The Drift

by Chris Thrall

  “You’ve certainly got your hands full. I’m Hans, and this is my daughter, Jess.”

  “Hello, Jess. How are you enjoying Plymouth?” Ben crouched down to meet her at eye level.

  “We went up a lighthouse, and Papa bought a boat!”

  “Wow! That sounds like fun. Americans? Canadi—?”

  “Americans, from Maine,” said Hans.

  “Brilliant. You’ll love this trip.”

  “You’ve done it before?”

  “Just a few times. But I never get bored. Problem is, when the boat’s full of foreign students the skipper skips the commentary – excuse the pun.”

  “Why’s that?” Hans frowned, looking over to the wheelhouse to see the captain with his back to them.

  “He figures they don’t understand English and they’re not interested anyway. But don’t worry. I know the spiel off by heart.”

  The engine clanked into life, coughing out a cloud of sooty black smoke, the deck vibrating as the boat chugged away from the dock. In his element, Hans sucked in the salty air, the smell of rust, grease and diesel fumes reminiscent of his time in the navy. They passed a group of wetsuited teenagers taking it in turns to jump from high up on the cliff.

  “Tombstoning,” said Ben. “A bit of a touchy subject in Plymouth.”

  “Right,” said Hans, picturing the health and safety cats having a field day.

  Drake’s Island came into view on the port side, the Hoe above them to starboard. Fifty or so ultralight dinghies skimmed across the sound, racing between two orange buoys half a mile apart, their two-person crews leaning far back over the water and working the tiny triangular sails to harness every knot from the wind. Sluggish in comparison, yachts departing the marina cut across the busy course, but despite the illusion created at sea level, there was little danger of collision.

  “When Sir Francis Chichester became the first person to sail around the world single-handed, over a million people packed the waterfront to welcome him home,” said Ben.

  “Another Sir Francis.” Hans laughed and stroked Jessica’s cheek.

  “You know about Sir Francis Drake, Jess?” Ben crouched down again.

  “Hmm! He had a big ship, and he sailed to the jungle, and it was bigger than Future.”

  “Future?”

  “Our yacht,” said Hans.

  “Wow, you’re a clever girl. You must know everything!”

  Jessica squeezed her shoulder blades and gave her trademark toothy grin.

  “Something tells me you’re a military man, Hans,” Ben continued.

  “I did a bit of time.”

  “Well, right in there” – Ben pointed to a long concrete wharf lined with used tractor tires – “is Millbay Docks. You know the Normandy landings?”

  “Of course.”

  “General Bradley and the First US Army embarked here for the assaults on Omaha and Utah Beaches.”

  Hans let his jaw drop in a gesture of gratitude. So many Americans would love to be here seeing this. He found himself thinking of his late grandfather, who fought in the Far East Campaign.

  “Ben, I can’t thank you enough.”

  He shook hands again.

  “My pleasure, Hans. I’ve traveled quite a bit, and all the Americans I’ve met have been humble and generous . . . Nearly all of them!” Ben chuckled.

  “We get a bad press, huh?”

  “Not with me you don’t. Besides, us Brits can’t say too much.”

  “Right.” Hans nodded thoughtfully.

  “Many of the survivors from the Titanic disaster disembarked at Millbay. And Charles Darwin left here in 1831 on the Beagle for his research in the Galápagos Islands.”

  “And Plymouth thinks tombstoning is touchy subject!” Hans chuckled.

  “Nothing like the theory of evolution to put a biscuit in the breadbin.” Ben smiled.

  “You can say that again.”

  “James Cook – he sailed from here on HMS Endeavour in 1768, the first European to reach Australia. And you’ve heard of the Mutiny on the Bounty.”

  “Admiral Bligh?”

  “That’s him. Departed Plymouth to reach Tahiti, but the Bounty’s crew set him and eighteen of his loyal followers adrift in a rowing boat.”

  Hans shuddered.

  “But Bligh was a nautical genius, made it thousands of miles to the Dutch East Indies in only forty-seven days. He returned to Britain” – Ben glanced at Jessica and lowered his voice – “to see the surviving mutineers hanged.”

  “British seafarers. I’ve read all about them. They’re something else.”

  “On the subject of” – Ben broke into a whisper again – “hanging. You see the long building over there?”

  “The old stone one?”

  “It’s the rope house in the dockyard. They still make ships’ rigging there today.”

  “Amazing.”

  “But it’s also where they used to string people up.”

  “Oh.”

  “The gallows still stand. You can request a visit.”

  “That’s irony for you!”

  “Yeah.”

  The dockyard fascinated Hans. He appreciated the way Ben explained everything to Jessica in terms she could understand.

  “See that submarine there, Jess? The one that’s falling apart?”

  “Uh-huh.” She eyed the rusting black hulk.

  “It’s a special one. Uses a dangerous fuel called nuclear energy.”

  “Does it go under the water?”

  “Not anymore. It has to stay here for years and years until the fuel inside it cools down.”

  “Amazing when you think they used to dump them at sea,” said Hans.

  “I reckon some countries still do.” Ben gave a suggestive shrug.

  “I think you’re right.”

  Walking back to the marina, Hans and Jessica came across a man standing on a street corner with a Jack Russell perched on his shoulders.

  “Look, Papa!”

  As Jessica ran over, the man bent down so she could stroke his dog.

  “Big Issue, sir?” He looked up at Hans.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Newspaper, sir. Sold by us homeless. Helps put food in Lucky’s bowel. Kna what I mean? S’only two quid, sir!”

  “What’s a squid?” Jessica asked, getting as much attention from Lucky as she was giving him.

  “It’s a pound, my darlin’. Like what you guys call a dollar.”

  “Oh, Daddy, pleeeease!”

  “Okay, honey. Do you wanna pay out of your allowance?”

  “Yeeeeah!” Her smile closed the deal.

  Hans swapped a ten-pound note for a copy of the Big Issue, signaling with a wink to keep the change.

  “Aw, thanks, guv! Thank you, princess.”

  “Bye-bye, little doggy.” Jessica gave Lucky a farewell pet.

  Walking away, she turned every few seconds to wave at the man and his dog. The man waved back and grinned.

  “He’s a nice man, Papa.”

  “Yes, sweet pea. He is.”

  That evening, Hans, Jessica and Penny sat down to eat in a swanky Mexican restaurant on the Barbican, enjoying chicken and beef tacos topped with guacamole, salsa and jalapenos to the sound of “La Cucaracha” and other culturally themed instrumentals playing softly in the background. After the meal they walked into the city to see The Pirates of Penzance playing at Plymouth’s modest theater.

  Hans’ late wife, Kerry, had introduced him to opera back in Portland.

  “Ha!” the former navy man initially scoffed. “Guys in pantyhose?”

  “That’s ballet, honey,” Kerry replied, raising an eyebrow and dragging him out of the house to go and witness Carmen’s demise.

  During the first act he chuckled to himself, thinking, What precocious nonsense! In the second he started to make the connections. By the final act he sat in awe, captivated by the immense range of the performers, the imagery conjured up and the sensuous combination of libretto, score and son
g.

  Now, watching Gilbert and Sullivan’s comedy of errors, set in the adjacent county of Cornwall, Hans smiled as the girls fell spellbound to the opera’s magical allure. Ever attentive, Penny made sure Jessica understood the unfolding farce.

  Her discreet giggles indicated she did.

  - 11 -

  “Daily routine, runner bean!”

  Hans geed up his daughter for their early-morning exercise, and, having downed a glass of water each, they set off for a jog around the Barbican’s cobbled streets, pausing for push-ups and sit-ups on the way.

  Upon their return, Penny suggested they take Future for a run and check out an interesting dive site. Hans and Jessica filled their air cylinders using the yacht’s compressor, and following a breakfast of bacon rolls – “butties,” as Penny called them – coffee and juice, they slipped moorings and cruised into Plymouth Sound.

  As they passed Drake’s Island and the ominous breakwater loomed in the distance, a huge white ship resplendent in blue-and-orange striping bore down astern, a plume of oily black diesel fumes spewing horizontally from its funnel before drifting upwards into a faultless blue sky.

  “Brittany Ferries,” Penny shouted above the thunderous noise, Hans tacking sharply to port to avoid a collision. “On its way to Roscoff in France – close to where we’re heading next week.”

  “Well, don’t they have it easy!” Hans joked. “Perhaps we’re making it difficult for ourselves.”

  The captain of the impressive vessel gave two prolonged and deafening blasts of the horn, indicating he was passing to starboard. From the upper deck, excited passengers gave friendly waves and were delighted when the yacht’s crew returned them.

  Sailing around the headland, Penny kept her eye on the screen of Future’s sophisticated sonar, looking for signs of the shipwreck and briefing Hans and Jessica on the vessel’s past as she did.

  Built in the United States in 1944, the SS James Eagan Layne carried cargo between the UK and Europe as part of the war effort. A German U-boat torpedoed the liberty ship off the coast of Plymouth only three months into her service. Amazingly, there were no casualties, and the Layne’s forlorn skeleton was now one of Britain’s most popular dive sites.

  Hans felt a wave of excitement wash over him – and not just as a scuba diver and former naval rating. This was Anglo-American history, and to witness it firsthand was an experience he only ever dreamt about back in Portland. He felt indebted to Penny for her thoughtfulness.

  Locating the Layne wasn’t difficult. A dive boat had arrived before them, dropping buoyed shot lines on the wreck’s bow and stern to act as guides for the divers. Hans furled in the mainsail, and Penny fired up the motor to prevent Future drifting from the spot and onto the rocky shore. As a safety precaution, Penny wouldn’t drop anchor, in case the current carried Hans and Jessica away from the site during their dive or an emergency arose.

  “Hello, skipper!” Hans shouted across to the dive boat. “Do you mind if we descend on your line?”

  “Fill your boots, me ’andsome,” the captain replied as he handed out steaming-hot drinks to his dripping-wet divers. “Tide’s slack at the minute and vis is good. So make the most of it.”

  True to his Scandinavian roots, Hans dived in a compressed-neoprene dry suit made by the Waterproof Company of Sweden. Designed for subzero polar temperatures and worn over a quilted undergarment, the durable black coverall would keep him warm and dry. Jessica wore her tried and tested wetsuit, not a problem even this early in the year because she never complained of the cold.

  “Okay, sweet pea, remember the checklist?” Hans asked as Jessica rubbed spit on her mask to prevent the lens from fogging.

  “Bangkok Women Really Are Fellas!” she replied, second nature, unaware of the joke behind the mnemonic.

  Penny shot a look at Hans and suppressed a giggle.

  “Go for it then,” he urged.

  “Buoyancy.” Jessica pressed the inflation and deflation buttons on Hans’ vest, waiting for a reassuring hiss of air before continuing. “Weights.” She checked Hans had his belt done up with a right-handed opening in case he needed to ditch his lead in an emergency. “Releases.” She patted the buckles on his equipment to indicate she knew how to undo them in a tricky situation. “Air.” She made sure it flowed freely from Hans’ mouthpiece and the “octopus” spare and tasted fresh and not contaminated. Then she read his pressure gauge – 250 bar, plenty enough for a standard sports dive. “Final check.” She gave him a determined once-over, making sure his hoses were connected and routed properly and his mask and fins were at hand.

  “Anything else, buddy?” Hans narrowed his eyes. “Like a knnn—”

  “Knife!” she replied with a self-satisfied grin.

  “Well done, honey.”

  Hans tapped the stainless-steel knife’s plastic scabbard strapped to his chest band. Unlike the majority of divers, who attach a knife to their calf – the “Jacques Cousteaus,” as one of Hans’ military instructors used to mock – he knew to keep his close at hand in case he became entangled in a fishing net or kelp and was unable to reach his lower leg.

  Having reciprocated the safety check, Hans conducted a dive brief. “Okay, Jess. We’ll descend on the stern and it’s at a depth of . . .” He looked to Penny.

  “Twenty meters.”

  “Take it steady going down the line, control your buoyancy and remember to clear your ears. If you get a problem, give me the sign.” Hans fluttered his hand palm downwards in a seesaw motion. “Then we’re gonna do mask-clearing and buddy-breathing skills. Happy with that?”

  “I’m happy.”

  “Then we’ll fin along the ship to the prow – that’s the front end, right?”

  Jessica nodded. “How deep, Penny?”

  Her father always reiterated the importance of finishing a dive in shallow water if possible to extend the no-decompression time and reduce air intake, increasing the safety margin should any last-minute issues occur.

  “About twelve meters, Jessie,” Penny replied.

  “If you see anything interesting, give me the photo sign.” Hans flexed his forefinger and patted a pocket on his buoyancy vest containing a neat underwater camera bought on vacation in Hawaii. “What marine life can we expect to see, Penny?”

  “Good question. Probably a sea monster or two.” Her eyes widened. “But don’t worry, Jess. They only eat boys.”

  Jessica pursed her lips and screwed her eyelids, making the adults laugh.

  “Seriously, on a good dive with vis like today you can find a lot. Check out the white anemones along the hull – they’re pretty weird. You’ll probably see ling and pollack, which look a bit like cod. They’ll be hiding in the ship’s compartments. You might come across a few crabs or a lobster, and if you’re really lucky a huge conger!”

  “What’s a conger, Penny?”

  “It’s a very long eel, Jessie. About this big.” She spread her hands right out. “But they’re extremely shy and won’t come near you.”

  “Then we put up the safety sausage.” Hans waved the bright-orange marker buoy rolled up and clipped to an aluminum D-ring on his vest. When inflated using air from his regulator, the four-foot-long canvas tube would shoot to the surface on a handline and warn the surface vessels of their ascent. “Come up nice and slow, and we’ll do a safety stop at five meters. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she replied as Penny helped her with the mask and fins.

  “Any questions?”

  “Dive time, Papa?”

  “Let’s keep it to thirty minutes. It looks pretty cold down there.”

  As father and daughter stepped awkwardly toward the yacht’s stern, Penny grabbed Hans’ arm and whispered, “Bangkok Women Really Are Fellas? What’s wrong with Big White Rabbits Are Fluffy?”

  “Errm . . . no answer.”

  Hans grinned and plunged into the sea, with Jessica close behind. After a couple of minutes on the surface to focus and do a second equipment check, Jessica gave
her father the okay sign, followed by a thumbs-down for Let’s dive.

  Hans marveled at his daughter’s control as she dropped to the wreck, her hand loosely clasped around the shot line for guidance. Every few seconds she pinched her nose and blew to equalize the pressure on her eardrums, putting short bursts of air into her jacket to slow the rate of descent. Hans had witnessed many far more experienced divers struggle with these basics. He floated down to kneel opposite her on the sandy bottom and made the okay sign.

  Jessica was more than okay, not a hint of anxiety showing in her blue eyes.

  Hans made the Watch me sign with his index fingers and peeled off his mask to simulate it becoming dislodged by another diver’s fin. He purposely held it away from his body for several seconds to demonstrate how little an issue it was. In measured steps he stretched out the rubber headband and replaced the mask, then held the top of the lens and exhaled through his nose to expel the flooded water. Jessica followed his example with a confidence beyond her years.

  Without warning Hans let the regulator drop from his mouth, chopping a hand against his throat to simulate running out of air. Jessica calmly offered him her spare, only Hans pretended it did not work either. Nonplussed, she pulled out her own regulator and handed it over. Her father took two deep breaths and passed it back. They repeated the exercise for a minute or so, until Hans patted her on the arm and replaced his mouthpiece.

  Continuing the dive, Hans was impressed with the sight greeting them. The James Egan Layne’s barnacle-encrusted remains lay spread across the seabed like a skeleton in a boneyard, all sprouting the strange marshmallow-like anemones Penny spoke of, along with delicate coral fronds in both dull and vivid colors. Wheelhouse, winches and sheets of riveted iron bulkhead – even the porcelain in the ship’s head – were still visible, coated in a thick layer of sediment and home to a variety of sea life.

  Lesser-spotted dogfish lifted up out of the sand to glide snakelike through futuristic gardens of swaying green and purple kelp. Shoals of pollack holed up in the Layne’s murky compartments, unflinching as Hans played the beam of his flashlight on them, their algae-colored camouflage perfectly matched to this environment, their glassy black pupils bulging, as if afraid of the worst.