The origin story behind the main character in the Mike Scott thriller series

For more than 25 years, I’ve had the good fortune to write about the oceans and scuba diving. In the winter of 1998, I moved to California to take a job with the Professional Association of Diving Instructors. It was an amazing time of learning and development for me  —  both personally and professionally. I was the associate editor of The Undersea Journal, but also worked with the program development team DSAT. I learned about video production and editing. 

I also became a dive instructor and diver medic while I was there. 

Most importantly, for a boy from land-locked West Virginia, I was able to see the ocean every day and dive in it nearly every week. I learned to dive in 1990 and had completed more than 100 dives before I moved there, but in my mind, that’s where I really became a diver. I still say some of my favorite dives are in the kelp forests off southern California. 

It wasn’t until later that I decided to write fiction about the ocean. I’ll tell that story later. But my first novel was Cayman Cowboys set on Grand Cayman. Not literally, but that’s where Mike Scott was born. In a number of the books, I described Mike’s origin story, saying he was a photo pro on Cayman before he decided to return to the world and be a news photographer. I was several books into the Mike Scott thriller series when I decided to actually write the origin story and explain what happened. 

I’m going to include that story in serial fashion over the next few weeks. Read on to learn how Mike Scott started out in Cayman and why he decided to leave. 

Leaving Cayman

By Eric Douglas

© First Edition November 2018

In Mike Scott’s backstory, Mike worked as a photopro on Grand Cayman before something happened that made him decide to being a photojournalist. This story tells the back story of what happened. It is set in 1992.

Chapter 1

Sunset House Reef, 1992

Mike Scott stilled his breathing and inched closer to his quarry. It wasn’t exactly a do or die mission to get the photograph, but he had been trying for weeks to capture the tiny blenny peeking out of its hole in the coral reef. He only had a few more exposures on the roll of 36 exposures and he had to make each one count.

Inching forward, Mike carefully positioned the macro framer of his Nikonos V camera over the hole in the reef as he waited for the tiny fish to appear. When shooting something this small, his depth of field was just 3/16 of an inch so he had to be positioned just right. Everything was perfect.

There it was. The tiny animal was no more than an inch long and notoriously shy and difficult to shoot. He could just see the tip of its nose. He would wait until it peeked out a touch farther.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he felt a jerk on his arm. He had been so focused on his shot that he hadn’t heard the diver approach. Mike spun around to face the situation.

Mr. Green hovered in the water gesturing wildly toward the distance, alternating between pointing and then holding his free hand to his forehead, pretending he had a shark fin on his head. In his other hand, Green held a Nikonos V camera as well, with two strobes. This one was brand new, however. The man had bought it in the photo store the day before. In fact, Mike had sold it to him. Along with a class in underwater photography.

Mike signaled to the man to calm down. He wasn’t sure why he was concerned about the shark, whether he wanted to take its photo or if it made him nervous, but there was nothing either one of them were going to do about it. They were both set up to shoot macro underwater. Tiny things that lived in the reef. They couldn’t switch from macro to wide angle underwater so even if they could get close to the shark, they couldn’t photograph it. It was swimming away from them anyway and there was no way to catch it.

The joys of working with the public. Mike pointed at the man’s camera and Mr. Green indicated he was out of film. Mike had spent quite a bit of time in the class he gave that morning talking about saving your photos and only shooting when you had something lined up. The worst thing was to run out of film underwater before you ran out of air or bottom time. It wasn’t like they could shoot hundreds of images. They were limited to 36 exposures. Mike was also sure when they processed the film, there would be a series of hazy and out of focus photographs.

In fairness, that was typical of a beginner. Mike glanced back at the blenny hole he had been scouting and shook his head. It would have to wait until later. He signaled that it was time to ascend and both divers headed back toward the boat.

Mike was a photopro at Sunset House on Grand Cayman. He was a skilled photographer, both topside and underwater, but he was working on his underwater portfolio. He had come to the island two years before on a vacation and fallen in love with the vibe of the place. He quickly decided to stay.

He still loved the island, but some of the allure had worn off. He worked six days a week and saved most of his money for the future. He did get to dive every day, often several times a day, but most of his time was spent guiding wanna-be photographers through the basics and then processing their film afterward and trying to explain to them what they did wrong.

He was beginning to feel like there was something more he should be doing with his life.

Back on the boat, Mike checked on Mr. Green and the other passengers they had on board before helping the boat captain pull the anchor and head for the dock. He collected all the film from the photographers and tagged each roll, so he could keep it all straight and show it to them later.

The divers headed to My Bar for an after-dive drink, or four, but Mike had a few more hours of work before he got to call it a day. They would meet up in the morning to discuss the photos and then make another dive that afternoon. By the end of the week, they should be able to capture passable photos to share with their friends in a vacation slideshow. Each week, a new group of divers arrived on the island and the process began again.

Tired from a long day, Mike rode his bike home to his apartment and flopped his 6’2” frame onto the couch.

“Hey man, don’t get too comfortable, we’re heading out in a few minutes.” It was Mike’s roommate Kelly. “I told the guys we would meet them at Lone Star around 9 pm.”

Mike groaned.

“I don’t know if I have the energy tonight,” Mike said. He rubbed his face and scratched the top of his head. His kept his wavy dark hair short and he was normally clean shaven, although he had a couple days growth of beard.

“Of course you do. We go through this every week when you’re dealing with a new batch of customers. You need to blow off steam. Come on,” Kelly said. He handed Mike a fresh t-shirt. “I also had some really good-looking girls on the boat today and told them where I’d be. I think you’re going to want to meet them.”

Kelly was a dive instructor, like Mike, but he worked for a different operation, taking visiting tourists on dives and showing them the reef. It didn’t pay quite as well as Mike’s job, but he got to spend more time with divers, just making sure they had fun. Where Mike was broad shouldered, Kelly was thin any wiry with short blond hair and a mustache. They couldn’t be more different physically, but they got along like brothers regardless.

Mike shook his head. Kelly was right. They did go through this every week and he knew getting out and having some laughs, often at the expense of the tourists they cared for, was exactly what he needed. And it never hurt to meet a couple pretty young women. Mike climbed off the threadbare couch and headed to the bathroom to wash his face before they headed out.

Chapter 2

Lone Star

Mike rode his bike to work, because it was easier to get around, but he bought an old Jeep CJ7 just after he arrived from another ex-pat who was leaving. It had been on the island for years and there was no telling how many people had owned it in its lifetime.

By the time Mike got outside, Kelly had already pulled the cover off the Jeep and was leaning against it, waiting on him. Mike draped a tarp over it during the day to keep the sun and afternoon rains off it. It didn’t have a top, just a roll bar. Sometimes he stretched a bikini top into place that covered the front passengers, but his last one wore through from the nonstop sun and salt air and he hadn’t replaced it. Getting that sort of thing on the island was difficult or expensive. Or both.

“You coming, old man?” Kelly asked.

“Yeah, yeah, just moving a little slow is all. I’m here now,” Mike said. He climbed into the Jeep and started it up. The old CJ looked rough, but it was solid transportation for when they decided to go off to less-trafficked parts of the island. It was so sunbaked, Mike wasn’t even sure what color it had been originally.

The dive culture on Grand Cayman was a bit of a free for all. Very few of the local Caymanians dived. Most of that work was handled by ex-patriots from North America, Europe and Australia. They came to the island to live and work for a few years, and then drifted back home or to other locations or to office jobs.

That meant the people in diving were mostly young and athletic. They dived all day and many of them partied half the night despite having to be at work by 6 am to get their boats ready in time for their customers to arrive.

Mike and Kelly weren’t in basic dive positions. Kelly was a boat captain and Mike was a photopro. That meant they made a bit more than the average divemaster on a boat, but it didn’t mean their days were any shorter.

Mike pulled the Jeep into the parking lot at Lone Star and felt the tiredness in his body drain away. The warm night air had helped rejuvenate him but hearing the music pumping through the bar speakers finished the job.

Lone Star was one of the primary divemaster hangouts on the island. Just about everyone ended up there at some point, including the “cocaine cowboys.”

Grand Cayman had some of the most lax and most private banking rules in the Western hemisphere. That attracted a lot of shady money to the island. Wall Street types stashing away money to avoid taxes stood in line beside cocaine suppliers looking for ways to launder their money.

The bar itself was a simple affair with traditional bar food with the addition of Texas barbecue. The owner was a Texan and had decorated it with Texas flags and other memorabilia. Any free space on the walls was covered with novelty t-shirts donated by patrons. More than one had been taken off while the person was in the bar and stapled to the ceiling.

Mike and Kelly walked through the front door and were greeted by shouts from friends. Kelly quickly spotted the group he promised to meet, and they worked their way through tables and to grab seats. Two Red Stripes arrived at their table just as they sat down, delivered by a friendly bartender who liked to go diving with them on her day off. Most of the divemasters drank Red Stripe or Amstel when they were drinking on their own, or Heineken when a visiting tourist was buying for them.

Two young women that Kelly mentioned would be joining their group were already at the table.

“Hey guys,” Kelly said to the group as he worked his way over to sit beside one of the young women, a pretty blonde. They had struck up a conversation on the boat earlier in the day.

“Tanya, this is my roommate Mike,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Michael,” she said. Her accent was unusual enough that it caught Mike’s attention. That and the fact that she called him Michael.

“Ochin priyatna, Tanya. Nice to meet you. Or is it Tatyana?” he said in what he guessed was her native language: Russian.

She smiled a him. “Ochin priyatna! You are correct, of course. How did you know?”

“Before I came to the island, I worked with a reporter from Moscow. He taught me about Russia and I picked up a bit of the language before he returned home. I recognized your accent.”

“With perestroika, and glasnost, Russians are able to travel now. You might have a chance to meet more of us. Have you been to Russia?”

“Sadly, no. I hope to visit someday. My friend Vladimir has extended an invitation to me and I plan to take him up on it at some point.”

“Tanya and her friend are both really good divers. Tanya is a marine biologist,” Kelly said, inserting himself back into the conversation. Mike quickly realized Tanya was the one he had his eye on and he took the signal to not get in his friend’s way. The other girl, Tanya’s friend, was already talking to a couple other divemasters so Mike determined he didn’t need to play wingman for Kelly.

“I hope you have a great time on the island,” Mike said as he stood back up. “I see a friend over at the bar. I’m going to go say hi for a few minutes. I’m sure I will see you around. It was very nice to meet you.”

Mike winked at Kelly and headed for the bar. He knew several people sitting there, but no one he needed to speak to. There was an open seat, though, so he headed for it.

“How’s it going tonight, Bonnie?” Mike asked the bartender when he sat down.

“Just another Tuesday,” she said. She gestured to the full bar and rowdy crowd.

“Just another Tuesday,” Mike agreed. “Can I get an order of fajitas? I’m really hungry.”

“Sure, Mike. Another Stripe?”

Mike slid the empty bottle across the bar and smiled. She brought him another one.

“So, why are you over here?” the man beside Mike asked.

Mike turned to look at the stranger beside him.

“Have we met?”

“No, sorry, bad habit. I watch people and I’m always trying to figure out their story.”

“No worries. I’m Mike.” He offered his hand.

“John. John Calhoun.”

“To answer your question, I came out with my buddy so he could meet a woman from his boat today, but I didn’t want to get in the way. I’m not a big partyer anyway. Right now, I need food more than anything and I don’t think they are eating.”

“So, you’re being a good wingman. Nice to know.”

“How’s that?”

“Just tells me you’re a good friend.”

“Thanks, John. You here on vacation?” Mike was skeptical. The man was dressed casually, but he didn’t seem to fit the profile of the average tourist. He had a bit of a sunburn, like he wasn’t used to being in the sun, but it was more his demeanor than anything else.

“No, I’m working. On assignment.”

“That’s mysterious.”

“Not really, no. I’m a reporter, working on a story. Thought I might see someone I wanted to talk to here tonight.”

“Oh really? My degree is in journalism. I worked for the Detroit Free Press for a while, but never felt like I was making a difference. Decided to try something new.”

“That happens. Some of us get stuck in it and can’t figure a way out.” John laughed to signal that it was a joke. Mostly.

“Are you working on something in particular?”

“Tell me what you do here, first. Then I’ll explain.”

“I’m a photopro at Sunset House. Mostly, it involves me teaching tourists with too much money how to use the expensive cameras they bought to shoot underwater pictures.”

“Ah. Doesn’t sound like a great use of your degree.”

It was Mike’s turn to laugh.

“I get to work on my own portfolio while I do it. I hope to work for one of the dive magazines at some point. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Mostly, I wanted to make sure you’re not involved in anything that would mean you’re part of my story. I’m not quite ready to tip my hat to those people, yet.”

“So, you’re not writing some travel piece I take it. I thought maybe you were down here diving on the company expense account and going to promote the island to your readers.”

“Not me. I’m deathly afraid of the water to be honest. The very thought of scuba diving makes me break out in hives.”

Just then Bonnie showed up with Mike’s dinner. She brought John a fresh gin and tonic, too. Mike dug into his food. After a few minutes, Mike asked the unanswered question.

“So, what are you doing here on Grand Cayman? If diving and travel isn’t your thing?”

John took a pull from his drink before he answered.

“I’m working on a story about drugs and money laundering. I’m sure you know the story, but the Colombians are funneling a lot of money through this island.”

“We call them cocaine cowboys. You see them in George Town and in some of the bars around town. They end up here from time to time, but there are other places, more upscale, where they like to hang out. Those aren’t places you’ll see many divers or divemasters.”

“Those are the ones. They make their deposits here and then transfer the money other places where they can spend it. Places like this don’t care if you come in and deposit $100,000 in cash. Or more.”

Mike knew about the unseemly side of the Cayman banking system, but he stayed away from that business and the people involved in it. As a divemaster and photopro, he didn’t have the resources. He did his best to have some fun and to keep a little money back at the end of the month.

John finished off his drink and stood up from the bar. He extended his hand toward Mike.

“Time for me to take off. Nice to meet you, Mike. I don’t blame you for coming here, to this island. But don’t waste your talents. You seem like a sharp kid. Think about getting back into the game,” John said. He gave Mike a card out of habit.

“Thanks, John. Nice to meet you, too. Good luck with your story but be careful.”

Mike glanced at the card and then slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t put any more thought into the brief conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was worry about being a news photographer again. He was living the dream and every day gave him a chance to work on his passion.

More to come next week.