Spirits of the Pirate House Read Online Free PDF Page A

of clothes for dinner upstairs.
    They were about to exit the boat when Capt.
Kenny told them to sit down. “Listen, youse two,” he said
seriously, “ya done real good down there, barely a hitch, so it’s
my pleasure to issue the both of you your own gen-u-ine PADI card.
But that don’t mean you’re some kinda experts. In fact, in da big
picture, you don’t know squat . That’s why I got my doubts
about you divin’ on some wreck in Bermuda, even if it is in fairly
shallow water.
    “A’course, if you could dive in this crap,” he flung a hand out toward the harbor’s churning waters,
“youse can dive in anything. In Bermuda there’s probably gonna be
like unlimited visibility, and in June, the water temp is like your
bathtub.” Both boys broke into broad grins at the prospect.
    “But you gotta promise me that, no matter
what, you don’t take any stoopid chances down there, and whatever
else you do, never dive alone. Somethin’ goes wrong down
there, you need a buddy. Understood?”
    “We gotcha,” said T.J., extending his hand.
“Thanks for everything, Capt. Kenny.”
    “Yeah, right,” the old seadog replied,
engulfing the boys’ hands in his huge paw. “Just make sure you
flash my shop’s logo on camera whenever possible. That would be
nice.”
    “I bet we can even get you a ‘special thanks’
in the closing credits!” chirped Bortnicker.
    “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Now youse two
clowns get outta here and let me wash down this tub.”
     

Chapter Four
     
    “ Lobster roll’s a
little too mushy—they should’ve eased up on the mayo,” said
Bortnicker, dipping a French fry into his little paper cup of
ketchup.
    “Well, maybe if you’d actually chewed it you’d have enjoyed it more,” quipped T.J. “I can’t believe you
got your appetite back so quick after being seasick.” He had only
nibbled at his own sandwich and had avoided the greasy fries
completely.
    “What can I say?” grunted Bortnicker through
a mouthful of food. “Now that I’m back on land I need
nourishment!”
    The sun had broken through, and the day had
actually become quite pleasant. They had found a vacant picnic
table with an umbrella on the deck of Fisherman’s Rest, which was
becoming crowded with boat people and other harbor visitors passing
the late spring afternoon. The wind had died down a bit, and the
harbor’s waters looked less threatening than a couple hours before,
when Capt. Kenny’s 36’ dive boat NeverEnuf had ferried the
boys out to the mouth of Bridgeport Harbor for their SCUBA
certification dive test. A slightly overweight waitress dressed in
faux pirate gear dropped off a second round of iced teas.
    Pippa Bortnicker, who earned a good living as
a feng shui interior decorator to the well-heeled of Connecticut’s
“Gold Coast,” smiled warmly at her son as she plucked a cherry
tomato from her garden salad. “He’s become quite the food critic,”
she commented with a wink. “I’m getting a complex about my
cooking.” With her 70s style peasant blouse and long, frizzy hair
tied back with a pink bow, she looked like a rather attractive
middle-aged refugee from Woodstock. Her son could have countered
that Pippa’s strict vegan diet severely cramped her creations, but
he chose to let it go. The day was going too well.
    “I, for one, think it’s great that he’s
picked up a hobby that’s useful,” said Thomas Jackson, Sr., who was
decked out in his standard uniform of golf shirt and khakis. “Some
girl is going to be very lucky.”
    “And model railroading isn’t useful?”
countered Bortnicker, referring to his first love.
    “Oh surrre,” said T.J., rolling his eyes for
effect. “Girls really dig it.”
    Pippa delicately wiped her mouth with her
napkin and placed it on the table. “All right, gentlemen,” she
began, “now that the diving exam is over, could you tell me again
how this whole excursion is going to work?”
    The three males looked at each other,