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

by Daniel Lenihan

  Places like the Aleutians that stay preserved in remote splendor, these outdoor museums of our past conflicts, are precious—not just because they keep for posterity dramatic residues of old killing fields but because they provide a context for viewing them that compels reflection and offers perspective.

  Back on board Safeguard, Larry and I resumed the chill-inspired, hands-in-pockets, hunched-over position on the fantail. We discussed with Susan Morton and Mike Boylan our project goals and accomplishments. Mike, manager of this area for the Fish and Wildlife Service, had a “what’d I tell ya” look on his face. He knew we were overwhelmed with the scenic splendor and archeological richness of his island domain.

  We had used up all of our ship time on Kiska and didn’t have a chance to touch Attu. Perhaps the Navy could be persuaded to help us again. A slow deep rumble began in the bowels of Safeguard as the engines warmed up for our imminent departure. I looked back to where we had been last standing on shore, and that haughty old eagle still had his back to us.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE MICRONESIAN SWEEP

  While many in America in 1992 were celebrating the five hundredth anniversary of Columbus’s first voyage to America, the SCRU team was engaging in what we knew would be our last voyage to Micronesia, at least for a long time.

  Accepting the assignment had been a difficult choice for me. Recent increases in the Park Service research budget, coupled with availability of technologies perfected during the Gulf War, made it feasible for us to develop the survey system that we had dreamt of for so long—a system that would enable us to carry through on the “We shall return” oath Larry Murphy and I had sworn eighteen years earlier in the Tortugas. But, as often happens with opportunities, they come in bunches. We simultaneously had an offer to work in Micronesia that was hard to resist. Funding came available in the National Register programs, run by the Park Service, to conduct training of historic preservation officers in the former trust territories of the Pacific. When we asked about priorities, training in underwater preservation was identified at the top of their list.

  What made this so compelling was the implication this held for submerged-sites preservation in such a huge and important marine environment. The fact that local preservation officials saw the training as a priority was extremely promising. The notoriety of SCRU had also been increasing in the Pacific. We had been getting extensive coverage in documentary films at the time, both on major network and PBS channels, including work we had conducted at Pearl Harbor, Palau, and Bikini. Hence, our credibility was especially high, which increased the potential for having a constructive influence in these developing island nations.

  We had a chance of actually winning here, of getting ahead of the preservation power curve, not having to go in and reeducate people to basic principles of caring for heritage underwater. But if we did it at all, we’d have to throw everything we had at it. If our prior efforts in the far Pacific told us anything, it was, don’t go half-committed.

  Larry, in particular, was concerned about taking energy from the survey system design. So, I let him present the pros and cons in our team strategy meeting.

  “The Pacific eats us up every time,” Larry said. “Lord, it’s tempting but . . . I don’t know. We’ve got to get rolling on the GIS [Geographic Information Systems] package and the GPS [Global Positioning Systems] base station . . . damn, maybe I should stay.”

  “The problem with you staying here, Larry, is those folks put a lot of stock in personal trust. You’ve got a lot of currency out there because you’re you. They asked for us by name, compadre, they believe in people, not programs and agencies.”

  We had lost Toni Carrell to the private sector and Jerry Livingston to retirement, but Jim Bradford had experience in Micronesia and Larry Nordby had been on both of our operations in Bikini. Murphy, like me, had eleven years of establishing himself in that corner of the planet, and he had a charisma that Micronesians were as susceptible to as anyone else. Because much of our objective was to solidify an ethic along with the skills, Larry Murphy would be sorely missed if left behind. Larry knew that who you were, in Micronesia, stood for a great deal. Your history there was your reputation and your reputation was everything.

  I decided to end Murphy’s agonizing. I had a trump card that I decided it was time to play. During the meeting I had become convinced myself that we should do the mission and I knew how to remove the doubt in Larry’s mind.

  “The Federated States of Micronesia [FSM] has a new historic preservation officer now who is over the officers from all the individual states.”

  “Really, who’s that?”

  “Teddy John.”

  Murphy sighed resignedly. “Game, set, match. Let’s start planning.” The way things work in FSM, as in many developing traditional societies, is that seniority is very important. A person who has both competence and personal presence, in addition to seniority, can be tremendously influential. Larry knew Teddy had all of these, and he was as well a staunch preservationist. The ex-baggage handler for Air Micronesia had come a long way since our 1981 work in Kosrae. He had written us every year or two about exciting new sites he was finding in the islands, ending each letter with the question, “When are you coming back?” Money and the press of obligations in the parks is all that held us back, and one of those problems had just evaporated.

  The next day we had him on the phone to sketch out our operation. I would stop in Guam to handle some affairs with War in the Pacific National Historical Park. The rest would head to Chuuk to help with some specific preservation issues, then we would all meet in Pohnpei to start the training. After that, we would head to Kosrae, Majuro, and Hawaii. Then, Jim Bradford, John Brooks, and I would split for American Samoa while Larry Murphy and Larry Nordby headed back to Santa Fe. We figured the whole operation would take three months. I could probably get Larry Murphy back in a little over two; the rest were in for a long ride. Barb and I decided to foot the bill for taking the family on the whole trip.

  To understand the very complicated sociopolitical world we were about to enter, it may be helpful to consider the following: The islands comprising the geographical entity known as Micronesia were almost all trust territories of some European entity at one point. But by the beginning of World War II, the possession of most of these islands had shifted to Japan. The typical sequence of outside influences for Micronesia followed this pattern: whalers, then missionaries, then copra trade, then foreign occupation. After World War II, most islands came under U.S. jurisdiction as Trust Territories until 1980. At that time, most entered various forms of free association with America. Some, such as Kosrae, Pohnpei (formerly Ponape), Chuuk (formerly Truk), and Yap, formed the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM). Others, such as Belau (formerly Palau) and the Marshalls opted to become republics. Although submerged cultural resources exist from all periods, certain historical themes including prehistory, whaling, and World War II have left the most compelling underwater archeology.

  Pohnpei: Ancient Temples in Nan Madol

  Somehow our boat operator managed to keep his cigarette lit through the salty spray pulsing over the bow. The sleek, open skiff slapped its way over choppy water as we coursed south along the inside of the fringing reef. We turned sharply through a break in the living wall of coral and precariously negotiated huge rollers that were ending their own journey through thousands of miles of open Pacific. Here, the boatman must skillfully slide over the large waves at an angle, then jog, to avoid a painful impact at the bottom of each trough.

  This was a moderate sea for the east side of Pohnpei in June. Our excursion outside the reef was necessary if we wished to reach the ancient city of Nan Madol during low tide. Our driver slowed almost to a stop regularly to check on three other craft in our little flotilla. We could only see our companions if we happened to crest waves simultaneously. If one of the small craft lost power, it would only be a matter of time before the occupants were washed over the reef back toward the isla
nd—like so much cheese over a grater. Because of that danger, each boat had two outboards; a “buddy system” was used for additional backup.

  Nan Madol is one of the special places on this planet. Built about a thousand years ago, intricate structures fashioned from large basaltic columns have intrigued many a visitor to the Eastern Carolines. Much in the fashion of Egyptian pyramids, the method employed in their construction eludes, equally, modern Micronesians and experts from abroad. Where were the five-to fifteen-ton elongated building blocks of basalt quarried? How were they transported and arranged in such tight, artful architectural arrangements?

  Wedged between a pile of life vests and bags of dive gear to avoid pounding my vertebrae into mush, I could see the walls of the temple complex take form in the distance. At least we assume a “temple” or ceremonial function for Nan Madol, since it’s hard to imagine a creation like this would have only a secular purpose.

  We rode the surf through the fringing reef toward a stadium-size area of shallows built of coral rubble to accommodate the placement of buildings. Now the ancient ruins have a tangible air of mystery. Their remote location has kept the worst impacts of modern intrusion from disturbing the site. Even the Japanese occupation and military buildup leading up to World War II had comparatively little effect on this part of the island.

  “Cheated death again, Thomas,” I yelled over the engine roar to our boatman. He smiled, said nothing, but began to relax. He still straddled the tillers of two outboards he had deftly worked in synch throughout the trip. Torn T-shirt flapping in the wind, baseball hat slightly askew on his head, and still puffing through a mentholated coffin nail—our boatman was the very model of a modern Micronesian workingman. He seemed somehow a refreshing contrast to his jogging, assets-leveraging, fiber-eating American counterparts.

  Quantity had not yet superseded quality as the major objective in life management here; in Micronesia people still expected to die someday. Neither were the Japanese burdened with absorption in self-preservation when they fortified these islands for the impending confrontation with the allies in the 1940s. A long life without the prospect of honor and glory held little attraction.

  Our boat speed and heart rates slowed perceptibly as we entered calm water and came into full view of the ruins. Much of the suffocating tangle of mangroves had been cleared, leaving the intricate faces of the basalt walls to capture any wandering gazes or temporary flights of imagination. When you are fully confronted with Nan Madol, it is hard to think of anything else.

  Our boats deftly rode remnant waves from outside the reef, now reduced to two-foot swells, through an entrance in the ancient sea wall. It was quiet in the tiny boat harbor, the air still and immediately hot.

  The occupants of the boats disembarked in waist-deep water to stretch and partake of a newly appreciated luxury: sipping water from plastic jugs without fear of a sudden jolt knocking their teeth out. I look about me at my companions; most were dark-skinned natives of Pohnpei or other islands in Micronesia. In contrast, the blond shocks of hair of my two children bounced energetically among the rest of the group, as we slowly gathered ourselves to begin our explorations. The children soon scurried off to look for papaya, while the Park Service dive team and the Micronesians we recently trained to use scuba began to assemble tanks and underwater mapping and recording gear.

  I smiled to myself at the appearance of the Park Service divers, a grizzled looking group of men with many expeditions under their belts. It intrigues me that this contingent of ranger/archeologists hailing from the high desert country of New Mexico, several of whom originally plied their trade of discovering the past in the American Southwest, had taken so well to the demands of underwater archeology.

  The drab green Park Service coveralls they wore on the surface and underwater, Aussie hats, and other improvised headgear selected for protection from the tropical sun gave the team a quasi-military appearance. I had come to know these men well over the preceding fifteen years and felt extremely fortunate they had chosen to follow this path. I would be lost without them.

  The objective of the day’s dive operation was to examine several submarine features reported just seaward of the entrance channel. They had been variously described to us as basaltic columns placed upright, possibly indicating some form of ancient engineering, and by more skeptical observers, as coral features of unknown origin. One nationally broadcast television documentary we had seen before departing Santa Fe referred to them, without qualification, as manmade. The narrator also mentioned that an underwater tunnel of ancient construction had been discovered nearby.

  If the columns were purposely placed basalt, it would indeed amount to an extraordinary feat of underwater engineering for any civilization a thousand years ago, let alone one in the sparsely populated islands of the Pacific. Having the legend conclusively confirmed or debunked by native preservation officers would be a symbolically important accomplishment, regardless of the outcome.

  Treasure hunters and antiquarians often mystified the marine archeological process to people in developing nations, making it appear as if their sophisticated knowhow and technology were necessary to working on underwater sites. If, as part of their diving certification checkout dives, this group could solve an ancient riddle about their origins, it would be a great boost to their morale and confidence.

  Still, the group presented some challenges we didn’t usually have to deal with in training divers. One was simply linguistic. It is necessary to understand certain concepts of physics and physiology to dive safely, particularly at the depths demanded to accomplish preservation tasks in these islands. Intelligence of the trainees wasn’t the problem, it was conveying the nuances of some fairly complicated physiological processes to students who spoke English as a second language. I could imagine trying to learn some of these concepts in my stumbling French; it wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

  In addition, there were other cultural issues besides language that made the training more challenging, particularly the islanders’ dependence on betel nuts. Some natives of FSM are rarely seen without a frond pouch in their hands or belly pack that contains betel nut. When chewed with powdered lime rock and mashed-up cigarettes, it provides a buzz that “gives us energy for the day.”

  It is similar in ways to the American analogue of a farmer with a mouth full of Red Man, but the effect is considerably stronger and more immediate. It is this betel nut that also gives many Micronesians the appearance that they have been chewing gum mixed with cordovan shoe polish. Some say the betel-nut mash is bad for the teeth; others contend that it prevents cavities.

  Whatever the truth in that regard, the fact that it altered the diver’s mental acuity in some way was not met with enthusiasm by us diving instructors. Then, there was the problem of choking on the stuff underwater, not to mention the aesthetic issue of having to buddy breathe or share regulator mouthpieces with a chewer. The fact that these men had a sense of humor about as irreverent and twisted as ours provided the basis for development of an interesting cat-and-mouse game, which involved the NPS instructors forbidding use of the substance and the islanders playfully hiding a chaw in their mouths.

  I watched during one underwater exercise as Larry Nordby signaled a trainee to approach him. The heavyset black man moved cautiously up to Larry Nordby and returned an okay signal. Larry then leaned forward and gently prodded his ward’s cheek with his forefinger. To the great delight of the others, a brown cloud emerged reminiscent of an octopus squirting a protective cloud of ink. Larry shook his head, signaled him to spit out the nut, and continued with the lesson.

  But the training had progressed well. Betel nuts aside, these men knew the stakes were high and worked hard to overcome any language barriers. The significance of this training was that these individuals all had serious responsibilities for protecting the heritage of their respective islands. After finishing their training here, they would be on to Kosrae, where we would run them through intense drills in the mapping of s
hipwreck sites.

  Swimming out the entrance channel through the sea wall involved a fancy bit of maneuvering this day. The same moderate surge that forced the boats to surf into the protected harbor was still washing through the shallow channel. Whichever hand wasn’t committed to grasping equipment was devoted to holding onto the bottom while the surf rolled overhead. One had to kick strongly with the outwash to make several yards’ progress, an operation made trickier by plentiful stands of fire coral that delivered painful penalties for any miscalculations in underwater navigation.

  Within a few minutes we cleared the shallow entrance and were in deep water. We regrouped to ensure no one was too banged up or heavily chastised by the fire coral, then headed off to execute our dive plan. Before long, we were staring back toward the entrance from a sloping bottom about fifty feet deep. Directly in front of us were the much-discussed pillars. Two seemed to align with the entrance channel, where they stood in stark contrast to the sand-and-silt bottom from which they emerged. My usual cynicism about ancient underwater engineering feats was admittedly shaken in the presence of the columns.

  Larry Nordby led a team, hammer and probe in hand, to core one of the columns while John Brooks, our team photographer, and I headed for the other. John swam ahead of me, camera in hand, positioning his strobe for a forelit silhouette shot. Hands full, he motioned with his chin for me to pose on the column for scale. I moved in close and shined my light in a way I hoped would look pleasing in a lecture slide while he flashed away. As I repositioned myself for another shot, I noticed that there was a place in the lettuce-leaf-like coral growth on the column through which I could insert my dive light.