This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/kibufox on 2024-11-13 23:46:01+00:00.
The city sprawled out beneath me like an ever-changing mural as I perched in the open door of the rescue helicopter, one leg inside, the other teasingly suspended over the edge. The colors of the landscape shimmered in vibrant greens, blues, yellows, and browns, each hue laced with the melancholy rhythm of Kordhell's "Murder on My Mind," which pulsed through my earbuds. Technically, this was against regulations, but after twelve grueling hours of relentless hurricane cleanup, I felt justified in bending the rules a little. This work, though fulfilling, often felt like a marathon without end—an unyielding series of intense runs where the only certainty was fatigue.
In the world of Search and Rescue (SAR), most people associate the acronym with heroism and life-saving. But for me and my fellow 'angels of death,' the R stands for something far more somber: recovery. As an open water, wreck-trained diver—often referred to as a 'hard hat' due to the helmet I wear while diving—my role unfolds in the aftermath of tragedy. When nature’s ferocity renders hope untenable, and recovery becomes the morose necessity, it's my team they call upon to perform the somber task of reclaiming the lives lost beneath the waves. The hurricane that had ravaged the coast left a familiar, mournful imprint on my heart, pulling me back into the fray for yet another solemn mission.
Today's deployment had me working alongside military personnel, a stark reminder of the seriousness of our task. I could feel the vibrations of the Seahawk beneath me as we navigated toward the reported location of a capsized yacht. It was a familiar scene—a rescue call with no signs of life, the Coast Guard helpless as they arrived to find the vessel turned turtle, swallowed by the sea. My heart raced at the thought; third or maybe fourth task of the day, and we were faced with treacherous waters still churning from the hurricane's wrath. As the helicopter slowed near the last known position, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder; the loadmaster signaled five minutes out. Time to suit up.
Anticipation quickened my movements as I assembled my gear, knowing that the minutes to come would test both my skill and resolve. Poised in the doorway, the world below transformed from a vibrant panorama to an abyssal mystery. It was time to leap into the unknown, and as I relinquished my hold on the bird, I held my breath, surrendering to the weightlessness of the drop before I plunged into the water's embrace. In that fleeting moment, darkness enveloped me, but as my helmet illuminated the surroundings, I quickly regained my focus on the task at hand. The depths beckoned, and as my eyes adjusted, I caught glimpses of the wreck—a twisted remnant of human ambition now languishing at an angle on a muddy outcropping. Time was of the essence; I sensed the urgent decay of the vessel's resting place, urging me to act swiftly before nature reclaimed what tragedy had taken.
I quickly kicked my fins, swimming down to the wreck, sliding in along its keel first and catching glimpses of the gleaming propellers and stern before finally slipping under the murky depths. The once-grand yacht lay sprawled across the ocean floor, a memorial to a sudden, violent end. Almost immediately, I found the first body— a young man, no older than twenty-five, his face frozen in an expression of abject shock. The sight sent a chill down my spine. Yeah, buddy… I thought, sudden death is truly shocking. It’s an ending you never see coming. Recovery was methodical; I gently pulled him from the wreckage, carefully untangling him from the anchor rope that had tethered him to the abyss. Attaching a lifting bag to his ankle, I hit it with a small blast of compressed air, watching him rocket skyward as I steeled myself for deeper exploration.
Venturing further into the wreck, I scanned the darkened interiors, knowing that what was once a luxurious vessel was now a tomb—a costly reef drowning in tragedy. The galley was eerily still, remnants of a life well-lived now shrouded in silence. As I slipped deeper into the cavernous space, I was met with an unexpected noise. It was faint but distinct: a tapping, rhythmic and deliberate. Underwater, sounds travel well; I could hear the muted thwop of helicopter blades overhead and the creaking of the wreck as it settled further into the seabed. Yet this persistent tapping was something entirely different. Could it be a sign of life? I recalled stories of survivors trapped in air pockets, and a surge of determination propelled me forward.
Navigating past empty staterooms, I almost jumped when I collided with another body. This one was a cook, I surmised, though the bloated figure was unrecognizable in the eerie green haze surrounding him. An unsettling revelation washed over me; underwater, blood turned a vivid green. With swift urgency, I floated him upward, knowing that time was precious. The tapping grew louder as I navigated the confines of the luxurious yet ghostly wreck. A creeping unease settled over me—something wasn't right. Each passing moment heightened my awareness. Why were there so few bodies? The yacht, magnificent in its prime, now held haunting echoes of its former glory. The engine room was conspicuously empty, and the odd placement of doors and lights seemed too intentional. The deeper I delved, the more I noticed inconsistencies.
That’s when it struck me—the engine was a facade, a carefully crafted illusion that left me bewildered. Here I was, trapped in this elaborate set piece, and my instincts screamed at me that there was a danger lurking behind those twisted designs. The atmosphere thickened as I began to turn back, the sense of foreboding pressing heavily on my chest. As I retraced my path, panic set in; I couldn't quite remember the way. The familiar confines of the wreck transformed into a labyrinth. Alien shapes danced in the shadows, and I noticed the darkness creeping closer as I struggled upward, gasping for air. Thrumming in my chest was a primal instinct to survive. Kicking harder than ever, the surface felt so far away, an unreachable beacon. Just as darkness began to close in on me, icy fingers gripped at my limbs, pulling me back into the depths. Desperate, I fought against unseen forces, only to notice a flicker of hope as another diver appeared, offering the promise of fresh oxygen.
When I broke through the surface at last, gasping for air, the weather had calmed, but the turmoil inside me remained. Exhausted and bewildered, I was hoisted onto the rescue boat. It was only then, amidst the fresh air and gently bobbing waves, that I began to comprehend the sheer magnitude of what I had encountered. I had been down there for nearly an hour—longer than I’d intended. The relief on the faces of the rescue team was palpable, but my mind raced with questions. What had I found? Why were there so few souls in that wreckage? The looming prospect of a pressure chamber awaited me, but deep down, I knew that I hadn’t just been on a routine dive. I had brushed against the strange and the mysterious, and the answers were still hiding beneath those dark waves.
Those answers never would come. When I was released with a clean bill of health, my superiors came to find me. They informed me, in what i'd call a pretty terse attitude, that going forward, I wasn't to talk about the incident. As far as anyone was concerned, it simply hadn't happened. I started to protest, but it was clear. No one wanted to talk about this. Whatever that was, it was well above my paygrade to understand. If I kept asking... I wouldn't be diving long. That didn't stop me from looking, of course, but I did so on my time. I turned up some records online. Stories similar to mine. Divers finding these strange wrecks in places they simply shouldn't be. Strange tapping, incomprehensible ship layout, and too few victims. In most every case, one or more of the divers that found them, vanished. Claimed by the depths. As I sit here writing this, I'm reminded of a saying. "We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far." I think Lovecraft wasn't far off, his words a reminder of the perilous boundaries we tread upon when seeking knowledge shrouded in darkness. The sea holds its secrets tightly, and perhaps it is better to let the mysterious silence remain undisturbed; sometimes, ignorance truly is bliss.