The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

by Clive Cussler

“What exactly do you want us to accomplish?” I asked.

  “Find out where it’s not,” he said, “and have some fun. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

  Clive has a strange idea of fun.

  A few days before, I’d flown from Fort Lauderdale to Phoenix, stayed the night with Dirk, Clive’s son and the president of NUMA, then rented a car and driven north. After editing what we had finished on this book, I was due to leave Clive in the morning to drive back to Phoenix.

  “Anything else?”

  “Stay out of the casinos in Australia,” he said, “and don’t believe Dirk’s system for blackjack. The house always wins.”

  I left at first light for Phoenix. Somewhere in Arizona, I picked up a Navajo who was hitchhiking and dropped him at the hospital in Phoenix. Strangely enough, this was the same day that President Bush was awarding the Medal of Honor to some of the remaining code-talkers. It seemed fitting, so I asked him about Native American philosophy.

  “There is a pace to everything,” he said.

  “So what’s the key?”

  “Must be pacing,” he said, just before he fell asleep.

  * * *

  The pace on July 28 was fast. We raced from store to store, trying to buy anything we felt we would not be able to find on Gizo, the island that would be our base in the Solomon Islands. Batteries, duct tape, tools, and trinkets. T-shirts for gifts, a portable depth sounder from Wal-Mart.

  “What about rope?” asked Dirk.

  “Buy it,” I said.

  “Water purifier?” I asked, as we steered a cart through the discount store.

  “But of course.”

  “Check out these Planet of the Apes action figures,” I said, as we passed an end display.

  Dirk’s girlfriend wanted us to take her to the opening tonight as a last celebration in civilization.

  “We need those,” Dirk said.

  Into the cart they went.

  We bought a large wheeled plastic tub for storage.

  * * *

  The following morning, Kerrie, Dirk’s better half, arrived to drive us to the airport in her new Honda. She stared at the piles of equipment.

  “No way,” she said.

  We had managed to cram it all inside, but just barely.

  Arriving in Los Angeles that afternoon, we retrieved our luggage, propped the bags on a pair of carts, then rolled them over to the international terminal and checked in with Air New Zealand. Later that evening, we were on our way. Our route was Los Angeles to Auckland, New Zealand, a short stop, then onto a different plane for the flight to Brisbane, Australia. We arrived at the airport in Brisbane, where we had a night’s layover before we caught one of the twice-weekly nights to the Solomon Islands, so we rented a car and set out.

  Dirk drove us to the hotel, and we checked into our room.

  Then we walked across the street to the casino.

  The next day, a few hundred dollars lighter, we flew on a 737 to Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands. Honiara has all the charm of Manila after the fall of Marcos. Sporadic power outages and deserted buildings seemed the norm. The Solomon Islands had experienced a recent coup d’etat, and the U.S. State Department had a travel warning in place. We met with Ms. Keithie Sauders, the American consular officer, who filled us in on the situation. After assuring us we’d have no trouble, she wished us well and asked that we keep her up-to-date on our progress.

  By now, the long flight was catching up with us, and we tumbled into bed for a few hours’ sleep. The next morning, we gathered our gear, took a cab to the airport, and caught a DeHavilland Otter turboprop to Gizo Island. The flight was uneventful.

  From the air, the Solomon Islands look like the tropical paradise that people always imagine. Blue and green waters lap at small tree-clustered islands. The sand ringing the islands forms a white outline, while small boats and canoes form gentle wakes when viewed from the air.

  The pilot brought the DeHavilland down on the grass runway, and we rolled to a stop.

  The airport for Gizo is located on Nusatupi Island just across the water from Gizo. It consists of little more than a cement block shack, a tank for refueling, and a path that leads to a dock where small boats transfer arrivals across the water to Gizo. We climbed out of the plane and looked around. A man who looked like the cartoon character Yosemite Sam walked over.

  “Dirk, Craig?” he asked.

  “You must be Danny Kennedy,” Dirk said.

  Danny has a great story. He worked as an electrician involved in the construction of Disneyland, then took his money and set out to travel the world. After a short stint as a dive instructor in Hawaii, he started to wander throughout the South Pacific, landing in the Solomon Islands in the early 1980s. Finding the people and diving to his liking, he decided to stay. Now he’s an institution. I think it’s safe to say that most people visiting Gizo will at one time or another bump into Danny. An eternally optimistic and friendly man given to repeating bad jokes and local legends, he proved to be a valuable ally. He lives above town in a beautiful house, with his Australian wife Kerry and their teenage daughter, who was born in the Solomon Islands. Danny knows the history of PT-109. In addition, he knows the waters around Gizo like the nose on his face.

  “How was the flight?” he asked.

  “Not too bad,” I answered.

  “You’re lucky,” Danny said. “A couple of weeks ago, the pilot came in too low and hit a dugout canoe on approach — luckily, the islander saw him coming and jumped over the side. He was aggro, though, I can tell you that.”

  “Aggro?” asked Dirk.

  Danny speaks a strange combination of English, Australian slang, and pidgin, the local language.

  “Aggro,” Danny said, smiling, “aggravated.”

  Grabbing some bags, he started for the dock.

  After loading the luggage aboard a small boat, we crossed the short span of water and docked in front of the Gizo Hotel. We checked in and stowed our luggage, then walked through the town to Adventure Sports, Danny’s dive operation. Gizo is not a large town, and the main business district is clustered along the waterfront. Directly in front and to the left of the hotel is an open-air market. To the right is a concrete pier, where the local island tramp steamer docks. There is a strip of pocked, potholed pavement left over from the time the Solomon Islands was a British protectorate, but for the most part the roads are packed dirt.

  This is not a tourist-tainted town.

  The few stores in Gizo are owned by Chinese traders, and entering them gave me the feeling that I had arrived through a time warp into a northern California gold-rush hamlet after the vein had run out. The selections ran from tin tubs for washing to bolts of cloth. Food choices for lunch included coconut flour crackers, canned tuna flavored with curry, and cookies.

  The town has three restaurants. The one at the Gizo Hotel we quickly grew tired of; the Nest, midway through the town, had an actual television hooked to a satellite receiver so the customers could watch CNN; and the PT-109 restaurant, which featured the best food.

  The PT-109 is an open-air affair attached to a two-story home that operates as a lodge for divers. Danny’s dive boats moor just outside, and his shop is just across the street. If you want to eat there, you need to call ahead — it is open only when there are customers, and since the coup, that’s rare.

  In general, Gizo is unspoiled by the trappings of capitalism. As a tourist spot, it would have probably dropped off the map save for a few important items. The first is the water — it is a wonderland of undersea beauty. Corals of all types, fish of so many colors that you’d need a prism to duplicate the beauty, temperatures that are perfect.

  The second is the people — the Solomon Islanders are some of the friendliest you could ever encounter. Eternally patient, always smiling, they make you feel welcome. With the economy on the skids, the locals make their way as best they can, but times are tough right now. I can only hope it improves soon. The island has a lot going for
it.

  Gizo Island and these people would be our home for the next two weeks.

  * * *

  Dirk and I had decided that our best course of action was to see if we could first locate the wreckage that had been reported by Reg Evans on the reef off Nauru Island. Our vessel for the search would be one of Danny’s dive boats. The boats are narrow-beam affairs with a PVC tube canopy over the top and twin benches along each side, with holes to place tanks. Approximately twenty feet in length and powered by single or twin outboard motors, they are perfect for small diving groups but a little too exposed to the weather for search operations. Danny supplied a folding wooden chair that fit amidships, and we sat the large plastic tub in front. On the tub we placed the gradiometer, which we took turns operating. For navigation we had a handheld GPS.

  The setup was as far removed from the extravagant search boats you see on the Discovery Channel as we were from a Hard Rock Cafe. This search was on the low end of the high-tech scale. The first few days, the winds and currents were favorable, and we were able to work along the surf line just off the ledge of coral off Nauru Island. Other than a single target of promise, the area under the water was bare of magnetics. The operation went like this: In the morning we would eat breakfast at the Gizo Hotel. This consisted of toast, a few slices of mango or pineapple, and maybe some cold cereal. Then we would carry our tub of equipment the half-mile to Danny’s shop. Sometimes the restaurant would make us lunch — egg-salad sandwiches — but usually we would stop at the Wing-Sun store for cans of tuna, crackers, and bottles of fresh water. Lunch in hand, we’d continue on to the shop. Then we’d load the equipment in the boat. Once we were situated, one of Danny’s boat drivers would join us and we would set out to search.

  Once clear of the dock, we would lower the gradiometer probe into the water and allow it to calibrate itself, a process that usually took a half hour or so. For weight on the probe itself, we used a rock attached to a thin line designed to break away if we struck the bottom — something that happened at least a dozen times — and to keep the cable clear of the propellers, we propped it off the side, using an old oar that stuck from the starboard side.

  It was all jury-rigged, but it seemed to do the job.

  Once the gradiometer was calibrated, we would pull it back in, then set out for the search area. That usually required a half hour or so in transit. Once on-site we would begin to drag, using the GPS to make straight lines. Then we would drive back and forth, seeking a target. Around noon we would pull over to the closest island and climb off the boat. After a quick bite to eat and a few moments spent watering the palm trees, we’d climb back in the boat and start another line. Afternoons usually brought rain — since we were basically out in the open, we’d try to shelter the gradiometer as best we could. If the rain was prolonged or heavy, we’d head back to Gizo and wait it out.

  By the end of every day, we were exhausted. The constant noise from the outboard motor a few feet from our heads, the rocking of the small boat, and the relentless humidity took their toll. After returning to Gizo, usually around 5 P.M., we’d walk the half-mile back to the hotel, take a quick shower, and change clothes. Then, if it was Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, we could read the Solomon Islands paper, which was six to eight pages in length and chock-full of interesting misspellings. A typical headline read “Pregnant Snake Found Under House,” with a picture of the finders holding it in their hands. The paper was a constant source of amusement.

  Dinner was served starting at 6:30. Waiting to eat was usually passed by playing endless hands of gin rummy or blackjack. The menu for dinner rarely changed. Kingfish with rice and a tiny salad, or chili crab with rice and a tiny salad. There were also a few mock Chinese dishes.

  A few divers showed up the two weeks we were in town. Five or six Australians arrived on the plane with us and stayed a few days. They had come to dive the wreck of the Japanese transport Toa Maru, a pristine wreck still full of cargo that draws people to Gizo.

  Then, a few days after we arrived, more tourists showed up. We’d asked Danny not to mention to anyone what we were doing, as over the years we had found that this just complicates things, but the town was so small and the tourists so few that within hours of arriving, I think everyone knew the score.

  A few days a week, Danny has a picnic over on Plum Pudding Island (now called Kennedy Island by everyone) where his workers cook fresh fish and rice over a campfire. The fish is usually eaten as a sandwich with fresh bread, and it is served on a leaf hacked from a nearby tree. Primitive but fun. A week after we arrived, we headed over to the island at lunchtime to hook up with the divers. Along with a group of fifteen to twenty teenagers on a discovery trip of the South Pacific were three new divers. Danny mentioned they were from Arizona, so I walked over to say hello to some fellow Americans. After introducing myself, I said:

  “Danny says you live in Arizona.”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  Dirk was approaching.

  “What city?”

  “Phoenix area,” said one of the two women.

  “Small world,” I said. “Dirk’s from there.”

  “Actually, Paradise Valley,” the other woman said, with a trace of haughtiness.

  Dirk nodded. Paradise Valley is a tony area where Clive, the late Erma Bombeck, and rocker Alice Cooper reside, along with a host of other celebrities. So do some smart people who bought their homes years ago.

  “Where in Paradise?” Dirk asked.

  “Do you know the area?”

  “Yeah,” Dirk said, with perfect timing, “I live there.”

  It turns out they were neighbors and lived only a few miles away. Halfway around the world in the middle of nowhere, and we meet someone from Dirk’s hometown. The trio turned out to be a gas. Ted and Sally Guenther were husband and wife. Ted’s sister, Chris, was along for the ride. The three were taking a month off from the Arizona summer heat and were traveling through the South Pacific, diving up a storm. For most of the rest of our time in Gizo, they would be our dinner companions and would prove to be good friends.

  Near the end of the trip, we also met an Australian couple, Catherine and George Ziedan, whom we would see again in Australia on our way home. Nicer people are hard to find. Upon hearing we were stopping in Surfer’s Paradise, they located us at our hotel, then came and picked us up and drove us to their home in the hills above town for an old-fashioned Australian barbecue. The steaks were a size that would shame a Texan, and the shrimp were the size of sausages. I would return to Australia just to visit George, Catherine, and their two teenage children, Georgie and Toby. George is a character straight from a gonzo novel. He attacks life with a zest I’ve rarely seen. He designed and built the beautiful house where his family resides — clearing the brush with a tractor, digging the ponds with a backhoe, and rigging a cable affair from the house down the steep hill to the pond where you can drop into the water.

  But back to the search.

  The days began to run together as we scanned the shallows off Nauru, Olasana, and Kennedy islands. Other than the single target off Nauru, which the weather was preventing us from diving, we were finding nothing. Not only that, Dirk and I had yet to dive.

  It might be time to address a statement I always hear: “I’d love to go with you.”

  No, you wouldn’t — at least ninety-nine percent of you. The idea most people have of a search is a series of fine days of sport diving interspersed with finding a wreck and reaping untold glory. The reality is hour after hour of being tossed about in small boats, listening to the increasing squawk of a balky electronic instrument, combined with lack of sleep and having to wash your underwear in a motel-room sink. Then you rise in the morning and do it all again. I would guess diving is less than five percent of the equation.

  This reminds me of a story a friend named Jedd Ladd told me in Colorado. Jedd had been at Woodstock, and I asked him about the experience. “Don’t believe all the hype about fun and free love,” he said. “It
was a muddy mess, with no food and lots of rain. I lived in a tent that leaked, and the toilets were a hole in the dirt.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “The music was great, though,” he said.

  The same thing applies here. The work is monotonous, but you have a chance to make history. We always say in NUMA that if it were easy, someone would have already done it. Persistence is the key, repetition the norm. Dirk and I dug in — day after day we scanned the waters in a direction from Ferguson Passage north. We weren’t finding anything that resembled a wreck.

  About ten days into the search, we were talking to Danny about PT-109, and we mentioned Biuku and Eroni, the natives who rescued Kennedy.

  “You want to talk to Biuku?” Danny asked.

  “What?” said Dirk.

  “Biuku is still alive,” Danny said. “He’s a friend of mine. He lives down near Vonavona.”

  “Let’s go,” Dirk said.

  “Living history,” I said. “Call him up and see if we can visit.”

  “He doesn’t have a telephone,” Danny said, “but if we take one of the boats down there tomorrow, we can probably find him. He’s getting old, and he doesn’t stray far.”

  The next morning, Dirk, Danny, Smiling John the boat driver, and I climbed into a boat, crossed Blackett Strait, then proceeded on through the channel toward Vonavona. The journey was a trip through paradise. Clear water and tree-lined passages, like passing down a lazy river, would give way to outcroppings of white sands and colorful reefs just below the surface. The trip to Biuku’s home took about an hour. We slid up to a pier made from coral rocks and shells and climbed from the boat. Walking through the trees, we came upon a few wooden homes set up from the ground on pilings. A garden was to one side, and chickens roamed freely, squawking at our imposition.

  A woman clutching a baby in her arms sat on the porch of a home, puffing on a corncob pipe.

  “One of Biuku’s daughters,” Danny said, as he plopped down the large bag of rice and the betel nut we had brought as gifts.

  In pidgin, he inquired as to Biuku’s whereabouts and learned he was down at Munda. One of his children was sick, and that was the nearest hospital. We set off for Munda, another forty-five minutes by boat, and splashed ashore. The night before, I had talked with Dirk about what we could give as a gift. This was the man who had rescued one of our presidents, and for the most part the act had gone unnoticed. I had a pair of binoculars — pretty good Tascos — and we figured he’d like those. Danny went inside and found Biuku and brought him outside.