Still coiling the rope, he moved closer. Although the object appeared blurred by the silt and particles floating around it, he thought he could just make out the image of a hull. Long and narrow, it appeared to be lying on its side.
As he swam closer, he noticed something large sticking straight up from the center.
"What is that?" he asked himself, still puzzled.
The closer he neared, the more distinct it became. Little by little, the image took shape. he began to feel uneasy. Deep in his subconscious, the forming image started to become recognizable.
Jack could see the lines of the structure. He could now make out what appeared to be round bars sticking out from it, twisted and kinked where it had been damaged. He focused hard and could see what appeared to be a larger rectangular port hole in its side, then he saw another....
Jack stopped in his tracks. His heart pounded and he began to shake uncontrollably. A cold chill broke out over his entire body. His mind instantly raced from confusion to stark fear.
"No. No. No!" he called out in disbelief, his cries growing louder with each word he yelled.
He swam forward and touched the surface of the object. He ran his shaking hands over bits and pieces of the structure, touching it, analyzing it, hoping somehow his touch could magically change what he was seeing.
Frantically, he swam front to back as well as up and over the structure, trying to make sense of something so senseless.
"NO!," he screamed through his regulator. "How could this have happened?" he shrieked.
Coming to the front, he ran his hand lightly over the propeller—his propeller. He looked up at the wing sticking straight up toward the surface—his wing. This was his plane.
Jack's beautiful plane, his pride and joy and most importantly, his lifeline, was now sitting at the bottom of the ocean, battered, destroyed.
In a moment’s desperation, devoid of rational thought, he grabbed the propeller and tried to lift the plane, hoping to raise it to the surface. With his muscles straining to their breaking point, he was only able to lift the front end a foot off the ocean floor.
Letting go, he floated backward, carried by the deep water currents. In shock and anguish, he closed his eyes and let out a loud, guttural scream, sending the regulator out of his mouth, dangling out in front of him. As his mouth instantly filled up with water, for a split second he thought about drowning himself. Fifty miles from the island and no means to get back, his situation was a death sentence. He could float to the top and wait to be eaten by sharks or he could drown himself quickly and avoid an agonizing death.
He thought about Moses' words. He thought of his parents and the agony they would feel at the loss of their child. He thought about life and never being able to experience it again. He felt extreme sadness as he contemplated the end.
‘No!’ Jack called out defiantly in his head.
Quickly, he grabbed his regulator, popped it into his mouth, and began to breathe once more.
‘I’m not beaten yet. Mom and Dad won't see me dead, not if I have anything to say about it.’
He looked around him. His situation was grim, but not without possibilities.
“I’m not going to just roll over and die… not without a fight.”
Staring at his sunken plane, Jack took a moment to compose himself. He knew if he had any chance of survival, whatever he needed would have to come from that damaged plane, and he would have to take it now.
Quickly, methodically, Jack mentally categorized his needs in descending order: flotation, water, food, signaling, and cover. With his basic needs outlined in his mind, he then set out to collect whatever he could find.
Swimming toward the plane, he could see that the buoy he used to mark his position was still attached to the wing strut. Taking off his hoist bag, he clipped it to the bottom of the buoy. He then followed the rope from the wing strut to the spare tank that had previously been suspended below the water. Using his diver's knife, he cut through the rope with one quick slice, and brought the tank over to the buoy.
Next, he took a moment to examine the condition of the plane. The right hand wing and float seemed to be firmly attached, but as he floated over the topside of the fuselage, he could see the left hand wing and float had been torn from their attachment points.
Jack had built his plane by himself and knew its construction inside and out. Part of the allure of the Zenair 701 was the ability to remove the wings and floats for easy and compact storage. Now, he figured that choice in design might actually save his life.
“This will make a nice raft,” he thought to himself as he looked at the wing.
Quickly, he opened the door that now faced upward and reached inside behind the passenger’s seat. On the floor behind the seat sat a small tool box. He grabbed it, pulled it outside, and set it up next to the plane on a small patch of sand. Without wasting a moment of time, he opened the box and found an adjustable wrench and hammer, then swam to the wing’s attachment point on the fuselage.
Moving quickly now, he pulled a cotter pin that secured a nut and pin assembly. Using the wrench, he unscrewed a large nut that held a pin in place. With the nut removed, Jack tried to pull the large pin that locked the wing to the plane. Using the claw of the hammer, he positioned it under the pin and tried to force it from its hole. As the pin resisted, Jack applied tremendous force, but the pin held firm.
“Shit, the connection must be bent,” he speculated in frustration.
He looked at the float still attached to the plane. The metal tubing that held it to the fuselage was bent and contorted. He wasn't sure if he would be able to pull the twisted wreckage out from under the plane in order to free the float, but with the wing stuck in place, he was left with little choice.
Grabbing the wrench and hammer, he pulled a cotter pin, then unscrewed a nut holding the float to the fuselage. Using the same technique as the wing, he wedged the claw of the hammer under the head of the pin and levered back on it with all his strength. Instantly, the pin popped out of its hole releasing one side of the float.
Jack moved to the second connection. Using the same technique once more, he removed the cotter pin and nut, then began to lever on the pin. Slowly, the large pin inched its way out. At the very end, it became stuck as the weight of the float shifted downward, squeezing the pin tightly inside the hole.
Jack stood back, reached under the float, and began to lift it up and down as he tried to shake the connections free. Straining desperately and rocking the float violently up and down, the pin fell to the ground, releasing the float from the plane.
‘Yes,’ he thought to himself. ‘Finally, a break.’
Jack cut off a length of rope and tied it around one of the twisted struts extending from the float. He then swam to the buoy and secured the other end to it. With the float secured to both the buoy and the hoist bag, he was certain he could get the float to the surface.
Jack next turned his attention to the fuselage. Inside held the key to his survival. Opening the door again, he reached inside and collected his water bottle, first aid kit, peanut butter sandwich in a Ziploc bag and his fleece pullover jacket. Behind the pilot’s seat, he pulled out his manual bilge pump used to pump water from the floats. Stuffing the items into a small, canvas duffel bag, he was now ready to ascend to the top.
As he closed the door, he took one last look inside the cabin. Deep sadness overwhelmed him as he knew this would be the last time he'd ever see his plane again.
Standing next to the float and buoy, he took his spare air tank and began to fill up the hoist bag just as he had done with the urn. As it filled up rapidly, it pulled taut against the rope, shifting the float from its resting position. Smiling for a moment at the potential success of his plan, he continued to fill the hoist bag with air.
Little by little as the hoist bag filled, the float lifted off the ground and started to rise. He held onto it and guided it past the wing struts until the line holding the buoy came taut. Suspended abov
e the floor of the ocean, he marveled at the simplicity of the plan.
With the float poised to ascend and Jack holding his duffel bag of survival items, he had one last task left to do. Unbuckling his nearly spent air tank, he switched to the fresh tank used to fill the hoist bag. With this new tank, as well as the other items, he felt he now had a chance at surviving.
He eyed the buoy still tied to the fuselage and wing struts. He took out his knife and held it against the length of rope. Looking up, he took a deep breath and exhaled.
‘Well, this is it,’ he thought to himself.
With nervous apprehension, he sliced through the rope. Instantly, the float started to rise. Slowly it moved as the hoist bag and buoy strained to lift the heavy weight of the float and twisted structure. Standing back and monitoring the progress, Jack watched the float inch its way higher. Floating slightly above the operation and matching the ascension foot by foot, he steadied the float on its way toward the surface.
Minutes later, he checked his gauges. He was now passing the fifty-eight foot level. With the sun’s rays shining its way through to the shallower depths, he put away his flashlight and relied on the sun to guide him higher.
‘Another ten feet and I’ll be able to just make out the waves on the surface,’ he thought to himself.
Slowly, his cargo climbed. Now passing the seventy foot level, he began to think about his decompression stage of the dive. He needed to hang and decompress at the fifteen foot level, but felt that stabilizing the float first was a more pressing issue. He watched his depth gauge anxiously, anticipating breaking the surface at any moment.
Suddenly, the float slowed to a stop. Four feet below the top, it sat and bobbed as the hoist bag and buoy broke through and stabilized on the surface. He swam up and took and enormous breath of fresh air. The sun’s rays never felt so good and he floated for a moment absorbing their essence.
With work to do, he refocused on the float. Dipping back down below the surface, he carefully unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out the bilge pump. He then slipped the bag's handle through his free arm. Swimming to a circular cover on the top side of the float, he unscrewed it and allowed it to dangle by its chain. Under the water, he placed the pump into the hole and pressed the rubber cork into the opening, creating an airtight seal. Jack now floated near the surface and held the intake hose out of the water. With a quick pull and push of the pump’s lever, he was now emptying the contents of the float.
With each surge from the pump, a quart of seawater was drawn from the float and replaced by fresh air. Maintaining a balance between floating at the right depth to hold the pump in place and holding the hose out of the water, he needed to kick his fins continuously to facilitate the operation.
In no time at all, the float started to rise. With the weight of the struts dangling off the side, it caused the float to hang sideways in the water. Jack knew he needed the float to sit upright, but with the extra weight pulling it down, it would never float upright unless he made some form of correction.
He quickly untied the buoy from the float then dove under the water to the twisted tubing below. Taking a length of rope, he tied it to the furthest most point on the bent tubing that extended from the float. He then swam to the surface and fed the end through the clip hanging off the buoy. With everything in place, he began to pull the rope through the clip. As he did, the buoy acted as an anchor point on the surface and allowed him to draw the bent wreckage up to it from under the water.
Slowly, the entire float rotated to the upright position as the wreckage drew closer to buoy. Mere feet from the surface, he reached below and grabbed the end of the bent tubing, and while kicking his fins hard, was able to lift the bent structure up to the buoy and tie it off.
Floating on the surface now, Jack marveled at his idea.
"Man, it's a freakin’ outrigger. It may not hold me very well, but at least the float will be stable," he speculated.
Above the surface, he was now able to pump even harder, speeding up the evacuation of water. In ten minutes time, the float was nearly empty and he struggled to hold the pump in place as he reached up out of the water to complete the operation. Sensing the folly of his actions, he unbelted his air tank and clipped it to the float along with his duffel bag, then climbed up on top in order to finish the operation.
Straddling the long narrow float, he hadn't realized how small its top surface actually was. Measuring fourteen feet long and only about a foot wide at the top, he quickly realized his stay would be an uncomfortable one. Shrugging it off, he scooted along to the front, placed the pump back into the hole, and finished the pumping process. In less than fifteen minutes, he had completely emptied the float.
Mentally and physically exhausted, he sat for a moment to collect his thoughts. He looked around the vast ocean and saw nothing. Floating alone in the endless body of water, sitting on a single float, the reality of his isolation slowly began to sink in. He was fifty miles from the nearest person, nearly a two-day walk if he were on land. A cry for help, a plead for basic needs, a simple word of solace, would all go unanswered.
The dangers from below raced through his mind. At some point, he would be visited. He knew this. On a long enough time line, the unimaginable was inevitable. Without a rescue, he would have to fight for his life. Unlike a human that could exercise conscience and restraint, the foes from beneath were cold, calculating, and functioned on raw instinct. Any survival out there in the middle of the ocean would have to come from him. He was truly alone.
Atlantis - Chapter 12
DAY 1
Jack stared down at the float his legs were now straddling. Sitting a foot above the water, the foot-wide platform was barely wide enough to hold him. Shifting routinely, he tried to find a comfortable position. As the sides of the float tapered down from the top, the bottom of the float expanded in width under the water to nearly two feet across, giving him the feeling that he was riding a horse.
He lifted his feet out of the water and removed his fins. White and shriveled from continuous exposure, his feet looked like they belonged on a corpse. Holding the fins in one hand, he rubbed them with the other, restoring the circulation back into them. From his waist belt, he sliced off a length of towline and tied his fins, mask, and snorkel to his makeshift raft.
Sitting alone, the only sound he heard was the wind and the gentle lapping of waves against the float. His mind began to process his reality.
“How could this have happened?” he said out loud. “It's like a bad dream I'm having.”
Looking around in disbelief, he felt like a prisoner jailed unjustly. He knew this was real, but his mind hadn't come to grips with the truth of this new reality. He was in the depths of deep despair and began to think about the circumstances and what could have created a catastrophe of such magnitude.
Examining the struts extending from his float, he could see the twisted metal that once connected the other float to the one he was on. The force required to shear the bolts and twist the metal from the missing float could only have been generated by a series of large waves, continuously striking the plane.
Jack looked around him. The seas were calm and the skies were clear. It had been less than an hour that he last saw his plane intact.
“No way,” he said to himself. “No way a freak wave did this. Not in calm seas… impossible.”
Then it dawned on him, “Whales. Those shadows I saw. The whales must have done this,” he said in realization.
He looked around again and surveyed the remains of his most valued treasure. He could feel the anger radiating off his face as he visualized whales viciously assaulting his prized possession.
“Freakin' bastards,” he thundered in anger.
He took a few deep breaths of air and calmed himself as he tried to figure out what to do next. Looking down at his watch, he noted the time: ten fourteen. He wouldn't be missed for another forty-five minutes when...
“Moses. He'll be expecting me to show by e
leven o'clock,” he said to himself. “I’ll be ok. As soon as he realizes I’m overdue, he’ll sound the alarm.”
Counting the chain of events that would lead to his rescue, he estimated out loud. “Let's see. He'll probably call for help about two hours after I no-show at the airport, somewhere around one-o’clock. Add another three to four hours for the Coast Guard to find me and that should make my rescue around four or five,” he finished confidently.
Jack had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Although his last statement seemed logical and reasonable, his subconscious alluded to a far different and less forgiving scenario.
Quietly he sat, forcing himself to stay positive with affirming thoughts, but with each denial of reality, a stronger more powerful image of truth forced its way to the forefront of his conscious.
“Damn,” he said with subtle malaise. “What if Moses shows up late or what if he takes longer to report my disappearance? And what if the Coast Guard can't find me?”
As anxiety and desperation raced through his mind, he contemplated increasingly more negative scenarios, blurting out in grave finality, “What if everything goes horribly wrong?”
Jack stared out at his stark isolation. He was just an infinitesimal speck in that vast universe of water and sky. With strong currents continually pushing him from his landing site, his light of hope began to dim.
“This could take a while. I could be here overnight,” he said to himself. He swallowed hard and continued, “I could be out here two nights, maybe more.... Wow, what have I done?” he finished, now coming to grips with his difficult road ahead.
----- ----- ----- -----
The sun’s early morning rays were soft and comforting and Jack lay back on the float and absorbed them. Balancing on the foot-wide platform, he crossed his feet to keep them in place as he stretched out and rested. Soon, though, the sun’s penetrating heat bore down on his wetsuit, warming the thin membrane of water that surrounded his body inside. Within a half hour, his temperature rose to an uncomfortable level.
Tomb of Atlantis Page 14