“Being an explorer was an adventurous lifestyle, but it was dangerous too and took men far from their homes and families for long periods of time,” explained Amanda.
With everyone at home so mad at me, the idea of sailing away on a ship sounded like a good plan. Maybe not for months or years, but a couple of weeks would be nice. By the time I got back Great Aunt Beatrix would have gone home, the broken china forgotten, and things back to normal. Just then I had an idea. “Are we going to learn anything about sunken ships?” I asked.
Amanda smiled at my question. “You’re jumping ahead of me, but as a matter of fact we are going to learn about a field of study that involves sunken ships. Can anyone tell me what archaeology is?”
Amanda’s question caught me by surprise, but my hand shot up. When it comes to archaeology I’m practically an expert. That’s because one of my best friends is an archaeologist. Her name is Dr. Edwina McKay, but I call her Eddy. I helped her with two professional investigations — the first involved digging up the remains of an ancient Coast Salish man in Crescent Beach where I live. And the second was rescuing a disturbed burial in the historic cemetery of Golden — it’s one of those old railway towns in northern B.C. On top of that I’m a regular subscriber to Dig magazine and I’m a member of the Crescent Beach Archaeological Society.
“Archaeology uses things people made, or the places they lived and worked, or even their bodily remains to learn about humankind’s past. These artifacts are often in the ground, so you have to dig them up — but not like you’re digging for treasure. It has to be done carefully — there’s a method to it.”
“That’s a great definition of archaeology,” said Amanda. “So do archaeologists only recover artifacts in the ground?”
“Most often, although artifacts might also be found in places like caves or old temples or even out in the open if the soil has eroded away.” I was thinking of where I lived again. In Crescent Beach, lots of people have found things that belonged to the early Coast Salish right on the surface, like arrowheads, hammerstones, and scrapers. It’s not surprising since they lived in the area for about five thousand years.
“So where do things like sunken ships fit in to your definition?” Amanda asked. I admit I didn’t know much about how sunken ships and archaeology went together. “Have you ever heard of underwater archaeology? It’s a branch of maritime archaeology.”
TB snickered. “Looks like Indiana Jones Junior still has a thing or two to learn,” he whispered. If I wasn’t so keen on listening to Amanda I might have planted a big red welt on the back of his neck as a souvenir of our field trip.
“So just how do you dig under water?” I asked, completely focused on this new idea. “Moving all that sand and soil would make it pretty cloudy and hard to see anything. And when you find artifacts — how do they get to the surface without damage? And what about properly recording the site?” I was glad when Amanda laughed, because I could tell that my teacher, Mrs. Sparrow, was about to hush me for asking so many questions.
“It’s nice to have a student who is so enthusiastic. And those are all good questions. For obvious reasons excavating a maritime site is quite different from those done on dry land. However, there are several aspects that are the same. Like the site would need to be surveyed and its position recorded, some kind of a grid set out to mark the area of study, and in some cases sediment would need to be moved — perhaps by a special vacuum system that filters out the water but catches any objects sucked up. And because it’s important to document and record as much information as possible, a good underwater camera and waterproof paper and pens come in handy.” Then Amanda looked at me and winked. “Of course the first thing an underwater archaeologist would need to know is how to scuba dive.”
By the time I got home that day I could tell the cat was out of the bag. Aunt Margaret was curt, Mom quiet, and Aunt Beatrix, who was drinking tea out of a mug, clicked her dentures resentfully the whole night until she went off to bed — my bed. But I didn’t care because I’d had a great day. Even sleeping on the sofa couldn’t spoil it. As I was dozing off I thought about what Amanda said about anyone serious about underwater archaeology would have to learn to dive. Tomorrow I’d pick Eddy’s brain and then afterwards I’d figure out how to get Mom to let me take scuba diving lessons.
Chapter Two
“If it’s underwater archaeology that you’re interested in you should meet my friend, Philip Hunter.” That’s what Eddy said when I called the day after the field trip to the Maritime Museum. Then just a few days after that we were walking down the halls of the archaeology department at Simon Fraser University to meet him. As we passed open doors I got goose bumps after catching glimpses of students and professors working. In one room someone was hovering over a tray of small broken pieces of pottery; in another a lady was holding an aged bone in one hand and comparing it to a similar one on a skeleton hanging on a pole.
When we came to a closed door I read the small name plate: Dr. Philip Hunter, Chairman, Underwater Archaeology Department. My body tingled as Eddy knocked.
“Hello, Edwina,” the white-bearded man said happily as he opened the door. “So good to see you. And this must be the young lady you were telling me about.” I quickly glanced around Dr. Hunter’s office where there were wall-to-wall bookshelves and a desk cluttered with stacks of papers, books, and artifacts. On one wall hung a painting of an old sailing ship and on the other an underwater photograph of a diver in clear green-blue water pointing to the decaying hull of a ship.
“Indeed it is, Philip. This is Peggy Henderson, my thirteen-year-old budding archaeologist and good friend. I thought you might be willing to fill us in on some of your recent work, Phil.” My face prickled with warmth so I knew I was blushing.
“You know me, Edwina. I never pass up a chance to talk about my work. And since my wife, Katherine, rarely lets me anymore I’m always looking for a new audience.” Eddy and her friend laughed. I didn’t get it.
“Your wife’s not interested in sunken ships or lost treasures? Is she nuts or something?” I blurted. The two adults snorted and chuckled some more.
“You have much to learn about relationships, young lady. One day you’ll be married and know what I mean,” he answered lightly. Right, like I would actually get tied down to someone not as interested in archaeology as I was.
Dr. Hunter soon began to tell us about his adventures exploring and excavating shipwrecks from all over the world. He helped to raise the Resurgam II, the first powered submarine, and a WWII merchant marine ship sunk by a U-boat in the Gulf of Mexico. But what was really interesting was hearing about the sixteenth-century British warship, the Mary Rose. He said it was the most famous shipwreck in the world. I wondered if he’d heard of the Titanic.
“Sunken ships are like time capsules to the past. But in the case of the Mary Rose — it was even more than that. It was a milestone in the field of maritime archaeology back in the 1980s. The most important things we know about underwater excavation and research we learned from excavating that ship. It was probably the most expensive project of its time, too.”
“What caused the Mary Rose to sink?” I asked him.
“That’s a good question. Some written records show the crew was especially unruly and hated one another so much that they refused to work cooperatively, perhaps even to the point of the ship’s sinking. So crew error may certainly have been part of the cause. Other theories include, she was overloaded after being fitted with extra cannons; an especially strong wind caught her in a turn; or a French cannon smashed her hull. The sinking of the Mary Rose is one of those events that we’ll likely never know for sure what the real cause was.”
He pointed to a large book on his shelf called The Mary Rose. “We did make some spectacular finds though. The cannons and shot gave us a good glimpse into eighteenth-century naval warfare, the eating utensils and food remains helped us to know a little of how they lived. And the navigational and medical instruments revealed
something of the technology of the day.”
“That’s interesting indeed. I imagine determining the cause of a shipwreck that occurred in past centuries must be very difficult,” Eddy added.
“That’s true, Edwina, though we do get lucky once in a while.” At that moment Dr. Hunter’s eyes began to twinkle.
“By the grin on your face I have the feeling you’re about to share one of those lucky cases.”
“I will if you think you can keep it to yourself.” Dr. Hunter looked long at me. “If this gets out to the media prematurely it could ruin everything. We don’t want a flock of treasure hunters getting in there and wrecking what could possibly be the most important shipwreck find in recent history. So if you’re good at keeping secrets, I have something extraordinary to tell you about.”
“I’m good at keeping my mouth shut,” I blurted excitedly. “I would keep your secret even if I was being tortured.”
Eddy snorted and nodded. “It’s true … even torture won’t make her talk when she puts her mind to it.”
“All right then, if you’re sure you won’t tell. Last week a fisherman was out past Tlatskwala, also known as Trust Island. It’s off the north coast of Vancouver Island near Port Hardy. His net got caught up on something and he called for a diver to come out and try to free it. The diver went down about fifty feet and discovered what the net was snagged on.” I didn’t realize it until that moment, but I’d stopped breathing and took a big gulp of air. “It was overgrown with barnacles and seaweed, but there was no mistaking it for a late eighteenth-century anchor. Once the diver freed the net he took it on his own initiative to look around. Though the water was murky, it didn’t take him too long to notice a few scattered objects, such as the cathead — the part of the ship where the anchor would have been secured, a pulley, and a broken mast.” My heartbeat raced as I slipped to the edge of my chair.
“So did he find the rest of the ship?” I asked, impatient to hear the next part of the story.
“Well, no. By then his oxygen tank was running low, so with that and a storm warning he decided to get back to the surface. Fortunately for us he called the department instead of the news stations,” Dr. Hunter said. Then he pointed to the painting of the old fashioned ship with three sails. “From historical records we know there was a ship like this one that sank in that area in 1812 and belonged to John Jacob Astor’s American Fur Company. It was called the Intrepid and it too was a three-mast bark. While we won’t know for sure until we go there and have a look for ourselves, there’s a very good possibility that it’s the Intrepid. And if it is, that will be a very big deal.”
When Dr. Hunter finished the room was silent. I couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say besides, “Wow.” Then Eddy broke the silence.
“So what’s next, Phil?”
“I’m putting together a team of underwater archaeologists who can join me on a preliminary investigation. We have to get in there as quick as possible and establish a presence before some rogue shipwreck treasure hunters. If they get a hold of this there’s no telling what damage they might do. Presuming this is the Intrepid we’ll want to time our announcement to the media just right. After that …” He chuckled. “I’m sure funding will come flooding in to pay for a full-on excavation. Amateur shipwreck divers love to support these kinds of investigations and in my line of business this is as good as winning the Lotto 649 Jackpot. Depending on her condition we may want to try and raise her from the ocean floor and bring her back for preservation.” He sat back, looking very pleased. “So now you know what we’re dealing with and why we need to keep this quiet.”
Dr. Hunter handed Eddy a large folder. “That’s a photocopy of the original journal kept by the captain of the ship — Captain James Whittaker.” She flipped through it and handed it to me. I held it in my hand like it was some kind of sacred holy book. I leafed through it, but it was hard to read the old-fashioned cursive writing with its fancy scratches and swirls.
“So how did the journal survive if the ship sank?” I asked.
“The ship sank slowly and that gave the captain time to make a final entry while his crew boarded the lifeboats. From it, we know there was barely enough room for the entire crew. This must be why the captain made the decision to stay with the ship. He gave his journal to his first mate to deliver to Astor in the event that they made it back to New York City alive — which obviously they did. And that’s why today we know so much about the Intrepid.”
“You said the captain stayed with the ship. Why did he do that?”
“Captain Whittaker was one of those rare breed of men for whom commitment, honour, and responsibility ran deep. It has long been the standard amongst seamen that the captain’s responsibility was to save the lives of the crew, the ship, and the cargo if possible.” I thought about the cruise ship Costa Concordia that struck huge rocks in the Mediterranean a few years back, which tore open the hull. In that case as soon as the ship started listing, Captain Schettino was one of the first to abandon ship. Sadly, many passengers were not able to get off and died. Clearly Schettino missed the memo about a captain being the last to leave a sinking ship.
“So if the captain couldn’t fit in the lifeboat why didn’t he at least try to swim to shore?”
“Like many sailors of that day, the captain couldn’t swim,” Dr. Hunter said. Now that was dumb. Fortunately my Mom insisted I learn to swim when I was a little kid.
“So when do you think you’ll go up to check her out?” asked Eddy. That was what I wanted to know too.
“Soon … very soon. We have already started getting the crew and equipment together. So the next thing is to do an assessment — for that we need to find the anchor, the ship, and its contents. We could be on our way in a few weeks. Care to join us, Dr. McKay?” Eddy smiled, but shook her head no.
“I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’ve got too much work to do, and then there’s my grandson’s sixth birthday party. I know someone else who’d be happy to go, though.” Eddy looked at me and my mind started jumping around like popcorn in a hot pot.
“Do you scuba dive, Peggy?” asked Dr. Hunter.
I was so eager that I jumped off the chair. “Well sir, I’ve already signed up for lessons and start tomorrow.” I hoped Eddy couldn’t see my neck and ears. Mom said they always turned red when I was making stuff up. But what harm was there in saying something when it was going to be true soon enough … that is right after I figured out how to get Mom to agree to letting me take lessons. “I’m sure I’ll have my Level 1 certification by the time we’re ready to go, sir — that is if I’m allowed to join you.”
“And your parents, what would they say about you going off to search for a sunken ship?”
“Well, I don’t have a dad. He died a long time ago.” Before Dr. Hunter had time to say he felt sorry for me, I added: “That’s okay, I’m used to it. And my mom, well she loves stuff like this, right Eddy?” Now if I had to share what Aunt Margaret would think, I’d be sunk like the Intrepid. Dr. Hunter was quiet and rubbed his chin — I think he was trying to decide if taking a kid was such a good idea. I needed to sweeten the deal. “If it will help — I’ll swab the deck, furl the sails, and even act as shark bait if I have to.” The corner of his eyes wrinkled and he laughed softly.
“Shark bait, eh? That could be handy.” I hoped he knew I was kidding. “Well, let’s see, shall we? One thing is for sure, you’ll need that diving certificate. And you better get some practice diving in open water. It’s no good to us if all you know how to do is scuba dive in a pool.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” If I could I would have done a back flip and squealed like a piglet. Instead I saluted him.
“Dr. McKay, you’d better be right about this young lady … I haven’t made anyone walk the plank for some time, but I’m not above it should there be a need.”
The drive home was agonizing. All I wanted to do was jump and dance and yelp, but instead I was strapped into the car seat. I mean how luc
ky could I be? Me, Peggy Henderson, sailing off on an adventure to find a two-hundred-year-old sunken ship. Wait until TB hears about this! Indiana Jones Junior is moving up the ladder … or should I say down the ladder? The first thing I had to do was get Mom to let me take scuba diving lessons.
I had hoped everyone would be in a good mood when I got home. Instead Aunt Margaret was fuming — again, Uncle Steward was hiding out in the TV room, and Aunt Beatrix was madly polishing the silverware. I soon found out Mom had to stay late at work and I would have to survive Friday evening the best I could without her.
“Homework, on a Friday evening? My, that’s ambitious of you. Are you sure you don’t have time to watch Reach for the Top with me? It’s very educational,” urged Aunt Beatrix.
“Sounds good,” I lied. “But I’ve got some stuff I’ve got to do.” Doing homework was my excuse for finding a quiet place where I could start cooking up my plan for getting Mom to first agree to let me have diving lessons and then to go with Dr. Hunter to search for the Intrepid.
It was after ten o’clock when I finally got to crawl into my sleeping bag on the living room sofa with the books Dr. Hunter had loaned me. The Great West Coast Fur Trade was a book about Captain James Cook, the first explorer to set foot on what is now British Columbia in 1778. He traded trinkets, beads, knives, blankets, and other stuff for otter furs with the coastal First Nations. Then he sailed to China where he was able to sell the furs for other stuff. That was the beginning of the Pacific fur trade, which went until the 1830s.
The other book I dug into was Nautical and Underwater Archaeology for the Beginner. I learned that nautical archaeology was concerned with all the things to do with trade routes, navigational techniques, harbours, boats, fishing equipment, and stuff like that, while underwater archaeology was mostly sunken sites, like shipwrecks.
I was starting to get sleepy and my eyes wanted to close, but I just couldn’t go to sleep without at least reading the first few pages of Captain Whittaker’s journal. His chicken-scratch handwriting was hard to decipher, but I soon got used to the style.
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