Ahab, dressed in full scuba gear, his mask around his neck, stood at the controls. He was calm, even in the Black Wind. He knew how to navigate it – there was no finer skipper in all of Pirates Bay, as far as Mackerel knew. The only way through the Black Wind was with a small, manoeuvrable boat like this, and it only worked if you stayed near the cliffs, where at least one side of you was safe from waves.

Even still, there was only so much Ahab could do in mitigation of the risk. There was every chance they’d roll or sink. That’s why he was wearing his dive gear too. It would be no picnic, but if they sank, he could swim back to the shore along the bottom of the ocean, where the currents weren’t as strong and the seaweed offered hand-holds whenever the water tried to suck you away.

Mackerel was already in his own wetsuit and gear, the weight of his buoyancy control device vest – the BC – a familiar pressure across his chest. He was comfortable with the boat pitching and rolling under his feet, but he was eager to be in the water, his true home.

They stopped just short of the opening to Devils Kitchen. Rugged formations soared above Mackerel’s head, like the columns of some Egyptian temple.

‘Go!’ called Ahab.

Mackerel put his regulator into his mouth, made the okay symbol with his hand, and fell backwards into the ocean.

At first he floated on the surface, immediately feeling his muscles relax at the touch of the water, icy cold trickling down through the seal around the back of his neck and sending a shiver through his body. He released air from the BC and began to sink, the water line covering his mask and head in a moment.

He was under.

Down and down.

Breathe in, bubbles out.

He equalised as he went – blocking his nose and blowing to release pressure in his ears.

The cool, soft sea accepted him as it always did. As though he were just another creature of the salt water.

Calm. Peace.

Focus.

They said you could become addicted to the bubbles of scuba diving. It calmed all his senses. Forced him to focus on the moment. It made him feel alone in a way that he didn’t mind.

Stuck in prison, Mackerel had missed diving the most. He’d tried and failed to explain to his cellmate how it made him feel. The meditative state of it, how all his problems stayed behind on land.

Breathe in, bubbles out.