Journey to Atlantis (10 page)

I WOKE TO THE sound of drums. There was humming and singing and funny clicking sounds people were making with their throats. It was cool. I tried to imitate it, although Seaweed gawked at me, wondering what the heck I was doing. He seemed distressed.

“I’m trying to learn something new, Seaweed.”

Seaweed would eat absolutely anything but was surprisingly fussy about what he would listen to. When we surfaced and I opened the hatch, he twisted his head from the bottom of the portal, peeked up at the sky suspiciously, then bolted up and out the hatch. I was glad to see he had fully recovered.

It was a clear sky, not quite twilight. We were five miles from shore. There was no sign of a storm having passed at all. It came and went too quickly to have any effect on the waves or current. Through the binoculars I could tell that the beach was clear. There were no vessels moving around, according to radar, and nothing coming our way. I decided to cruise down the coast, keeping a constant distance from shore. I raised the Canadian flag to sail legally on the surface by “right of safe passage.” When the sun went down I would turn on our lights.

We were heading east with the shore always on the starboard. From five miles you could see the mountains. Unlike in Canada, where mountains were usually green or white above a gray-brown shore, these mountains were reddish-brown above green foothills. Occasionally there were snow-caps. Beyond the mountains was the desert, which I wished we could have seen. I wondered how the sandstorm had reached the beach all the way from the desert. It couldn’t have come over the mountains. There must have been a gorge or canyon where the wind snaked through at high speed. Perhaps it was an old riverbed. Now I understood how a jungle could turn into a desert. All I had to do was remember the sandstorm, which had lasted only a few hours, then multiply that by a thousand years. The Sahara was big enough to swallow ten Newfoundlands, and was still growing, according to scientists. I tried to imagine ten Newfoundlands hidden beneath sand. Suddenly the thought of losing
an island didn’t seem so incredible. You could probably bury one in just a few days.

For three days we sailed without trouble and took long walks on the beach without incident. But after three days my premonition feeling came back.

Algiers lay ahead, fifteen miles. I was picking up vessels on radar. As I stood and stared at the screen and watched the movement of boats in the water outside the city, I started to get a strange feeling; I had no idea why. Sheba had insisted I trust those feelings. Okay, but it was weird. I had no reason to suspect anything. There were always recreational boaters around a port city. Maybe it was something in the way some of them were moving, as if they were on patrol. Three boats always moved together, turning in the same direction at the same time. Well, I had no intention of exploring Algiers anyway.

It was around ten o’clock. The sun had just gone down. I coaxed Seaweed inside and was about to slip beneath the surface. We would switch to battery power, disappear from radar and continue on our course. How likely was it those boats would be set up with sonar?

We would be sailing illegally once we submerged. The Law of the Sea allowed submarines “right of innocent passage” only on the surface. I stared at the screen and hesitated. The problem with a premonition feeling was that there was no logical sense to it, no reason. It was just a feeling. On one
hand, it was a good feeling when I knew we were sailing legally. On the other hand, local officials had every right to stop us, inspect our vessel, even require us to dock for several days or longer while they closely investigated the sub. They could even refuse us permission to continue sailing if they felt like it.

I was still mulling over the whole thing when I realized we were already within their radar range. They knew we were there. Well, that settled it. I switched on our lights and continued our course. They would not be able to see us anyway unless they examined every radar beep with a powerful telescope, in the dark, and what were the chances they would do
that
?

Pretty good, as it turned out. We were passing the city, five miles from shore, just one of a number of smaller vessels in the water, and we had our lights on. There was no reason to radio local authorities because we were not coming in to dock. The only way they would know we were not a sailboat or motorboat, was if they took a visual look at us. As I kept my eyes glued to the radar screen, I saw those three boats suddenly veer in our direction. Since there was no other vessel in our immediate area, I had to assume they were coming towards us! What to do?

We couldn’t outrun them; they were too fast. We had either to wait and meet them, and risk being taken in for inspection, or submerge and try to slip away. I quickly climbed the portal and watched the approaching boats through the
binoculars. There were three or four men in uniform in each boat. They were staring at us with binoculars too, and they were carrying machine guns! Suddenly, I got a
very
bad feeling about the whole thing.

“We’re going down!” I yelled to the crew.

I shut the hatch and let water into the tanks. We started to dive. But as we were sailing in only a hundred and fifty feet of water, we couldn’t dive very deeply. I switched to battery power and headed straight out to sea. I watched the three boats approach on sonar. When they were a quarter of a mile away, I made a sharp right turn. I wanted to see if they were following us with sonar. They turned. They were! Yikes!

I straightened out and headed due north, the shortest route to leave the twelve-mile zone. I wondered how far they would chase us. Would they respect the twelve-mile zone? And then … there was an explosion in the water! It was pretty loud but didn’t rock the sub. It was nothing like the mine that blew up in the Azores. It sounded more like a firecracker. I watched the sea floor closely and followed it down its gradual descent. Another mile out and we were down to two hundred feet. There was another explosion. Again it was loud but not very threatening. It was more like a warning blast. They were just motorboats; they were not equipped to deal with submarines, surely? I was guessing what they were doing was throwing hand grenades in the water, trying to force us to surface. But the grenades were exploding before they fell very far and were not affecting us at all. There was
no way I would surface now and attempt a meeting with them. The time for nice greetings had passed. They were attempting either to sink us or force us to surface, as if we were a hostile enemy. If they caught us now they would surely put me in jail, and probably keep me there for a very long time. Ziegfried had said, never get put into jail in a third world country, because you’ll never get out. And what would have happened to Hollie and Seaweed?

Another mile out and we were down to two hundred and thirty feet. They were right above us, dropping grenades still, to no effect. Perhaps it was fun for them, a little chase on a quiet summer’s night and a chance to practise throwing grenades.

After another mile the sea floor took a sudden drop of a hundred feet. I submerged to three hundred feet. The explosions grew weaker. I wondered how far they would chase us. Would they stop at the twelve-mile zone? At ten miles from shore they stopped throwing grenades. Sonar revealed another vessel in the water, possibly a passing freighter. One of the motorboats left the others to sail alongside of it, probably checking it out. We reached eleven miles … eleven and a half … twelve! I watched on the sonar screen as the remaining two boats swung around in wide arcs and headed back. I took a deep breath and sighed. We had escaped. Once again, Sheba had been right!

CHASED AWAY FROM the African coast, we headed north. We could have sailed in an arc and gradually made our way back, east of Algiers, but something directly ahead interested me — the island of Mallorca. My guidebook said it was famous for wild mountain goats. I wanted to see them.

We surfaced and I switched on the radar. No one was following us anymore. I climbed the portal and opened the hatch. Seaweed went out. I carried Hollie up and we made ourselves comfortable and watched the stars.

I had seen pictures of mountain goats. They were large, thickly furred, heavy-looking beasts that could run up and down the sides of cliffs as if they had wings on their feet. It
was amazing. There were lots of goats on Mallorca, according to the book, and it was only a day’s sail away. The only snag was that Mallorca belonged to Spain, not exactly the best of friends with Canada at the moment.

We sailed through the night and reached the twelve-mile zone of Mallorca by mid-morning. Radar revealed ships sailing in and out of the main harbour like wasps around a nest. That made it a lot easier. With so much sea traffic, no one would notice us, so long as we stayed out of sight. We submerged to periscope depth and sailed around the west side.

I began to search for places to hide. I wanted to find a small cove where we could leave the sub long enough to take a hike into the mountains, maybe even camp overnight. I knew that was ambitious, especially on a highly populated island, but there must have been rocky areas where no one lived? Every island had them.

Cruising along the coast less than a quarter of a mile from shore, I found lots of rocky areas, but the coves always seemed to have boats in them, or people. By this time, I was getting sleepy. Finally, I found one cove that looked hopeful. It was isolated and surrounded by cliffs. There was nobody on the beach. I motored in, let Seaweed out, submerged to seventy-five feet and settled down to get some sleep.

When we woke and came up to periscope level there was a man sitting on the beach. It was just one man and he was alone in the little cove, a sheltered cove, the perfect place to hide the sub, but we would have to wait until he left.

I fed Hollie and made tea and fiddled about while we waited. When Hollie finished eating he was anxious to go for a walk. He followed me around and stared up at the hatch as if to say, what’s the holdup?

“Sorry, Hollie. There’s a man out there.”

I kept peeking through the periscope but the man was still sitting there. He was an older man and there was something strangely familiar about him. He just kept sitting there, staring at the water as if he owned the place. So we waited, and waited, and waited, hoping he would leave. But he never did. Finally, he stood up and stared at the water really closely. Then I saw a brown shadow pass in front of the periscope. Oh no! Seaweed was standing on it! The man was sure to notice that.

He did! Shoot! Now we had to go find another cove. And now somebody had spotted us and would report us. Rats! Unless … what if we made friends with him? Maybe he wouldn’t tell anybody about us. Usually when people realized we were not a threat they were pretty friendly. We had nothing to lose.

He was standing on the edge of the rock, shielding his eyes from the sun when we surfaced. His hands dropped and his mouth fell open. But I had seen him before somewhere. Who was he?

I opened the hatch and sure enough, Seaweed was standing there, waiting for breakfast. I pulled a handful of dog biscuits from my pocket and threw them to him. That must
have looked pretty strange to the man on the beach. I waved. The man slowly raised his hand and waved back. I reached in, pulled out the Spanish flag and hung it from the portal. He hollered out to me something in Spanish but I didn’t understand. He made a sweeping gesture with his arms for us to come closer. So we did. I motored over until we were just fifty feet away. Now I knew who he was. He was Douglas Nickels, Ziegfried’s favourite movie star!

He said something in Spanish.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak …”

“You’re English!” he barked.

“I’m Canadian.”

“Canadian?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a photographer?”

“No, I’m an explorer.”

“An explorer?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you aren’t here to take pictures?”

“No, I’m here to see the goats.”

“The goats?”

“Yes.”

“What goats?”

“The mountain goats.”

He looked confused. I wondered if I was on the right island.

“Oh! Yes. The goats up in the hills. You came here to see
them
?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Alfred.”

“And you’re from Canada?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

He stopped and thought for a while. I waited to see what he would do.

“Did you just feed that seagull?”

“Yes. That’s Seaweed. He’s part of the crew.”

“Oh. Is there anyone else?”

“Just Hollie,” I said, and climbed down, grabbed Hollie and carried him up.

Douglas Nickels nodded, then made a sweeping gesture with his arms and said, “Come over, Alfred. I’d like to meet you.”

So I moored to the rock and climbed out with Hollie. There was a small, pebbled beach in the center of the cove. It was very private. Hollie was delighted. Mr. Nickels greeted me with a strong handshake.

“Call me Doug,” he said.

“I’m Alfred.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Alfred. Welcome to my little beach.”

“Is it really yours? Do you
own
it?”

“Yes, I do. Our house is up there. My wife, Greta Sachs, is there. Do you know her?”

“I think I’ve heard of her, but I’m not sure what she looks like.”

He laughed. “You’re not sure what Greta Sachs looks like? But you know she’s a movie star, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Hah! That’s great! You’ll have to come up for a cup of tea, Alfred. Come on up.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“Nonsense! You’re a breath of fresh air. And you’ve got to meet Greta. She won’t believe this.”

Doug and Greta lived in the biggest house I had ever seen. It stretched over the rock in all directions and I could easily have gotten lost inside of it. It made me think of the maze at King Minos’ palace that I was hoping to see on Crete. The house was very, very fancy and yet Doug walked through it in his wet, sandy sneakers as if it were a boathouse. Except for his famous face, you wouldn’t have known him from any other fisherman on the sea.

I didn’t see anyone else in the house until we entered a room where Greta Sachs was sitting on a sofa, reading a book. I immediately recognized her, though, like Doug, she looked a lot older in real life.

“Dougie?” she said, without looking up.

“Greta, I’d like you to meet someone.”

“Dougie? … Oh! … Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Greta. This is Alfred.”

“Hello, Alfred. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Alfred is a young explorer, Greta. He has come all the way from Canada.”

“Oh. That’s nice. What are you looking for, Alfred?”

“Ummm … Atlantis.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I hope you find it. Dougie?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve got ants.”

“Really? Oh. Well, I’ll get Francis to call the exterminators in the morning. Greta, Alfred is travelling in a submarine.”

“Francis is off tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, I’ll just have to get some ant traps myself then. Alfred here is travelling in his very own submarine. He has come to Mallorca to see the mountain goats.”

Greta raised her head, took a closer look at me and smiled. “You must be very brave, Alfred.”

“He is indeed,” said Doug. “I’ve got half a mind to join you tomorrow, Alfred. What do you say, could you stand a little company on your mountain trek?”

“Ummm … I guess so.”

“Splendid! We’ll have an adventure.”

Greta smiled and lowered her head. “Don’t forget the ant traps, Dougie.”