Ghosts of the Pacific Read Free

that old tin can.”
    â€œHe did?”
    â€œI said, yes, of course I was. He’s still hoping I’ll join him
on his fishing boat. He sure doesn’t give up easily.”
    â€œThe apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Al.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s an expression. It’s good to be stubborn, Al. Serves you
well at sea.”
    â€œOh. My grandfather said it was a good thing I was exploring the world now because I’d be too afraid to do it
when I was older. Isn’t that weird?”
    Ziegfried didn’t answer. He just listened.
    â€œI asked him what he meant by it and he said, ‘You think
you’re invulnerable when you’re young. Everybody does. You
think nothing bad’s going to happen to you. Then, when
you’re a little older, you realize that bad things do happen,
even to you. No, you’d better get all your exploring out of
your system now, Alfred, while you’re still young enough.’ I
told him I didn’t agree with that at all, that it doesn’t matter
how old you are. You either face your fears or you don’t, it
seems to me.”
    â€œThat’s well said, Al. What did he say to that?”
    â€œHe started talking about the weather.”
    Ziegfried laughed. “Sounds like your grandfather. He
cares a great deal about you, Al. Make no mistake about it.
That’s just the way he expresses it.”
    â€œI suppose.”

    We sailed for the Pacific—Hollie, Seaweed and I—on the
first of August, just after midnight. Ziegfried and Sheba saw
us off with hugs, words of encouragement, and lots of tears.Ziegfried and I would meet up somewhere in the Pacific, as
we had done in Crete the year before. We hadn’t decided
where yet. As I backed the sub out of the cove, turned and
headed out to sea, I stood in the portal and saluted them.
They were the greatest people I would ever know. Now my tears fell, when no one could see them.
    The sub cut through the dark like a migrating bird towards the North Pole. Hollie and I stood in the portal and
let the wind blow in our faces as the bow ploughed the sea
in front of us. We would sail due north for seven hundred
miles before turning west into the Hudson Strait.
    Ziegfried’s warning to sail slowly weighed heavily on my
mind. I wasn’t worried about puncturing the hull if we
struck ice. It was built of reinforced steel and supported by
a strong wooden frame on the inside. There was also an insulating, shock-absorbing layer of rubber in between the
wood and steel. Ziegfried had designed the sub to bounce
like a ball if it ever struck anything. And we had struck lots
of things before, including ice, and bounced well enough—
sort of how you would bounce off the floor of a gymnasium
if you fell. I was more concerned that a few good blows
would jar things loose or crack the engine casing or break
mechanical components in the drive shaft or battery set-up,
not to mention the discomfort and danger to the crew being
knocked around inside.
    But for the first seven hundred miles we could expect ice-free sailing. And that is what we received.
    It took three and a half days. We sailed on the surface with
the hatch wide open and the engine cranked up, cutting
eighteen knots, our fastest cruising speed, with a couple of
knots of current pushing us from behind. I wished sailing
was always so easy. To sleep we dove to two hundred feet, shut
everything off and drifted in the deeper, slower current travelled by naval submarines and whales, either of which would
have woken me with a presence on sonar.
    I spent those days repacking our supplies: the canned food,
boxed food and dried food that stuck out from every corner;
the bananas, grapes and fresh bread that hung down from
the ceiling; and the oranges, apples, potatoes and root vegetables that crowded the compartments in the stern. And I
pored over the maps and charts I had of the Arctic.
    The engine hummed along with a sound