“He has frightened them all away,” commented the chief knowingly. “Perhaps you will have better luck on your next dive.”
“Sure,” replied Poplar drily, helping himself to a glass of tea.
By the third day, the attractions of the un-unusual reef had long since paled for Poplar. Even the attraction of swimming through the brilliantly lit water was beginning to feel like work again. Elaine seemed to thrive on it, but, then, there was still something in every crevice to delight her. But he’d seen enough angel fish, brain coral, giant mollusks, trumpet fish, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum, to last him another year. And nothing he couldn’t see with much less trouble right in the station’s backyard.
In fact, except for a peaceful encounter with a poisonous stonefish, the last three days had been about as exciting as a dive in one of Pago Pago’s hotel pools.
“Possibly He willl come this afternoon,” said Ha’apu.
“I know, I know,” Poplar replied irritably. It was just about time to tell the old chief off, find out what he wanted, and return home.
In the many-times-three dives, they’d sighted exactly three sharks. Two small blues and one pelagic white-tip, a seven-footer that had turned and run for
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He
the open sea even before Poplar could set his camera for a decent shot. To him they were just three more fish.
They’d go home tomorrow. True, he’d sort of promised the Matai a week. But the longer he stayed away from the office, the more work would be piled up for his return. Although he’d left the pressures of extreme paperwork back in the States and settled into the more agreeable Samoan mode, old habits died hard. As director, he still had certain responsibilities.