Ghosts of the Pacific (19 page)

THE SEA ROLLED
in silver and blue swells, as it would anywhere, except maybe the Arctic. But the air was hot, so very
hot, unlike anywhere else I had ever been. You wouldn't last
long in an open boat here, without shade or fresh water. You
would die of exposure perhaps almost as quickly as you
would die of exposure in the north Atlantic. That seemed
ironic to me. A lot of things about the Pacific seemed ironic.

But I had answers to some of my questions now. Were the
waves bigger in the Pacific? Yes, I thought so. Were the storms
bigger? Definitely. Was there something about places that
drew extraordinary events to happen there? There seemed
to be. That's what it felt like to me, and I would continue to
believe that, at least for now.

Was I sorry to have seen some of the darker things? Yes
and no. But I was catching only a glimpse through a “glass
darkly.” I hadn't been here when the worst things had happened. I had seen the garbage for myself, yes, and the typhoons and shrimp trawlers, but I hadn't seen the suicides,
people on fire, or the battles or nuclear explosions. I had seen
only films of those things. And it wasn't the same. At least I
wouldn't go through life not knowing those things had happened, or were happening somewhere else right now, some
of them. I
wanted
to know what was happening in the world,
good and bad, I really did. And I believed I could make a difference. It wasn't too late. We did deserve this planet. Hollie
and Seaweed certainly deserved it. Ziegfried and Sheba deserved it. Cinnamon deserved it. The people cleaning up
from the typhoon deserved it. Mr. Chee deserved it. Paul
deserved it, even if he didn't think that he did. I believed that
he did.

Three days from Saipan we picked up a weak signal on
radar. It appeared and disappeared. I couldn't help getting
my hopes up. Could it be Hugh? I wanted so much for it to
be him, to see him again and know that he had survived all
the terrible storms.

As we closed in on the signal I climbed the portal, strapped
on the harness and scanned the water. I couldn't see anything. Perhaps it was just a floating can. And then, I saw the
tiny splashes that a turtle's fins make. And I saw a spot on his
back. But it wasn't Hugh. It was another turtle with a trans
mitter and a yellow spot. It didn't matter. I felt the same thrill.
Of all the things I had seen in my life so far, none filled me
with so much awe as the sight of a sea turtle swimming across
the vast ocean all by itself. Sea turtles had been doing it for
millions of years, long before humans ever took a step on the
earth—swimming along like tireless, peaceful warriors. It
filled me with awe.

I pulled alongside him to see if he would rest, as Hugh
had rested. Then it occurred to me—perhaps this turtle
wasn't a he, but a she. I tried to think of a good name for a
girl and decided to call her Penelope. Seaweed promptly
jumped onto her back. I carried Hollie out and let him look
and sniff. The great turtle hugged the side of the sub and
shut her eyes. We stayed and watched until we grew sleepy
too. After a while, I went to bed. As I lay on my cot and felt
the hot Pacific air drift into the sub, carrying the faint scent
of burning, I thought of Ziegfried and Sheba, and how much
I missed them. And very slowly I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke, the turtle was gone.

Standing in the portal with Hollie, while Seaweed flew
above us, I read a few lines from
The Rime of the Ancient
Mariner
in the sea turtle's honour.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well, who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

Philip Roy continues to live and write in Nova Scotia.
Whenever possible, he travels to the places he writes
about in the Submarine Outlaw series. From 1999 to
2001, he lived on the island of Saipan, which features
in
Ghosts of the Pacific
. Recently he travelled to India
to research the fifth book in the series, to be released
in 2012. His next journey will be to Mozambique and
South Africa. Travelling makes for great adventure,
Philip contends. The only thing better is writing about
it and visiting schools to share his stories with young
readers.