again at three thirty so we can get an early start before the wind and waves pick up.”
Up at 3:30 a.m.? What was the point of going to sleep at all?
Soon enough everyone aboard was fast asleep … everyone except me. I had all the ingredients for a good sleep … cozy berth, gentle waves, my favourite pillow from home … and I’d had a long and exciting day. But all the same I couldn’t sleep a wink. I reasoned it must have been because of the nap I’d had earlier in the day after reading Captain Whittaker’s journal. I tossed for a while longer hoping that I’d eventually nod off, but soon I knew it was futile. I had the top bunk so when I quietly rolled out of bed I did my best not to rest my feet on Amanda’s bunk. I sighed with relief when I heard her snoring softly. Then I made my way down the narrow hall, passed the engine room, which was eerily quiet, and on to the galley. I flicked on the small lamp that set off a warm glow in the tiny room. I noticed for the first time a small bookshelf above the porthole. On it was a neat row of books. I scanned the titles: Essays in Maritime Archaeology; Techniques for Identifying Trade Beads; Historic Relations Between European Traders and First Nations of the Northwest; and Methods for Preserving Artifacts Removed From a Saltwater Environment. They were all titles that would put your typical kid to sleep — but not me. I was about to reach for the book on preserving artifacts when I noticed another neat row of books — novels with covers worn from years of use. Maybe this is where I’d find myself a nice bedtime story. I scanned the titles: The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner; The Ghost Pirates; The Flying Dutchman; Curse of the Black Pearl; Pirates of the Caribbean. Not exactly the kind of stories that sweet dreams were made of, but maybe I could at least tire myself out with one of them. I pulled down Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. I’d never read it, but I remembered Uncle Stewart saying it was one of his favourite books when he was my age.
From the moment I cracked open the dry old pages on that leather bound book I was hooked. Treasure Island was not one of those stories you start and then put down easily. The kid, Jim, seemed to be close to getting his throat slit, like, five times in the first three chapters. What was the matter with this guy … he should have known from the moment that the old pirate showed up at his father’s inn that trouble was close behind. Just when things were getting really tense I heard a noise coming from outside the boat — like water splashing. It gave me a creepy feeling, especially since I was alone. Well, I wasn’t actually alone, but with everyone asleep it sure felt that way. I knew I was a little jumpy just because my imagination was already in high gear. I’d just come to the end of the scene where Jim and his mom heard the pirates ransacking the inn in search of the treasure map and were hiding under the bridge. I was about to start the next chapter when I heard the splashing noise again. My heart skipped a beat and then started to race. I got up on my knees and glanced out the window but could see nothing but thick fog. Not even the night lights of Powell River were visible any more. As I sat, ears pricked, I heard the sound of water splashing a third time — it was coming from the aft of the boat. One side of my brain told me to hide, or at the very least get back in my bed. The other urged me to find out what it was. Before I had time to change my mind, I jumped off the seat and went through the galley towards the back, climbed the stairs and came out on the deck that led to the helm where Captain Hunter steered the boat. As I stood in the black silence, I heard the lapping of the waves on the boat, and felt the cool air tickle the hairs on my arms. The silence and the fog were like backdrops to some scary movie and I couldn’t shake the images of throat-slitting pirates hauling themselves up over the sides of the boat.
“You’re nuts, Peggy Henderson,” I said aloud for reassurance. Just then a swift dark figure surfaced from the water and just as quickly sank down again with a little splash that left the boat rocking. I didn’t know what it was and didn’t stick around to find out. I ducked back inside the cabin as fast as I could, dropped the book off on the table as I passed through the galley, painfully stubbed my toe on the bench, and finally stumbled back to my cabin out of breath. When I finally found the ladder I grabbed onto it and hauled myself up to my bunk. I panted as quietly as I could, trying to catch my breath and hoping Amanda didn’t hear me.
“You didn’t flush any toilet paper, right?” Amanda’s sleepy voice came from below. “Remember, only the natural stuff.”
“Right, nothing but the real thing,” I answered back, glad to hear her voice even though I’d tried my best not to wake her.
“Good. See you in a couple of hours,” Amanda whispered up to me.
I don’t know how long it took, but I obviously fell asleep. The next thing I knew the engine was squealing and I could feel the boat was cutting through water. There was also a hint of light seeping through the porthole and the sound of clanging pots coming from the galley.
“Well, you’re still alive then,” said Amanda, smiling. “I didn’t know if you were ever going to wake up.” I looked at the clock. It read 5:30 a.m.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear the wake up call,” I mumbled.
“Don’t worry, most people have the same experience the first night or two. It takes getting used to, sleeping on a boat. Good thing for you it’s almost breakfast. You like pancakes and bacon?”
“Who doesn’t?” I chirped.
All that day we sailed up the Inside Passage. We saw an eagle diving down and snatching up a fish at the last moment, caught a glimpse of a couple of killer whales — just their flukes and tail fins really, and had a pod of porpoises chasing the boat for about a half hour. I took comfort watching their sleek bodies leap effortlessly out of the water and felt sure it must have been a porpoise I’d seen and heard the night before. When he took breaks from steering the boat, Captain Hunter told me more about what we’d be doing when we arrived at the site.
“Once we’ve located the ship we’ll create a point of reference — perhaps the anchor — that will allow us to find her again in the future. On our first dive we’ll set up a grid system and take some photographs. We have to be really careful not to disturb anything. The ship and the artifacts that may be down there are in a state of equilibrium with the environment. If we suddenly upset that balance it could cause things to rapidly deteriorate.”
“How do you plan to get the Intrepid out of the water?” I had never been part of an excavation this big before — maybe they’d bring in a bunch of helicopters for an airlift or a ship with a crane.
“I’m not sure yet if we can even raise her off of the seafloor, Peggy. Sometimes the best thing to be done is to leave a sunken ship where it is. We’ll have to wait and see. For certain, we’re going to do our best to minimize any threats to it now that news of its existence has gotten out to the public. We want to establish this as a protected site, then divers who are mutually interested in preserving the Intrepid will help us protect her — they’ll be like our eyes and ears — watching out for danger.”
“Do you think we’ll find any treasure?” I was imagining chests of gold and jewels. Dr. Hunter chuckled and pointed to the copy of Treasure Island lying on the table where I’d left it the night before.
“Been reading, have you?” I felt my face flush. “To be honest it’s highly unlikely there will be anything a treasure hunter … or even a pirate like Long John Silver … would want aboard the Intrepid. But there will be plenty that is valuable — historically valuable that is. The artifacts will teach us about the community and culture of the crew. The ship’s hull can tell an astute marine archaeologist how the ship was designed and built. Toolmarks will reveal woodworking techniques, and fragments of rigging, rope, or sails show how the ship was operated by the crew. In rare cases we find skeletons, and when we do they add to our understanding of how living and working at sea can impact the bones. At the same time I always keep in mind these bones are the remains of a real person, a sailor who lost his life to the sea and
