a yacht rising beside him and two people staring over the side, their faces pale as death. It was then that he realized he was entangled in fishing line. Something slapped against his leg. He gripped the line and pulled a small skipjack tuna, no longer than his foot, out of the water. The poor thing had a huge hook protruding from its mouth.
Pitt gently gripped the fish under one armpit and eased out the hook with his good hand. Then he stared into the little fish's beady eyes.
"Look, Toto," he said jubilantly, "we're back in Kansas!"
Commander Maderas and his crew had moved out of San Felipe and resumed their search pattern when the call came through from the Hagens.
"Sir," said his radioman, "I just received an urgent message from the yacht The First Attempt."
"What does it say?"
"The skipper, an American by the name of Joseph Hagen, reports picking up a man he caught while fishing."
Maderas frowned. "He must mean he snagged a dead body while trolling."
"No, sir, he was quite definite. The man he caught is alive."
Maderas was puzzled. "Can't be the one we're searching for. Not after viewing the other one. Have any boats in the area reported a crew member lost overboard?"
The radioman shook his head. "I've heard nothing."
"What is The First Attempt's position?"
"Twelve nautical miles to the northwest of us."
Maderas stepped into the wheelhouse and nodded at Hidalgo. "Set a course to the northwest and watch for an American yacht." Then he turned to his radioman. "Call this Joseph Hagen for more details on the man they pulled from the water and tell him to remain at his present position. We'll rendezvous in approximately thirty-five minutes."
Hidalgo looked at him across the chart table. "What do you think?"
