Bois Blanc Island was taking on definition, the top of a lighthouse peeking over the trees making me glad I was going in underwater. We had already passed the no-automobile Mackinac Island, and the huge bridge was to the left and behind us, spanning the narrows between the two peninsulas. Yeah, narrows. It stretched over four freakin’ miles. An ocean-going tanker was passing under the bridge, looking like a mouse under a chair.

The bridge was enormous, and according to the place mat under my burger last night, it came in only feet shorter in height than Carew Tower, the support towers being five hundred feet up and two hundred feet down to bedrock. It was the third longest suspension bridge in the world, the longest in the western hemisphere. It was a big sucker, claiming five men’s lives in its construction, one never found; hitting water at that height was like hitting a cement parking lot. I’d expect to see something like it in a big city, not out in the boonies where moose and wolves crossed the ice in the winter.

I lurched when the thrum of the engine dropped in pitch and the boat slowed, rocking as our own wake rolled under us. The six guys clustered at the back of the boat jostled and pushed, showing off for Debbie, all done up in her rubber wet suit. Her chest looked like a Barbie doll’s, whereas mine was more like her little sister Ellie’s. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was the reason most of the slobbering sacks of hormones had joined the diving club in the first place.

“God, I feel old, Jenks,” I whispered, tucking a stray red curl behind an ear.

“Yeah, me too.”

Damn it. I wondered if I could jam my foot any farther down my throat. The wind seemed to shift as the boat turned, and Debbie expertly hooked the buoy and tied us off. The diving flag went up the pole, the engine cut out, and the level of excitement grew.

“Divers, listen up!” Marshal said, standing to garner everyone’s attention. “Look to your guides. They’ll give you your warmth amulets and make sure they’re working, though I’m sure you’ll sing out once you hit the water if they aren’t.”

“You got it, Coach,” one of the kids sang out in a high falsetto, gaining laughs.

“That’s Captain when we’re on the water, smartass,” Marshal said, flicking a glance at Jenks and me. “Debbie, you take the boys,” he said, unzipping his windbreaker. “I’ll take Mr. Morgan and his sister.”

Not feeling at all bad for the lie on the release form, I stood and the butterflies started.

“Any time, Rache,” Jenks muttered, and I thwacked him with my foot.

Two of the boys gave each other high-fives, clustering around the woman in rubber as she comfortably fended off their exuberance. She knew them by name, and it looked like this was an old game. My pulse quickened when the line of tanks got shorter as they unlatched them from the side and spun them to the back of the boat. Everyone seemed to know what to do, even the guy who drove us out there, now settling himself in the bow in the sun with a handheld game.