//------------------------------//
// The Maiden Voyage 
// Story: Of Hooves and History 
// by Ahmad J Charles 
//------------------------------//

I fiddled with a zipper on my camo-print trousers, trying to pull it open. Eventually it shook free and I fished out a pair of keys. A tugboat’s horn blared in the distance, while I pushed a silver key into its slot in the side of the portal and jerked it, causing a slight pop! sound to be heard. The portal’s lid released, and I pulled it open. Gently, I eased my travel bag down the ladder, trying to keep it from slipping and hitting the floor.

Next came the rest of my luggage – a hard-sided suitcase, a backpack, a duffel bag, and a large, slim rectangular bag containing my bike. Hanging from the ceiling was a mesh net with fruits and vegetables, and the suitcase was full of spare clothes, accessories, and dry food packages. As I checked over the instrument panel, a familiar tune of the Pirates of the Caribbean theme played in a tapping sequence on the hull outside. I ascended the ladder and peeked through one of the portal’s portholes.

“Hey son, just want to say thanks for the hose repair.”

“It’s my pleasure. Always a delight to be of help to those who’ve helped me.”

We exchanged a fist-bump and he handed me a new pair of rugged waterproof binoculars.

“It’s a world filled mysterious phenomena, the ocean,” my dad confided. “So many ships and their poor crew lost over time with no way of knowing what happened or how.”

“And today is the day I begin my quest to change that,” I declared proudly. “For the history books.”

“For the history books,” my father repeated proudly, before stepping back onto the boathouse deck. “Best of luck in your endeavors, son.”

“Love you!” I replied, pulling down the hatch and activating the airlock seal. I started the engine and flipped a few switches, causing the tanks to fill with water. I slipped beneath the surface and departed from the Florida Keys. My trip plan was to sail southeast, between Cuba and the Bahamas at a substantial depth, so as to avoid being obtrusive to shipping traffic zipping in and out of Nassau, Santa Clara, and Miami. I hoped to weave through the smaller Bahamas islands, and then straight towards Bermuda, in the heart of the triangle.

I wished and dreamt of being able to pinpoint the location of shipwrecks and war planes as well, possibly even extract a few valuable items from them, depth permitting. First, however, I needed to concentrate. The radar beeped twice occasionally, then four times every half hour.

After a good three hours of straight-line speed southeast-ward through the ocean I slowed my pace and tuned into a radio station that broadcasted ship arrivals and departures. Boy, were there a lot! For a moment I considered surfacing to take a quick look. While my submarine was registered in another country as a marine research craft, most people in Cuba wouldn’t take too lightly to seeing a submarine in their waters. So, I opened the tank valves and slowly descended as deep as I could, then waited. 

Over the next half hour, I ate some peach slices and observed the radar. Most of the vessels were just sailboats and cruise ships chugging along on their first vacation voyages of the season, so it was safe to say I was in good standing. Resuming my course, I shifted into electrical mode and powered through the bright crispy blue waters of the southern Bahamas. It really was beautiful and serene… and also rather quiet. Too quiet. But as I reached for the radio, a noisy, squeaky chatter filled the water. A glance at the radar indicated a medium-sized boat was nearby, and cruising at a fairly fast speed – likely twenty-five knots. Little smaller blips soon appeared, all around and behind the boat.

“Dolphins!” I exclaimed, my hands frantically skimming through a menu on the main control screen for a marine map of the area. This wasn’t necessarily a happy occurrence; it meant potential trouble. The last thing I wanted was to interrupt these fellow ocean inhabitants. Or worse, jeopardize the spectacular show the boat-goers were likely having. It was bad enough that the dolphins had to avoid the boat’s propeller. Now they needed to watch out for mine.

Examining the digital map, I tweaked my route to head further south, cutting a precise path between the dolphin pod and the northern Cuban coastline by about twenty to twenty-five miles on each side.

In the late afternoon, fifty kilometers southeast of the southern tip of the Andros Island, I dove down deep – almost to the bottom, and ate a marmalade sandwich while listening to a podcast episode about America’s history with the Cuban governmental regime. Like many of the impromptu interviews I’d conducted in some of my previous archeological expeditions, it triggered a winded cycle of contemplation on how certain aspects of history were forgotten, and where ‘holes’ occurred – moments in time where key events along the timeline were censored and buried, allowing power-hungry revolutionaries to spread propaganda and lead nations on inaccurate and often completely false beliefs.

My deep trail of thought was interrupted by the call of nature. To deal with this issue, I’d installed a toilet in the sub, complete with a de-fumigation system. A sealed tank filled up over time, and a small motor broke up and blended the waste into a powdery, particle-filled liquid before expelling it through a valve in the bottom of the sub when full. Right after, I fired up some calm tropical rhythms on my iPod Classic and my mind drifted off into an aquatic dreamland.

A good hour or so later, I awoke to the sound of random knocks and taps, as if someone was trying to investigate the sub from outside. Turning off the music, I sat up and peered through the window. Nothing. Was a random scuba diver just playing a cheeky prank? Surely I was far out enough from the coast that no one would be swimming around here?

Then I heard some familiar squeaks and whistles. Sure enough, a curious face with a short, rounded snout peered around at me through the thick glass.

“Well, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” I replied with a googly face.

The dolphin turned to glance at me and did a smooth body roll. For a brief moment, I got a glimpse at its deep, expressive eyes. It was hard not to smile back at such an inquisitive creature. After all, this was his world, which I was passing through.

“Well, time to get going,” I told myself. I really wanted to surface, jump into the water, and just play with them ‘till sundown. But this was a wild dolphin, quite unlike the ones in aquatic sanctuaries I’d visited in my hometown. Besides, I had a mission to fulfil.

Starting up the motor, I gently eased it into the lowest power setting. Nonetheless, the spinning propeller was enough to startle the dolphin and send him on his way. Twenty miles further southeast, I surfaced and rose through the hatch – the first time since I departed Florida. Scanning the oceanic horizon with my binoculars, I soon spotted a large vessel. Its wide, low bow deck and tall radar masts was a dead ringer for a coastguard vessel.

Time to get outta Bahamian doge. Fast.

A quick glance at the radar indicated the boat was about eight to ten miles away. By the marine maps, the “main” Atlantic Ocean was a good forty miles away, which would take me a good forty-five minutes. If there was a time where speed was needed, it was now. I fired up the engine and eased into it, gradually increasing speed until the engine was whirring like a vortex just a meter below the surface. Likely it was kicking up some water into the air, which wasn’t helping at all.

After two minutes I reached thirty knots – the top speed of the sub. I linked up the generator to juice up the batteries, so I could slip away under the surface later. The coastguard boats could definitely move just as fast, but only if absolutely necessary. A good observation of the radar indicated they were moving at a steady pace – likely just to keep me in sight, before calling in reinforcements if I failed to comply.

After what felt like two hours, I noticed the distance between me and the vessel widening. Strange. Had they called off the chase? Perhaps they figured it a lost cause, given how the only giveaways were the sputtering water from the propeller and the engine’s snorkel. I decided to slow down to fifteen knots and take it easy.

By golden hour, I’d reached the drop-off point. I’d used up a good 10% of my fuel in the getaway, so it was time for conserving from here on out. I sang a solemn poem, sealed the hatch, and gradually dove 200 feet down. In the darkness, I flipped on an interior light and wrote a log of the day’s events, before reviewing my Bermuda Triangle plans.

“First step, perform a test run to try map out the sea floor. Emit pulses of sonar – first small and light, then gradually increase strength. Take notes of shapes and any patterns.”

“Next, head straight towards the core of the triangle, expanding the sonar radius wide and far to pick up a greater range of potential wrecks. Gradually search until a wreck is found. Rest during the second half of the night and surface in the morning.”

For the most part, I was out of the borders of the Bahamas, but a few islands still stood up ahead. The coastguard was also around, with their boat still visible on the radar, circling around in irregular patterns a few miles away. At the furthest point, I carefully engaged electrical power at its lowest setting and slowly made my way east at a walking pace, keeping a sharp eye on the radar screen. After two hours in pitch blackness with all systems except the motor and interior light (dimly lit!) on, I switched the radar back on. The gap between myself and whatever vessel was out there had started to widen. Success!

At ten p.m. the vessel was back within mainland Bahamian waters. I rose fifty feet and cranked up the speed, opening the turbine valves to try and juice up the batteries at the same time. Finally, after another hour, I noticed two islands behind me. I was completely free of the Bahamas at last and had entered the Triangle. Now the real adventure could begin.