Trapped

Neil Swidey: The divers packed themselves into the basket and prepared to be lowered by a crane down the 400-foot shaft. But they couldn't move until DJ Gillis got into the basket with them, and he wasn't about to be hurried.

"C'mon, DJ," one of the guys yelled. "Let's go!"

Tap Taylor, who was DJ's boss, started yelling, too. "Let's go!" It was a radiant summer morning, and they were standing on Deer Island, a peninsula that hangs down like a comma from Winthrop into Boston Harbor, curling in front of Logan Airport. It also happened to be Tap's 36th birthday, and he didn't want to waste it waiting for DJ to move his tail.

The two of them had a close if combustible relationship. Tap was a hard-charging guy who logged one 14-hour day after another with the singular focus of building his small New Hampshire commercial diving business into something bigger. Still, he had a soft spot for DJ, treating the 29-year-old more like a kid brother than an employee. A 6-foot-2, solidly built charmer, DJ had developed a reputation as a talented diver who worked hard and partied harder. He'd show up late to job sites many mornings, often dropped off by some blonde or brunette. As DJ would be hurriedly changing out of his dress shoes and pants from the night before, Tap would start cursing, threatening to kick him off the job. But those outbursts usually ended the same way. Before long, Tap would calm down, laugh, and begin pumping DJ for details from his latest adventure hopping bars and beds.