Journey to Atlantis (2 page)

THE SUB
WAS
FASTER. I could tell just by the feel of it cutting through the water. It had more power, less resistance and the fastest nose in the sea. It wasn’t exactly a dolphin, but three years ago it wasn’t anything more than an old oil tank, until Ziegfried transformed it. Now, after two and a half years of genius, dedication and very hard work, it was a sleek-looking, sea-faring vessel with real power and stealth. I was very proud of it.

But speed is relative. The average sailboat can sail at about seven knots. One knot is one nautical mile per-hour. A nautical mile is a little longer than a land mile — 1.15 times as far. A typical ocean freighter can sail at a maximum speed of
about twenty knots, but would never do so because it would burn too much fuel, and that would be too expensive. Most sail at half that speed. Diesel-electric submarines, like those used in WWII, could reach up to twenty-five knots on the surface, but only half as much submerged. Modern nuclear powered submarines are much faster, reaching speeds of almost fifty knots under water! That’s as fast as a hovercraft, or a car on the highway! Unbelievable! My sub’s top speed was about fifteen knots on the surface, or used to be, and only half of that submerged.

But speed on the water is also complicated, and you have to do the math. If we were sailing at fifteen knots against a current of three knots, and there were large swells, and we were riding up and down the crests and troughs like a roller-coaster, and the wind was blowing against us, then our actual speed measured against land might be only six or seven knots. And if I were just pedalling the sub against a strong current, we might actually be going backwards without knowing it! On the other hand, if we were sailing
with
a current, with the wind on our back and following closely in the wake of another vessel, we could be sailing over twenty knots.

I made the sighting tests I promised to make. The sea was calm enough to reveal our wake for a quarter of a mile behind us. I fixed our course straight ahead, strapped on the harness and climbed out of the portal with a ruler in my hand. The wind blew my hair across my face. Raising the ruler to my eye, I held the edge of it against the line in the
water and watched for any twists or turns. There were none. Our course was as true as an arrow.

Submerging, I made a similar test by watching the depth gauge, and, by following a sonar picture of the sea floor. There was no variation in our course whatsoever. Ziegfried would be happy to hear that.

We were submerged for a little more than an hour and I was surprised upon surfacing to discover that the wind had picked up quite a bit. It was blowing from the east, which was a little unusual. I checked the weather forecast again. Stronger winds were reported but still no mention of a storm. An hour later, the winds were stronger again and the waves were growing. It takes about two hours for a steady wind to shape large waves. I decided to call Ziegfried on the short wave to let him know the results of the sighting tests, but he was not answering. I climbed the portal and scanned the eastern horizon with binoculars. No storm in sight. Okay, but I was starting to feel a sense of something foreboding. I didn’t know why. Was it just that my grandfather had predicted it?

To test our maximum speed I shut the engine and let the sub drift. Then, I measured our drift against a sonar picture of the sea floor. The current was two knots. Sailing with the current, but against the wind, I cranked up the engine all the way and watched the sonar screen as we plowed through the water. In no time we reached our old maximum speed of fifteen knots. Then … sixteen, seventeen, eighteen … nineteen, twenty … twenty-one! We stayed at twenty-one knots
for a few moments, then slowly pushed ahead … twenty-two … twenty-three! I rushed up the portal to look outside. At twenty-three knots the sub cut through the water like a shark. Waves splayed evenly on both sides of us. It was very exciting. I looked up in the sky to make sure that Seaweed was still following us. Yup. We’d have to sail a lot faster to outrun a flying seagull.

Subtracting two knots for the current, our new top speed was twenty-one knots. That was about the fastest I could ride my bicycle on a flat road. It also meant we were twenty-five percent faster than before. Ziegfried would be very pleased.

Now I had to test our underwater speed. But this time I wanted Seaweed inside. I waved a slice of bread in the air and he came racing out of the sky like a lightning bolt, hit the water beside the sub, hopped onto the hull and shook himself off. Then he jumped onto the hatch, grabbed the bread and dropped inside.

I took one last peek at the horizon and wondered if that were a gray mass I was seeing, or was it just my imagination. Staring long distances at sea could be mesmerizing. That’s what sea birds were good at. Seaweed could tell the difference between a compass and a cookie from about half a mile away on a clear day. I sealed the hatch, flooded the tanks and we went down to one hundred feet, well below the surface current. I made a cup of tea, ate some cookies and fed the crew dog biscuits. It was an unbreakable rule on the sub —
you never ate alone. That would be the height of rudeness in the company of a dog and seagull.

There were only two ways to propel the sub when it was submerged: by battery and by pedalling; the volume of air needed by the engine made it impossible to run it under water. From a dead stop I engaged the batteries, sat at the sonar screen and tracked our course along the sea floor. The sub pushed steadily ahead towards its maximum submerged speed. It was a surprise! Sixteen knots! That was faster than our old surface speed. What that revealed was that the new nose and slippery paint made more of a difference than the new engine. I couldn’t wait to tell Ziegfried. But I wanted to test my new pedalling speed first

Ziegfried had connected the gears of an old touring bicycle to the driveshaft of the sub. Simply by pedalling the bike I could turn the propeller. But it wasn’t very fast — about as fast as a canoe. The good thing was that it was quiet. The bike gears and driveshaft were so well greased there was virtually no sound while I was pedalling, which was important when we were trying to sneak away from ships that might be listening.

Now, since I was stronger than when the sub first went into the water a year ago, we had added five more gears to the bike. We had also attached a new propeller. I climbed onto the bike and started pedalling. I went through the old gears quickly and started on the new ones. It took all my strength and concentration but I stayed with it long enough
to bring the sub to five knots. That was hard and I was sweating! Still, five knots was twice as fast as before — a big improvement. Anxious to tell Ziegfried, I surfaced once again to make the call but … the storm had arrived.

I listened to the radio.

“Environment Canada has issued severe weather warnings and advises all boaters to stay off the water until further notice …”

My grandfather was right. How he could have known before everyone else was a mystery to me. Oh well, the joy of a submarine was that you could submerge beneath a storm and not even know it was raging above you. There was just one thing I needed to check first. The radio continued.

“… three fishing boats reported missing. The coastguard will initiate a search once the storm has abated …”

Shoot! It had already happened. Three fishing boats were lost. The coastguard couldn’t look for them until the worst was over. By then it was usually too late. Could I do something to help, I wondered? I could sail into the heart of a storm. That’s what a submarine was good for. I had done it before. But finding anything lost at sea was like walking into a desert with a metal-detector — you could search for days and days and find nothing.

And yet I had to try.

They had sailed from Deadman’s Bay, the radio had said, but the storm would have carried them away. I knew the area and we were less than a day’s sail away, so I plotted a
course and engaged full battery power. It was unlikely I would find all three boats, but maybe if I was lucky I could find one.

Thirteen hours later I did. And it was worse than I expected.

THERE WERE TWO OF them in the boat. They were huddled together and had tied themselves down. They must have thrown overboard everything they could, trying to make the boat as buoyant as possible. It seemed to have worked because the boat refused to sink even though it was filled with water. One of them was holding onto the other, who appeared lifeless. And he was.

I saw the arm of the other man go up when I drew near. He was weak. The storm rammed the sub and fishing boat together several times, but there was nothing I could do about that. I kept myself strapped to the harness and threw
the lifebuoy with all my strength. But it was futile. There was too much movement to make a decent toss and the surviving sailor was too weak to untie himself anyway.

I went back inside and grabbed more rope. If he couldn’t come in, I would have to go out. If I left the hatch open the sub would swamp and sink, although the automatic switch would shut the hatch, and, after the sump pumps had removed enough water, about fifteen minutes or so, the sub would resurface. But if I were tied to the sub when it went down, I would drown. If I weren’t tied to it, I would probably lose the sub anyway because the storm would carry it away. So … I had to go out on a rope
and
shut the hatch behind me. Not the nicest feeling.

I had never seen a dead body before, and I felt a little sick, but there was no time to think about that, only to reach out, cut the live man free, fit the lifebuoy over him and pull him to the sub. Once we were there, I’d open the hatch and help him inside. That was my plan. I only wished it could have been as simple as that.

I tied one end of the rope to a handle on the portal, climbed out with the lifebuoy and shut the hatch. A wave crashed over me immediately and I had to hold my breath. I could not understand how the man in the fishing boat had survived so long. Jumping into the boat, which was filled with water, I kept my eyes on the rope’s slackness. If the waves pulled our two vessels apart, the rope would pull me out of the boat. I had to act quickly.

“I have to cut you free!” I yelled to the man. “Do you understand?”

He stared at me and raised his arm weakly. I didn’t think he could speak. I nodded my head.

“I’m going to cut you free!”

Though the two of them were tied together, he had one arm wrapped tightly around the neck of his companion. I knew he was dead because of the way he was lying; I could just tell. The only thing that mattered to me was keeping the other man alive. What difference did a storm make to a dead man? Nor did I care if the body was left at sea. But the man I was rescuing did. When I cut him free of the ropes and fitted the lifebuoy over his head I couldn’t pull his arm free of his companion.

“Let go!” I shouted. “We have to go … now!”

But he wouldn’t. He looked up at me and I saw the terrible sadness in his eyes. I felt so badly for him, I really did, but I also knew we had to leave immediately. The rope had grown taut and the sub was about to pull me away any second.

“I’m sorry!” I yelled, and did what I had to do — the same thing rescuers have to do whenever they are grabbed by a panicking victim — I punched the man’s arm, knocked it free and shoved the lifebuoy over him. He tried to struggle against me but was too weak. The sub pulled away and yanked the two of us out of the boat. I heard him crying.

“It’s okay!” I shouted. “I will come back for him!”

I couldn’t believe I had said that. The thought of pulling a dead body into the sub did not appeal to me. I just felt so badly for him.

He had no strength at all. The waves pulled us under several times and he went limp. But he was still conscious when I pulled us close enough to grab hold of the sub railing. It was too difficult for me. All I wanted was to get inside, submerge and catch my breath. Getting the hatch open was okay, but getting him inside was almost impossible. He didn’t have the use of his limbs at all, and I had to do everything. Then, once I had him in the portal, he slipped. I saw him fall down inside and I felt awful. I was trying as hard as I could but he was bigger than I was and a lot heavier. I jumped inside, pulled him away from the water rushing inside and put a pillow under his head. He was still conscious. He was trying to say something.

“Please …”

“What? What is it?”

“Please … my brother …”

I nodded.

“Yes. I will. I promise. Just wait here.”

So I went back out. I tied a longer length of rope, jumped into the sea and swam over to the boat. It didn’t bother me too much to see the body now; I was just so busy. I cut the ropes and pushed the lifebuoy down over his head and shoulders, then tied the sub rope that ran through my harness to the lifebuoy. I didn’t feel strong enough to carry him
back to the sub, so I pulled him behind me. But he started to sink. If the sub hadn’t been pitching to the side I would never have been able to pull him up. The hardest thing of all was sliding his body in, feet first, then the arms, and then the head. I lowered him inside with the rope wrapped around the portal, dropping him a little at a time. Then I jumped in, shut the hatch, staggered over to the controls and dove to one hundred feet. I was breathing so hard I was seeing black spots. My back ached. My arms ached. My hands were full of rope burns. Now I had two passengers in my sub, and one of them was dead.

The live man started throwing up. I hurried over and turned his head so that he wouldn’t drown in his own vomit. Pools of water came up with his vomit. It didn’t surprise me that he had swallowed a lot of seawater. Probably it was in his lungs too. He needed medical attention immediately. All I could do was run for the coast as quickly as possible. But we had to come in submerged; I didn’t think any of us could take any more of the storm. It was probably the fastest way anyway, with all the tossing and pitching of the waves. Why hadn’t I believed my grandfather? But then, if I had,
both
of these men would be dead.

I covered him with blankets and made him as comfortable as I could, then turned my attention to the crew. Hollie seemed nervous having passengers on board so I let him sit on my lap and nibble on dog biscuits. After a while I turned and saw Seaweed standing on the dead man.

“Get off, Seaweed!” I said, but he just stared at me. I figured that seagulls were pretty comfortable around drowned bodies.

We were about two hours away from the coast, I calculated. The storm was too bad to rendezvous with the coastguard, unless I met them somewhere in a sheltered bay, which would likely be too far away anyway. I figured I could contact the RCMP by shortwave and ask them to bring an ambulance. But where would I meet them? In the storm it was almost impossible to know where we were coming in.

When I guessed we were about an hour from land, I surfaced, turned on the radio and made the call. The storm hadn’t lessened at all and my passengers were rolling around on the floor. The radio was full of static. I didn’t know how to identify myself except by the name everyone had given me the year before.

“This is the Submarine Outlaw. I am requesting an ambulance for two fishermen. One of them is dead. Over.”

“… RCMP … repeat … message please … identify … position …”

“This is the Submarine Outlaw. I have two victims from the storm. I think I’m coming in around Cape Freels. I’m not sure. I expect one hour. Over.”

“… submarine … land? … ambulance … storm … Over.”

“Can you set up a spotlight? I can read Morse code. Over.”

“Roger … spotlight … ambulance … how many dead? Over.”

“Two victims. One of them is dead. Over.”

As we approached land I caught glimpses of lights but none of them blinking in code. Were we too far north, or south? Looking at my charts I guessed south. So, turning north, and against all my experience as a submariner, I turned on the sub’s bright floodlights, aimed them towards shore and went up the coast hoping the authorities would spot us.

Half an hour later they did. The RCMP met us in a sheltered cove with a motorized inflatable boat. Even though the cove was sheltered, the sea tossed everything around like rain in a bucket. I saw four vehicles with lights on above the dock. Three officers motored out to meet us. They were wearing bright orange sea jackets and carrying a megaphone: two men and one woman. One man waved while the lady spoke through the megaphone.

“Are there injured?” she said.

I nodded and raised one hand.

“Dead?” she asked.

I nodded again and raised the other hand. As the boat approached the sub I noticed the lady was young and looked kind of nervous. One of the men smiled when I reached down to help him up the side of the sub.

“So
you’re
the Submarine Outlaw?” he said.

He looked at the sub and shook his head. He didn’t seem too interested in the fact that I was carrying wounded and dead passengers.

“It’s pretty small,” he said. “You go to sea in
this
?”

“Yup.”

I was nervous because I knew my submarine wasn’t legal. What if they told me to moor it right then and there to the dock? What would I do? I just hoped they wouldn’t say anything. Suddenly, the expression on his face changed.

“Okay, son. Show us your cargo.”

“Umm … we won’t all fit inside,” I said. “And they’re too heavy for me to carry out by myself. We need to use a harness and rope.”

I held up my harness.

“No,” he said, “you better let me have a look.”

“Okay.”

I held onto the hatch and exchanged a nervous smile with the lady in the boat while her partner climbed inside and took a look. When he poked his head out he made a couple of hand signals to the officers in the boat and the lady spoke into her radio.

The transfer of the victims seemed to take forever. They had to be lifted out by stretcher, one at a time. The injured man went first. I didn’t believe they would ever get the stretcher through the portal but they did. They took him to shore and put him in the ambulance and it left immediately. Then, they came back for the dead man. The critical moment for me was when they took him away and were off the sub. That was my chance to leave. No one had asked me to stay or told me to report anywhere. I watched as the police
van left. Then the three officers returned to their boat and headed out towards me. Yikes! So far I hadn’t done anything illegal. But what if they told me to surrender my sub right then and there? What if I refused? Suddenly I felt frantic. I hated to leave like that, especially when they had been friendly to me, but I couldn’t risk losing my sub. I stared at the approaching police boat. One man raised his hand and waved, gesturing for me to wait. I raised my arm awkwardly and waved in a friendly way, to say goodbye. Then I climbed inside, shut the hatch, slipped beneath the surface and disappeared.