Submarine Outlaw by Philip Roy

Author:Philip Roy
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55380-145-0
Publisher: Ronsdale Press
Published: 2013-04-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Until you have witnessed a storm at sea, you can’t imagine how violent it can be. Giant waves throw you up in the air like a leaf, then hurl you down and crush you beneath tons of water. They spin you around and around like a washing machine, and cover you in an attempt to drown you. Sometimes they simply smash against you like a wall of bricks. Not for a second can you find any peace.

We dove to one hundred feet and switched to battery power. We weren’t far from Grates Cove and the mouth of Conception Bay. I figured if we could get across the bay during the storm we’d be pretty much home free. St. John’s wasn’t far from the other side, and, with all the sea traffic in and out of the capital city we would be next to invisible. I had never been to St. John’s before but Ziegfried said you could find really good pizza there.

With the radio on and Seaweed cozy in the observation window, I climbed onto the bike and started to pedal. We had ten hours of battery power. I intended to increase it to eleven by pedalling through the night. And then, I heard something on the radio that disturbed me.

Along with warnings for fishermen and sailors to stay off the water, the radio said that the coastguard had received a Mayday from a sailboat caught in the storm, but that they had to wait until the storm lessened before attempting a rescue. As I pedalled the bike I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere out in the storm, perhaps not so far from me, was a family in deep trouble. They were signalling for help but nobody was coming. The more I thought about it, the more upsetting it was. I remembered being swept over the side of the sub in the last storm and how frightening that was. But this was worse. Was there anything I could do?

I decided to surface and turn on the short-wave. Maybe somebody would know something. Maybe I could reach Ziegfried and ask his advice. Coming up, I could feel the storm had become even worse. Nothing came through the short-wave but static. I flipped through the channels, hearing bits of sound, different languages, but nothing understandable. I scanned the radar. Nothing. The storm was tossing us around so much I had to hold on tightly. Seaweed kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. He wasn’t too happy about the storm either.

“I know, I know,” I said, “we should go back down where it’s quiet.”

But the thought that there were people out there, desperately hoping and praying that someone would hear them and save them, kept me from diving. I decided to try the short-wave again. I went around and around the channels. And then I heard it: a man’s voice. He sounded desperate. “ . . . please help . . . north . . . northwest . . .”

He said some numbers but I couldn’t make them out.

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