Journey to Atlantis

by Philip Roy

  “We’re going down!” I yelled to the crew.

  I shut the hatch and let water into the tanks. We started to dive. But as we were sailing in only a hundred and fifty feet of water, we couldn’t dive very deeply. I switched to battery power and headed straight out to sea. I watched the three boats approach on sonar. When they were a quarter of a mile away, I made a sharp right turn. I wanted to see if they were following us with sonar. They turned. They were! Yikes!

  I straightened out and headed due north, the shortest route to leave the twelve-mile zone. I wondered how far they would chase us. Would they respect the twelve-mile zone? And then … there was an explosion in the water! It was pretty loud but didn’t rock the sub. It was nothing like the mine that blew up in the Azores. It sounded more like a firecracker. I watched the sea floor closely and followed it down its gradual descent. Another mile out and we were down to two hundred feet. There was another explosion. Again it was loud but not very threatening. It was more like a warning blast. They were just motorboats; they were not equipped to deal with submarines, surely? I was guessing what they were doing was throwing hand grenades in the water, trying to force us to surface. But the grenades were exploding before they fell very far and were not affecting us at all. There was no way I would surface now and attempt a meeting with them. The time for nice greetings had passed. They were attempting either to sink us or force us to surface, as if we were a hostile enemy. If they caught us now they would surely put me in jail, and probably keep me there for a very long time. Ziegfried had said, never get put into jail in a third world country, because you’ll never get out. And what would have happened to Hollie and Seaweed?

  Another mile out and we were down to two hundred and thirty feet. They were right above us, dropping grenades still, to no effect. Perhaps it was fun for them, a little chase on a quiet summer’s night and a chance to practise throwing grenades.

  After another mile the sea floor took a sudden drop of a hundred feet. I submerged to three hundred feet. The explosions grew weaker. I wondered how far they would chase us. Would they stop at the twelve-mile zone? At ten miles from shore they stopped throwing grenades. Sonar revealed another vessel in the water, possibly a passing freighter. One of the motorboats left the others to sail alongside of it, probably checking it out. We reached eleven miles … eleven and a half … twelve! I watched on the sonar screen as the remaining two boats swung around in wide arcs and headed back. I took a deep breath and sighed. We had escaped. Once again, Sheba had been right!

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHASED AWAY FROM the African coast, we headed north. We could have sailed in an arc and gradually made our way back, east of Algiers, but something directly ahead interested me — the island of Mallorca. My guidebook said it was famous for wild mountain goats. I wanted to see them.

  We surfaced and I switched on the radar. No one was following us anymore. I climbed the portal and opened the hatch. Seaweed went out. I carried Hollie up and we made ourselves comfortable and watched the stars.

  I had seen pictures of mountain goats. They were large, thickly furred, heavy-looking beasts that could run up and down the sides of cliffs as if they had wings on their feet. It was amazing. There were lots of goats on Mallorca, according to the book, and it was only a day’s sail away. The only snag was that Mallorca belonged to Spain, not exactly the best of friends with Canada at the moment.

  We sailed through the night and reached the twelve-mile zone of Mallorca by mid-morning. Radar revealed ships sailing in and out of the main harbour like wasps around a nest. That made it a lot easier. With so much sea traffic, no one would notice us, so long as we stayed out of sight. We submerged to periscope depth and sailed around the west side.

  I began to search for places to hide. I wanted to find a small cove where we could leave the sub long enough to take a hike into the mountains, maybe even camp overnight. I knew that was ambitious, especially on a highly populated island, but there must have been rocky areas where no one lived? Every island had them.

  Cruising along the coast less than a quarter of a mile from shore, I found lots of rocky areas, but the coves always seemed to have boats in them, or people. By this time, I was getting sleepy. Finally, I found one cove that looked hopeful. It was isolated and surrounded by cliffs. There was nobody on the beach. I motored in, let Seaweed out, submerged to seventy-five feet and settled down to get some sleep.

  When we woke and came up to periscope level there was a man sitting on the beach. It was just one man and he was alone in the little cove, a sheltered cove, the perfect place to hide the sub, but we would have to wait until he left.

  I fed Hollie and made tea and fiddled about while we waited. When Hollie finished eating he was anxious to go for a walk. He followed me around and stared up at the hatch as if to say, what’s the holdup?

  “Sorry, Hollie. There’s a man out there.”

  I kept peeking through the periscope but the man was still sitting there. He was an older man and there was something strangely familiar about him. He just kept sitting there, staring at the water as if he owned the place. So we waited, and waited, and waited, hoping he would leave. But he never did. Finally, he stood up and stared at the water really closely. Then I saw a brown shadow pass in front of the periscope. Oh no! Seaweed was standing on it! The man was sure to notice that.

  He did! Shoot! Now we had to go find another cove. And now somebody had spotted us and would report us. Rats! Unless … what if we made friends with him? Maybe he wouldn’t tell anybody about us. Usually when people realized we were not a threat they were pretty friendly. We had nothing to lose.

  He was standing on the edge of the rock, shielding his eyes from the sun when we surfaced. His hands dropped and his mouth fell open. But I had seen him before somewhere. Who was he?

  I opened the hatch and sure enough, Seaweed was standing there, waiting for breakfast. I pulled a handful of dog biscuits from my pocket and threw them to him. That must have looked pretty strange to the man on the beach. I waved. The man slowly raised his hand and waved back. I reached in, pulled out the Spanish flag and hung it from the portal. He hollered out to me something in Spanish but I didn’t understand. He made a sweeping gesture with his arms for us to come closer. So we did. I motored over until we were just fifty feet away. Now I knew who he was. He was Douglas Nickels, Ziegfried’s favourite movie star!

  He said something in Spanish.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak …”

  “You’re English!” he barked.

  “I’m Canadian.”

  “Canadian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a photographer?”

  “No, I’m an explorer.”

  “An explorer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t here to take pictures?”

  “No, I’m here to see the goats.”

  “The goats?”

  “Yes.”

  “What goats?”

  “The mountain goats.”

  He looked confused. I wondered if I was on the right island.

  “Oh! Yes. The goats up in the hills. You came here to see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alfred.”

  “And you’re from Canada?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  He stopped and thought for a while. I waited to see what he would do.

  “Did you just feed that seagull?”

  “Yes. That’s Seaweed. He’s part of the crew.”

  “Oh. Is there anyone else?”

  “Just Hollie,” I said, and climbed down, grabbed Hollie and carried him up.

  Douglas Nickels nodded, then made a sweeping gesture with his arms and said, “Come over, Alfred. I’d like to meet you.”

  So I moored to the rock and climbed out with Hollie. There was a small, pebbled beach in the center of the cove. It was very private. Hollie w
as delighted. Mr. Nickels greeted me with a strong handshake.

  “Call me Doug,” he said.

  “I’m Alfred.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Alfred. Welcome to my little beach.”

  “Is it really yours? Do you own it?”

  “Yes, I do. Our house is up there. My wife, Greta Sachs, is there. Do you know her?”

  “I think I’ve heard of her, but I’m not sure what she looks like.”

  He laughed. “You’re not sure what Greta Sachs looks like? But you know she’s a movie star, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Hah! That’s great! You’ll have to come up for a cup of tea, Alfred. Come on up.”

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “Nonsense! You’re a breath of fresh air. And you’ve got to meet Greta. She won’t believe this.”

  Doug and Greta lived in the biggest house I had ever seen. It stretched over the rock in all directions and I could easily have gotten lost inside of it. It made me think of the maze at King Minos’ palace that I was hoping to see on Crete. The house was very, very fancy and yet Doug walked through it in his wet, sandy sneakers as if it were a boathouse. Except for his famous face, you wouldn’t have known him from any other fisherman on the sea.

  I didn’t see anyone else in the house until we entered a room where Greta Sachs was sitting on a sofa, reading a book. I immediately recognized her, though, like Doug, she looked a lot older in real life.

  “Dougie?” she said, without looking up.

  “Greta, I’d like you to meet someone.”

  “Dougie? … Oh! … Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Greta. This is Alfred.”

  “Hello, Alfred. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Alfred is a young explorer, Greta. He has come all the way from Canada.”

  “Oh. That’s nice. What are you looking for, Alfred?”

  “Ummm … Atlantis.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. I hope you find it. Dougie?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve got ants.”

  “Really? Oh. Well, I’ll get Francis to call the exterminators in the morning. Greta, Alfred is travelling in a submarine.”

  “Francis is off tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, I’ll just have to get some ant traps myself then. Alfred here is travelling in his very own submarine. He has come to Mallorca to see the mountain goats.”

  Greta raised her head, took a closer look at me and smiled. “You must be very brave, Alfred.”

  “He is indeed,” said Doug. “I’ve got half a mind to join you tomorrow, Alfred. What do you say, could you stand a little company on your mountain trek?”

  “Ummm … I guess so.”

  “Splendid! We’ll have an adventure.”

  Greta smiled and lowered her head. “Don’t forget the ant traps, Dougie.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT.

  First, Doug decided he didn’t have a suitable pair of hiking boots, or any proper hiking equipment. When I suggested he just wear his sneakers, like me, he said, no, he might sprain an ankle. We went to see Greta, who was up early and running on a treadmill. She looked very fit. She advised that we carry adequate water and salt tablets, to avoid heat exhaustion. Don’t forget a first-aid kit too, she said. And don’t forget the ant traps.

  It was only a hike. But Doug concluded that we’d have to make a trip into the city first, to a hiking shop, where we could get properly outfitted. The drive would bring us closer to the trails into the hills anyway, he said. So, we climbed into his fancy jeep, buckled up and headed for the city.

  It was a nice drive. We sped through the countryside, which was very beautiful. There were little towns with old houses and churches, and monasteries on hilltops here and there, just like in books. Doug put on a baseball cap and sunglasses when we left the house, and gave me the same to wear, so that we would look just like any two Joes, he said. I put them on and smiled. I felt a little bit like a movie star.

  After an hour or so we reached the city, which looked pretty fancy, with beautiful old buildings and an enormous cathedral by the water. Doug pointed out lots of things, including a giant yacht in the harbour, which belonged to him. He said he would like to show me around the city some time. Hanging out with him like that made me forget that he was a famous person. The moment we stepped out of the jeep and entered the hiking shop … that all changed.

  You would have thought he was the king. When we entered the shop and he removed his hat and glasses, the shopkeepers flocked to us, asking how they could help. Doug told them what we were planning to do and what he thought we might need. In a flash they disappeared and reappeared with boxes and armloads of boots, backpacks, climbing rope, tents, sleeping bags, dried food, cooking utensils, gas stoves, and so on. One employee even carried over a small kayak. I couldn’t believe it. After an hour or so, we were both standing in brand new hiking clothes — boots, hats, watches … the whole shebang. We each had a new backpack filled with dried food, medical kits, anti-dehydration drinks, spare socks, and many, many things which I couldn’t ever imagine using. Doug insisted on buying pretty much everything they offered. We piled the stuff into the back of the jeep, waved goodbye to the admiring shopkeepers and drove away.

  “Whew!” said Doug. “All that shopping made me hungry. What do you say we stop for a bite to eat first? I know a nice little restaurant nearby.”

  It didn’t surprise me that the nice little restaurant was really fancy, nor that the waiters made a fuss over us, but I was concerned with the sign on the door that showed a picture of a dog crossed out.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Doug translated the sign. “Absolutely NO dogs allowed in the restaurant!” he said.

  “Oh. Well … maybe Hollie and I can wait …”

  “No, no, it doesn’t mean us,” said Doug.

  He was right. The waiters treated Hollie just like any other customer and even set a place for him at the table, although I insisted he stay on the floor. So they brought him a plate of sausages and finely cut meats and laid it down on the floor in front of him, with a napkin. Then one waiter opened a bottle of spring water, filled a bowl with it, set the bowl down on the floor beside the plate, and stood there and waited while Hollie ate.

  The breakfast was amazing. I ate way too much, and it made me sleepy (it was my bedtime anyway). The new clothes were making me a little itchy but I was almost too sleepy to scratch. I looked down at Hollie and saw that he was sleepy too. Then Doug insisted I try their coffee. So I did. After I put a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in the cup, the coffee tasted pretty good. And so I had another cup. Then another. I had no idea what I was in for. By the time we left the restaurant, I was ready to run circles around Hollie all the way up the mountain.

  It was almost noon when we parked the jeep at the top of a hill, where the road came to an end and a narrow trail disappeared into some dry bushes, rocks and trees. There was a loud, high-pitched sound in the air, like a soft siren, coming from the tops of trees and echoing everywhere. It was strangely pleasant. It made me think of the desert, though I didn’t know why, except that I really wanted to see the desert. Doug said it was the singing of tree frogs. Then, when we stepped out of the air-conditioned jeep, I realized for the first time — it was scorching hot! With our new itchy clothes, new boots and heavy packs, we were in for a tough hike.

  But it was a dry heat, which was not so bad, especially as our new wide-brimmed hats kept the sun off our faces. I wished I could have put a hat on Hollie, because he had no protection at all, although he cleverly walked in our shadows. Every time we stopped to drink our special anti-dehydration drinks, I gave him some water.

  But we didn’t see any goats. I kept looking for them and watching Hollie for any sign that he smelled them, but the trail was steep and the hike so much work for him he barely had a chance to sniff. I had read that you w
ould smell the goats before you would see them, and so I kept sniffing the air for them, but smelled only our new clothes.

  After a couple of hours of climbing we sat down to rest. Doug searched through his pack.

  “I didn’t remember how beautiful it was from up here. What’s this?” he said, as he pulled out a strange looking tool.

  It was shaped like a spoon with a lot of holes. I stared at it and tried to remember.

  “Ummm … maybe it’s a sieve? I’m not sure.”

  “Well … I suppose we should cook something. Here’s a nice looking soup.”

  We dug out the little gas stove, poured the soup contents into a pot and filled it with water. Doug checked his pockets.

  “Hey, Alfred, do you have any matches?”

  “No.”

  “Me either. Shoot!”

  It didn’t matter; there was no gas in the stove anyway.

  Three hours later, we reached the top. The view was absolutely amazing, but there were no goats. We were so tired we just flopped down and didn’t move for about fifteen minutes. Then, slowly, we raised our heads, drank more anti-dehydration liquid and licked at our dry soups. Hollie was sleeping. I figured I’d have to carry him down the mountain. I looked over at Doug, licking his soup and looking tired and kind of thoughtful.

  “Doug?”

  “Yah?”

  “Do you believe in Atlantis?”

  “Atlantis? Sure. Why not? I don’t think it’s a city under a bubble somewhere, like some people think. But there are lots of temples under water. I have seen some myself. There are cities under sand too, even whole pyramids. And I’ve seen ancient temples swallowed up by jungle in Central America. We shot some movies there.”

  “Cool.”

  “So … yes, I think it exists … somewhere. And you’re probably headed in the right direction.”