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Still, it was unlikely that another ship would be wrecked at this same depth. Tony wrote on his slate, "Mor undr sand thn can see, likely." Rick nodded. The shifting sands had undoubtedly covered, exposed, and recovered the wreck dozens of times in the years it had lain here. He looked at his watch, then reluctantly gave Tony the signal to surface. Their time was up.
Inside the cabin, Scotty switched on his flashlight, took his slate, and wrote, "Thyl thnk we wnt bk to bot. We sty hr lng nuff thy fnd out we nt thr & cm bck lkng fr us. Thn we go up to bot." Rick nodded his understanding. It was good strategy, provided they timed it right. The frogmen would assume the boys had returned to the Water Witch when they went up through the murky layer.
He jerked on the rope for Zircon to stop, then took his belt slate and wrote, "Cam on whn lite is. Wll use nw & thn." He held it in the beam of infrared light for Zircon to read. The scientist scribbled "OK" under the message, then gave him a gentle push as a signal to go ahead. Rick held his wrist in the beam and read ninety-two feet on his depth gauge. He calculated quickly.
Thn night was in windy November, and the blast, threatening rain, roared around the poor little shanty of "Uncle Ripley," set like a chicken trap on the vast Iowa prairie.
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