Submerged: Adventures of America's Most Elite Underwater Archeology Team

by Daniel Lenihan

  The colorful Mr. Hayes hailed from Cleveland and learned his seamanship on the Great Lakes. After an extraordinary career in the Pacific during which he was variously labeled in American newspapers pirate, slave trader, womanizer, thief, murderer, charming gent, and a praying man, he managed to become stranded when he lost the Leonora on March 15, 1874. At storm’s end, knowing his reputation for borrowing the ships and belongings of others, two whaling vessels immediately fled Kosrae when they learned the fate of the Leonora.

  Among the items lost with the ship were several copper-clad wooden water tanks and large amounts of ship’s apparel and trade goods. Through some twisted logic Hayes decided that the natives must have stolen some of his goods and demanded they pay him 48,000 coconuts as he settled in to wait for a potential rescuer or someone who owned a ship to his liking. Some missionary ships arrived several months later, and he managed to con one ship’s master into taking him on to Ponape, then Guam. He was arrested by the Spanish and moved to a Spanish prison in Manila. Here, he underwent one of his conversions or metamorphoses of convenience, this time to a convincing Catholic, and was released.

  In 1877, returning to Kosrae from Jaluit on the good ship Lotus, which he had stolen along with, as was his custom, the owner’s wife, Hayes ran into stormy seas—in more ways than one. He had a dispute with the cook, Dutch Pete, which was settled out of court. When Bully headed below to obtain a pistol to enforce his stated decision to throw the cook overboard for “poor steering during rough weather,” the man sneaked up and bashed him on the head with a boomcrutch. Being struck with this doubled piece of seasoned hickory had a similar effect to a full swing with a weighted baseball bat. Pete and the first mate tossed Bully overboard, thus ending with a splash one of the more interesting maritime entrepreneurial careers in the Pacific.

  Jim Stewart, dive officer of Scripps Institution of Oceanography, confirmed that divers from a Scripps research vessel had seen signs of wreckage in the harbor some years past. They had given the artifacts they had retrieved to the curator of the Star of India, a clipper ship converted to a floating museum in San Diego. After the curator of the museum let me examine the artifacts I knew we were definitely in the right ballpark. The ceramics, bottles, bronze gudgeon—all would have been appropriate for a ship the vintage and size of the 1874 brigantine Leonora.

  When we accepted the invitation of the Trust Territories of the Pacific Islands to evaluate the site, they gave us the name of a native Kosraen who was working at the time in Ponape. Our liaison was an energetic, intense young man named Teddy John. Newly drafted into historic preservation from baggage handling for Air Micronesia, he coordinated the considerable logistics for us to conduct research diving in the remote village. He also joined us in all-night spearfishing expeditions to secure food for traditional Kosraen feasts and soon became as much friend as liaison.

  The living conditions in Utwa were indeed rustic. We three shared a block house with a tin roof with a Peace Corp volunteer named Paul Ehrlich, who was also a diver and had written a historical treatise on Bully Hayes. We slept on frond palettes and shared an outhouse, which featured a hole in the cement floor as the commode. A rubber hose provided a gravity feed from a river for the shower. We had to squat or lie down and hold the hose over targeted anatomy no higher than two feet to get a steady flow. There was a small screened area outside where villagers brought us breadfruit, fish heads, rice, and the like for breakfast. It wasn’t fancy but actually quite pleasant, once one adjusted.

  We soon learned that Kosraen feasts were called at the drop of a hat but were nothing to take lightly. When Larry and I offered to help in hunting the fish that would invariably be a major course in addition to the slaughtered pig, we found ourselves spearing fish in the moonlight until 4 A.M. The wake-up call for our day of research diving was 6 A.M.

  Toni Carrell, though not expected to take part in hunting due to Kosraen custom, was not summoned with the rest of the women on our return to cook the fish. But she voluntarily engaged in a fair amount of food preparation. Larry and I wore uniforms or shorts and T-shirts while on the island. Toni, when not wearing her NPS uniform, in deference to Kosraen custom, wore a skirt, the hem of which extended well below her knees. Oddly enough, there probably would have been only minor adverse reaction from the most Christianized islanders if she went topless. However, Toni seemed disinclined to experiment with that theory—she figured that was a question for ethnologists not archeologists.

  The Leonora, situated at the mouth of a river, is covered by silt and tons of dead coral, mud, and marl, concealing most of its features. The village of Utwa is also subject to significant tidal changes. Although the tidal level only changes a few feet, the harbor is shallow and we found we had to walk a hundred yards offshore to enter the boat during low tide.

  Our first visit to the site of the wreck thought to be Leonora was via motorized outrigger canoe and catamaran-style fishing boat. We pulled into the shallows so we could stand up with enough room to put our tanks on without tipping over the outrigger. I couldn’t wait to see what was below us. Kosraens piled aboard the catamaran fishing boat to watch the action. They speared fish, any fish at any size it seemed, to marinate on deck for meals between dives. To the question “What kind of fish is that?” the answer was invariably, “Sashimi.”

  We studied the bottom carefully as we entered the warm, clear water. Most of the wreck remains were covered in thick coral and deep silt. It was, after all, the mouth of a river. The depth is not much more than thirty feet anywhere on the site. A swim of about a hundred yards would have taken us out of the harbor and over the fringing reef. The depth there dropped away to the deep blue abyss.

  As our eyes became accustomed to the bottom life on the site, the cultural anomalies began to take recognizable shape. There was very little wood but there were many metal fittings including iron and brass pins and a number of sheets of copper sheathing. Because copper sheathing was used typically below the waterline only to protect against marine borers (wood-eating teredo worms), it appeared we had found some lower section of hull where the wood had not lasted but the articulated sheathing kept the shape of a small portion of hull. Then, there was what appeared to be the remains of a bilge pump and a large coffin-shaped container clad in copper that was the most visually dominant artifact on the bottom. It extruded from the side of a deep silt-covered coral channel.

  We puzzled over the latter, because the shape of it made no sense for sheathed hull or rudder assembly. Then we recalled the historical record that listed water tanks. Swimming back to look over the “coffin,” we noted how the seams of the copper sheets tightly overlapped and how well made it was. Larry did some quick calculations and the volume would fit in the range of the Leonora’s water tanks.

  Combined with the precise location where the Leonora was indicated to have sunk, the total lack of artifacts that would have proved contradictory to the period or function of the Leonora, and the presence of the water tank, we concluded that it could be reasonably assumed that the vessel purported to be the Leonora, was just that. We worked with Kosraen divers to create a photo mosaic of the site and mapped in all the significant features. From the look of the silt deposition and the nature of the material we were finding, we came to another conclusion: The major part of the ship was probably intact and buried under the coral-silt cap, which provided an excellent environment for organic preservation. During the entire operation we had been using our video system to gather additional site documentation. It was never quite the same after doing a half-gainer off the Air Mike pickup truck, but we managed to make it work most of the time in Kosrae.

  After completing a series of dives on the remains of the Leonora, I decided to show our underwater video footage to the villagers. In those days we had only the crudest black-and-white reel-to-reel video technology; color home videocams were still a few years from hitting the market. Isaiah Kan, the chief of Utwa, ordered the village generator cranked up that evening as people gat
hered expectantly around the nine inch black-and-white screen.

  Behind the village elders there were no less than two hundred schoolchildren and parents entranced with the half-tone images flickering across the screen: divers, fish, artifacts, and hopelessly inadequate representations of brilliantly colored coral, all in living gray.

  We had placed a “mug board” near one of the artifacts. This metal plate, with magnetic letters, identified the site and number of the feature being documented, the date, and had the words “Kosrae State, FSM” along the bottom. We never could have imagined the impact those words would have on our viewers. They gasped when they saw their newly established nation state’s status acknowledged through the authoritative electronic magic of television. After the show, the children, to all appearances without direction from the elders, broke into their new national anthem. I was curiously touched by this unself-conscious display of pride in one’s homeland.

  After completing the modest research operation, which took little more than a week, we held a meeting with Chief Teddy John and the elders from several villages on Kosrae. We discussed the attraction of historic shipwrecks to visiting divers and commercial treasure hunters, who might be visiting their island in much greater force if and when air travel became more direct. The elders agreed that history was easy to pluck from the bottom but then was gone forever.

  I asked if they felt the Leonora was part of their history or only a remnant of European and American intrusion—that is, What did it mean to them? After some discussion among themselves, they came to the conclusion that this intrusion, good or bad, was indeed a key part of their heritage and they should protect it. I asked if they had a marine police organization of some sort. When translated, there was general laughter. Teddy John explained that if a Kosraen chief decided there would be no taking of artifacts from their village waters, people were well-advised to take heed. In short, their answer was reminiscent of a line in a famous American movie: “We don’t need no stinking badges.”

  SCRU, beyond the dubious distinction of having introduced the Kosraens to their first experience with television, had established a foothold for no-nonsense underwater preservation in Micronesia. We packed our bags and grabbed a charter flight back to Ponape. After a couple days’ layover, we made brief stops to familiarize ourselves with the wrecks of Truk Lagoon and the waters of War in the Pacific National Historical Park in Guam. In all of these places we found a wealth of underwater history, and a dizzying array of threats to same, in the context of a very complex cultural arena.

  During that brief layover in Ponape, however, we had an incident with local fauna, the implications of which would only become apparent many years later.

  I learned on that brief stopover that sharks can make you think it’s a long, long, way back to the boat. The day before flying out, I swam using scuba gear a fair distance from our boat at a depth of sixty feet. I was near the top of a drop-off or “wall,” as divers call it, accompanied by Bob Adair, a Peace Corps volunteer who had been working with us in Kosrae.

  The wall was covered with various forms of coral; the water was clear, warm, and generally appealing. If we looked seaward, the water faded quickly from light blue to dark blue. Similar to outside the harbor at Utwa, straight below the little shelf we were following, the wall made a dizzying pitch to easily a thousand feet—Empire State Building class of depth.

  Large pelagic critters swam by going about their business. I was particularly fascinated with the gray reef sharks and the white-tips that would bustle by every few moments headed for some destination as if a few moments late for work. The latter are sleek guys with a splash of white on the tip of their dorsal fin. Eventually, one of the grays decided that I was worth his attention. One moment, I was on my knees leaning over a crown-of-thorns starfish with a camera and strobe flashing pictures, my back to the dropoff. Seconds later, I was trying to ram the camera down the shark’s throat. For no apparent reason, the animal had taken a serious dislike to me. Though only six or seven feet in length, he was trying to fit his jaws around my head.

  I was almost more perplexed than scared. Almost. Though I was truly curious why this one shark should suddenly react in such a belligerent manner, I became considerably more focused on the problem of how to get back to the boat, which was about a hundred yards away. Bob shared my enthusiasm for a quick return, though he could also see that hurrying seemed to agitate the shark more. By this time, the animal had adopted what has become known as a classic attack posture, with pectoral fins down, back arched, and teeth flashing.

  I couldn’t help but think of Jim Stewart’s arm while this was going on. Jim, the Scripps Institution diving officer, to my knowledge, was the first person to report this behavior. In Jim’s case, the attacking shark, which was very similar to the one antagonizing me, succeeded in almost tearing his arm off. I had seen the old warrior’s scars from that incident and had no desire to have my own illustrated story to tell.

  As we finally neared the boat, with the shark still following and jabbing at us, we had to decide how to make that last several yards and pull our feet in behind us, while retaining all our toes. The psychology of the situation was perverse. Although being in the boat was safe as being in a cradle, there was that short period when we would have to take our eyes off this ill-tempered fish and mess around handing our tanks up, with our feet kicking like fishing lures.

  We solved the problem with a strategy that seems simple in hindsight but appeared the essence of creative genius at the time. We had Larry throw a rope into the water so we could detach our scuba rigs and tie them off to the line while watching and parrying with the shark. Then we swam within a few yards of the boat and one after the other, turned, lunged for the gunnel, and hauled our considerably lightened bodies into the craft. With Larry tugging from above, this process took about three seconds.

  We ended up going home with all our appendages, but I remained very curious about that incident and why it occurred. It wasn’t until we were working on the Bikini Atoll project almost a decade later that the question was answered to my satisfaction, but more on that later.

  We had made our first inroads into the Pacific. Over the years, it called us back again and again. We would eventually return to work on many sites in Micronesia, from Yankee whalers to World War II casualties to sites that derived from the nuclear age. But the “South Seas” had worked their magic that first year. Bully Hayes, gray reef sharks, a thousand exotic sights and smells, and a charming people were too much. We knew the tyranny of size and the commonsense advice that it was “a black hole for energy” would never be enough to keep us from our mandate in the Trust Territories.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IN OUR GLORY

  While spending the spring of 1982 writing up our survey work at Biscayne and reconnaissance trip to Micronesia, and planning full-blown mapping projects for the coming field season at Isle Royale, we were called unexpectedly back to Amistad—the reservoir that had been the scene of some of our earliest endeavors to train park rangers. We were ready to be finished with reservoirs but they weren’t finished with us. This time we would be wearing not our research hats but our ranger hats.

  We had, during the course of the Inundation Study, performed occasional recoveries of drowning victims in reservoirs, but they had been fairly low-key and easy. Fate had saved for us a real walk on the reservoir dark side for a couple years after we had completed the Inundation Study.

  The young man in the government green chair at the ranger station rambled in answer to our questions. He alternately cried, laughed, looked for our approval, and faded away to some secret place deep inside.

  “So, the last time you saw your buddy he was at the window.”

  “No, I was . . . he was gone . . . I was at the window. We were in our glory, man, it was beautiful.”

  I caught pointed glances from three other rangers who had dived to the point on the powerhouse the distraught man was describing. It would take an incredible stre
tch of the imagination to see the place as beautiful. Visibility, before stirring up the silt, was about two to three horizontal feet. The water temperature, a bone-chilling 48 degrees Fahrenheit.

  “He went back inside for another cruise through the building and I waited for him. After five minutes I knew something must be wrong . . . so I took after him.”

  “No line?” This was the first Larry Murphy had spoken.

  “Naw, we could see on our way in, but it was a brown cloud on the way out, couldn’t see a thing.”

  “I thought you said . . . ” Larry Nordby saw Murphy and me looking down at our feet and caught a slight shake of my head. He took a deep breath and motioned to the chief ranger that we were finished with the questions.

  We’ll never know what really happened on the dive during which this man lost his friend; he’d just recounted a hopelessly confused version of a trip to the lower rings of hell, something that he will sort out in nightmares for the rest of his life.

  When he departed, we were momentarily silent. Six men and one woman dressed in green and gray, four rangers from the park and three of us just arrived from the regional office.

  “In our glory! Beautiful, sweet Christ! He’s off his rocker.” The powerhouse of the dam where the accident occurred was a very nasty place. The chief ranger from Amistad had called us in from Santa Fe after the park dive team had attempted a recovery dive, succeeding in locating the entrance point to the structure, and assessing all the conditions. The search would involve an under-ceiling dive in very low visibility, cold water almost a hundred feet deep. They had made the right decision not to push any farther on their own.