The Virtual Life of Fizzy Oceans

by David A. Ross

  “Bonjour Monsieur et Madmoiselle, et bienvenu abôrdé Calypso! Je m’appelle Philippe Cousteau. Mon pere, le commandant, il est maintenent dans son chambre, mais il voule nous joindre pour le dîner. Maintenent! Allouez-moi tu présenter Calypso, nos maison a la mere!”

  The unlikely couple that we make—Igloo Iceman standing nearly seven feet tall and having to crouch low as we pass from cabin to cabin; and me, Fizzy Oceans, petite yet a little clumsy, but ever effervescent and wearing my newly-bought sailor’s clothes, my funny little seagoing chapeau and espadrilles—we are escorted by the robust and personable son of the captain on a tour of the legendary vessel.

  “Calypso was originally a wooden-hulled boat built for the British Royal Navy by the Ballard Marine Railway Company of Seattle. She is made from Oregon pine,” Philippe details.

  “She was launched on 21 March, 1942, and commissioned into the Royal Navy in February 1943 as HMS J-826 and assigned to active service in the Mediterranean Sea, reclassified as BYMS-2026 in 1944, and finally laid up at Malta and struck from the Naval Register in 1947.

  “After World War II, she became a ferry between Malta and the island of Gozo, and was renamed Nymph Calypso, whose mythological reference is to the island of Ogygia.

  “In 1950, the Irish millionaire and former MP Thomas Loel Guinness bought Calypso and leased her to my father for a symbolic one franc a year. Mon pere restructured and transformed her into an expedition vessel and support base for diving, filming and oceanographic research.

  “Calypso carries advanced equipment, including mini submarines developed by my father, diving saucers, and underwater scooters. As you can see, the ship is also fitted with a see-through observation chamber three meters below the waterline.

  “On board Calypso, life is harsh. Night and day, calm seas or raging storm, the ship must be tended, cleaned, piloted, and maintained. From the hold to the helm, the crew works for the success of the expedition.”

  As Philippe Cousteau conducts us on a tour of the famous exploration ship, I am amazed at the complexity—and at the same time the Spartan simplicity—of the vessel. Meantime, Iggy is examining every nook and cranny of the boat, analyzing each technical detail so he might learn minutiae potentially crucial to his own future survival aboard his Ark. Calypso is certainly no cruise ship: that much is obvious as Philippe escorts us onto the bridge. There we are introduced to Didi, Captain Cousteau’s longtime friend and partner.

  “Bonjour, mes amis,” Didi greets us. “Beinvenu abôrdé Calypso.”

  “Merci, monsieur. Le plaisir est le nôtre.”

  “Whether it is le commandant at the helm, or another member of the crew,” Didi explains, “someone is always manning the bridge. For navigation purposes, we employ screen, radar, sonar and satellite systems—all within arm’s reach, as you can see. Each action taken by the navigator on duty is entered in the ship’s log. And just behind the bridge is the radio room. It is here that we maintain communication with land teams, as well as the rest of the world.”

  In its utilitarian way, the bridge is indeed impressive. Didi looks thoroughly at home piloting Calypso. During his many years as Captain Cousteau’s second-in-command, he has guided her over seas rough and tranquil, familiar and remote. We know we are in able hands with this master sailor at the helm.

  After visiting the bridge, our tour takes us to the ship’s living quarters. There the members of the crew can relax, Philippe explains. Besides sleeping and personal business, they might read or write letters to family or friends at home.

  “Of course meals are taken in the mess,” he relates, “but this area of the ship is also used for parties, or a simple game of chess, or watching a video. Not much free time is available to crewmembers, so the mess is the center of social activity during long, working sea voyages.”

  “How long do the various missions last?” Iggy asks Philippe.

  “That depends on the particular mission,” says our amiable guide, “but normally we are at sea for months at a time. Shore leaves are short, and then we are off to another part of the globe to explore the Face of the Deep.”

  “Doesn’t it get lonely out there for months on end?” I ask.

  “Calypso’s crew is a family unto itself,” says Philippe, his dedication to his father’s cause obvious in his voice. “This is not just a mission for those who work on board Calypso, it is a way of life—one that none would change or sacrifice for ease or comfort. We know our endeavor is not only original, but an essential one, too. So we endure the isolation and the long hours of hard work and take comfort in the company of our comrades.”

  “So,” says Iggy, “it appears that there is an explicit division of labor aboard Calypso…”

  “Mais oui!” says Philippe. “That is essential on board any ship. But le commandant has no need to maintain military discipline. That is not necessary on board Calypso, because each member of the crew is here not only by invitation from the captain himself, but also by his own choice. And because each member of the crew is unique, and considers it a privilege—as well as a social obligation—to serve aboard this ship, self-governance becomes an asset, not a liability. The captain maintains his command through respect for the unique abilities of individuals, and by fair and appropriate delegation of duties, not by peripheral power.”

  Philippe’s pride not only in his father, as captain, but in the greater mission of Calypso is obvious. With embroidered propriety, he escorts us into the diving locker, a small cubby-holed cabin located below the ship’s aft deck. Addressing Igloo Iceman, he describes the basic division of labor.

  “The crew of Calypso is divided into two distinct working units,” he relates. “While some attend to sailing the ship, others concentrate on the mission at hand. Undersea research and documentation are Calypso’s primary function, so dives must be meticulously planned, and film crews briefed and otherwise prepared.”

  As I look around the diving locker I see regulators, tanks, suits, belts, fins. A cylindrical recompression chamber is located in one corner of the cabin. And then there is the undersea vehicle designed by the captain and his longtime friend and engineer Émile Gagnan and produced to their specifications and under their personal supervision: the diving saucer Denise, which is capable of carrying two people for a maximum of four hours to three hundred and fifty meters below the surface.

  “Since 1972, the helicopter we call Félix allows our teams an opportunity for aerial photography,” says Philippe. “Sometimes it is also needed as a reconnaissance vehicle. It takes a skilled and experienced pilot to land Félix on the helipad on the aft deck, especially when the weather is bad.”

  Operations on board Calypso are indeed intricate and complex, I acknowledge. And like so many others, I had watched the documentary films created by the Cousteau Society with childlike awe and amazement, utterly enthralled by an exploration that revealed, for the first time, life as it is beneath the waves. I can hardly wait to meet the captain himself, the legendary Jacques Cousteau, so I enquire of Philippe when we might meet le commandant.

  “My father has invited you both—as well as several other guests that I know you will find engaging—for dinner at his table tonight. I hope you will consent to join him,” says Philippe as he escorts us to our quarters.

  “Of course we will join him for dinner,” I rsvp. “And give our thanks for his kind invitation. We look forward to meeting him and sharing a meal and conversation.”

  “Certainment,” Philippe promises as he takes his leave. “I will call for you at 2200 hours to take you to the captain’s cabin.”

  On deck, just outside our shared cabin, Igloo Iceman and I watch the Caribbean sunset. The soporific sky, awash in orange and pink, belies the imminent thunder of the smoldering volcano on St. Pierre, and for the time being, at least, the environment is benign, and our souls are at peace within this digitized representation of another world far less secure. At precisely 8:00 o’clock, the emulation of Philippe Cousteau calls for us, as promised
, and escorts us to the quarters of his father le commandant, Jacques-Ives Cousteau.

  Entering the captain’s cabin, we encounter eight other guests, as well as the emulation of Jacques Cousteau, already seated at a large, round wooden table. Besides Monsieur Dumas (Didi) and Monsieur Tailliez (another of the captain’s legendary friends and collaborators) and Émile Gagnan (Cousteau’s engineer and accomplice in his many inventions), Simone Cousteau, the explorer’s wife (married at age seventeen to the captain) of more than forty years is present. But to our greater surprise, seated there at the table are several of our most intimate VL friends: Omar Paquero, Ego Ectoplasm and his sidekick the Quinngen, Tooltech, Kizmet Aurora and Crystal Marbella!

  “Bienvenu, Monsieur et Madmoiselle,” says Captain Cousteau. “Venez, asseyez-vous, faites-vous confortable.”

  Crystal and Kiz regard Igloo and me with as much surprise as we feel at seeing them at this auspicious event. My eyes query Crystal concerning her presence, and she just shrugs her shoulders. Kiz, the least experienced seedling in the group, simply looks happy to see us. In contrast, Omar Paquero, Ego, and Tooltech look completely comfortable within this contrived environment.

  “I had no idea this was going to be a party for our little group of Virtual Lifers,” I say to all present.

  Captain Cousteau is smiling broadly and his blue eyes are twinkling. He is obviously quite proud of his VL acumen in assembling such an unlikely group for what could only be his own reasons. What those reasons might be, we are all certainly bound to find out, but for the moment we are kept in the dark as introductions are made.

  “I believe you have already met Monsieur Dumas,” says the captain. We nod at Didi, and he nods back in recognition. “And this is my good friend, Monsieur Tailliez.” Again, nods of welcome are exchanged. “My good friend and collaborator, Émile Gagnan.” The Frenchman salutes each of us in turn. “And may I also present my wife Simone, the real captain of Calypso.” Simone’s acknowledgment is indulgent at best. “I believe you know the others present,” says the captain.

  Captain Cousteau and his two friends, Dumas and Tailliez, cannot seem to stop grinning at the Quinngen as he picks his nose, but Simone Cousteau rolls her eyes, not so much in disdain or wonderment at the Quinngen species (for she has quite literally seen it all during her years with the captain) but puzzled about just what her husband might have in mind in assembling this unworldly group in the first place.

  “It’s been a long time, Ego,” I say as I remove my sailor’s cap.

  :) types Ego Ectoplasm.

  Meanwhile, Iggy is trying desperately to cram his large, Viking figure into the limited space available at the table. Finally he is settled, and Captain Cousteau offers wine and hors d’ouvres.

  Splendid!

  “No mystery why Didi, and Tailliez, and Gagnan, and Simone are present here tonight,” says Captain Cousteau, “but I’m sure the group from Virtual Life―”

  He pauses a moment, smiling, apparently realizing that he, too, is from VL, not to mention his friends and his wife.

  “Mais oui!” he laughs. “That is the platform here, n’est pas?”

  “One tends to forget,” I observe.

  “Pas question!” says the captain. “But we are here, together, and we have much to discuss.”

  Just what that might be, I cannot imagine.

  “You might think it curious that we have assembled the six of you here, as a group. Mais non! It is really no mystery at all. We on board Calypso, at least on board the Virtual Life version of Calypso, already know each of you quite well. And we not only know your emulations, we know who you are, and what you do, in PL too!”

  “Really?” says Kiz, quite surprised.

  “Oui, oui,” says the captain. “Your PL name is Cassandra Stephens, you live in Rough Rock, Arizona, and you are regarded by the Hopi Indians as something of a shaman.”

  Then Cousteau turns to Crystal: “Your PL name is Sonja Jörgensen, you live in Copenhagen, you write, and you work in a library part time.

  “Igloo Iceman’s PL identity is none other than the well respected Dr. Conrad Adler from the University of Colorado, though you spend most of your time above the arctic circle researching the effects of climate change.” Cousteau smiles and then observes, “We are also aware that Igloo Iceman is building an Ark. An auspicious undertaking, monsieur!”

  We are all astonished into silence, but that hardly matters, as Captain Cousteau is happy to maintain the conversation.

  “Our friend Omar Paquero from Anapu, Brazil is also known as Dorothy Stang, a member of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur, an international Catholic religious order that works for social justice and human rights on five continents. In Brazil, she works with the Pastoral Land Commission, the Catholic Church’s arm that fights for the rights of rural workers, peasants and defends land reforms.”

  “I always thought Omar was a ten-year-old kid from La Paz, Bolivia,” says Igloo.

  Captain Cousteau continues: “Crystal Marbella, with the able help of Fizzy Oceans, works in Virtual Life to maintain and preserve the world’s great literature.

  “And last but not least, Ego Ectoplasm (Artemis Quinn from Austin, Texas), has invented a brand new species. Congratulations on your vision and your accomplishment!”

  “Ha-ha, ho-ho!” cackles Tooltech. (Jeff Beck blues riff on his Les Paul Jr.)

  One might think, at the table of a lifelong seafaring man such a Captain Cousteau, that seafood would be the meal of choice, but that is decidedly not the case on this night aboard Calypso. Instead, a sumptuous vegetarian meal prepared from local recipes collected in Thailand, Madagascar, New Zealand and Libya is presented, and as always I consider it all-too-unfortunate that we are unable to actually taste the food. Nevertheless, Captain Cousteau keeps us utterly absorbed and thoroughly entertained with his ongoing monolog about his experiences exploring the sea and about encroaching environmental issues.

  “In the early days, when Émile and I first invented SCUBA (Are you aware of how the term was derived? The now common word ‘scuba’ is actually an anagram for self-contained underwater breathing apparatus), well…the sea was a true frontier. Nobody had explored its depths simply because the equipment to breathe underwater did not exist. But we wanted to dive deeper, to explore the ocean floor, to learn whatever we could learn, so we invented the device now known as the regulator. And our design remains unchanged to this day!

  “Invention is nothing more than a tool needed by an explorer that does not exist,” he advises. “So, if you need something, you make it.” His declaration seems as final as a judge’s gavel. He takes a long swallow of his wine and wipes his lips with his napkin. “A very agreeable vintage, n’est pas?” he comments to everyone and to no one. Nods of approval circle round the table, but it is obvious that Cousteau is no longer thinking about the Beaujolais; instead he is entrenched in the memory of an early dive undertaken with his friend Didi, and about how it had all gone so very wrong at a crucial moment, and about the greater issue of risk—personal risk and social risk—and when such risk is acceptable, and when it is not…

  “Didi and I were diving in a region where deep underwater caves and crevices descend hundreds of feet below the greater ocean floor. Stalactites had been photographed on earlier dives, so we wanted to actually penetrate the fissures for a closer look, because we knew that if we could gather geological samples from the stalactites, we could prove that this particular area of ocean floor had once been above the water.

  “Due to the extreme depth of the dive, every foreseeable risk was analyzed, and every possible precaution taken. You must understand that when you dive in open sea, all routes lead to the surface, but when you enter an underwater cave the only way out is to follow the path you took to go inside. So we fastened ourselves together with a stout lifeline, in much the same way mountain climbers do when ascending a dangerous peak. Two tugs on the line was the signal for those on board Calypso to feed us more rope; four tugs signaled t
hem to pull us out. We understood the risks, but we were accustomed to such risks, because risk is the business of an explorer. Senseless risk, or careless risk, is never acceptable. But we knew our capabilities and understood our limitations. Or so we thought…

  “Penetrating the crevice was an inspiring experience, but the deeper we descended, the darker it became. We used phosphorescent lighting to make our way through the caverns, all the while photographing like madmen. Suddenly, catastrophe struck: Didi’s air hose literally exploded from built-up pressure. He signaled to me, and I immediately came to his aid. Once I understood the problem, I began sharing my oxygen with him. We were already very deep, and we knew that we could not ascent too quickly for fear of getting the Bends. I tugged four times on the rope, the signal for those on board Calypso to pull us out. But instead of pulling us out, they fed us even more line.

  “Of course, the only way out of the caverns—with their many intersections and twisting divergent tunnels—was to follow the rope. Yet now the rope had gone slack, so backing out of the fissure became a slow and laborious process. Every few moments we had to pause to share oxygen from my breathing apparatus—time that I knew we did not really have because the oxygen in my tank was being depleted at twice the normal rate of consumption.

  “To make matters worse, Didi had apparently inhaled too much carbon dioxide before his hose had actually ruptured, so he was not only slow but barely coherent. I had to literally carry his all-but-inert body with me as we made our way painstakingly through the tunnels. At each level of ascent, we waited as our bodies adjusted to the pressure, and still far from the surface I realized that we did not have enough oxygen for both to make it to the surface.

  “Here is the essential dilemma,” defines Cousteau as he pauses for the sake of drama and flashes his crooked smile at his longtime friend and diving companion (who was obviously still alive): “What is one to do in the moment that he realizes that he can save himself if he is willing to sacrifice his friend, or that he can remain with his friend to help, in which case both will probably die?”