Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Read online

  By the end of every day, we were exhausted. The constant noise from the outboard motor a few feet from our heads, the rocking of the small boat, and the relentless humidity took their toll. After returning to Gizo, usually around 5 P.M., we’d walk the half-mile back to the hotel, take a quick shower, and change clothes. Then, if it was Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, we could read the Solomon Islands paper, which was six to eight pages in length and chock-full of interesting misspellings. A typical headline read “Pregnant Snake Found Under House,” with a picture of the finders holding it in their hands. The paper was a constant source of amusement.

  Dinner was served starting at 6:30. Waiting to eat was usually passed by playing endless hands of gin rummy or blackjack. The menu for dinner rarely changed. Kingfish with rice and a tiny salad, or chili crab with rice and a tiny salad. There were also a few mock Chinese dishes.

  A few divers showed up the two weeks we were in town. Five or six Australians arrived on the plane with us and stayed a few days. They had come to dive the wreck of the Japanese transport Toa Maru, a pristine wreck still full of cargo that draws people to Gizo.

  Then, a few days after we arrived, more tourists showed up. We’d asked Danny not to mention to anyone what we were doing, as over the years we had found that this just complicates things, but the town was so small and the tourists so few that within hours of arriving, I think everyone knew the score.

  A few days a week, Danny has a picnic over on Plum Pudding Island (now called Kennedy Island by everyone) where his workers cook fresh fish and rice over a campfire. The fish is usually eaten as a sandwich with fresh bread, and it is served on a leaf hacked from a nearby tree. Primitive but fun. A week after we arrived, we headed over to the island at lunchtime to hook up with the divers. Along with a group of fifteen to twenty teenagers on a discovery trip of the South Pacific were three new divers. Danny mentioned they were from Arizona, so I walked over to say hello to some fellow Americans. After introducing myself, I said:

  “Danny says you live in Arizona.”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  Dirk was approaching.

  “What city?”

  “Phoenix area,” said one of the two women.

  “Small world,” I said. “Dirk’s from there.”

  “Actually, Paradise Valley,” the other woman said, with a trace of haughtiness.

  Dirk nodded. Paradise Valley is a tony area where Clive, the late Erma Bombeck, and rocker Alice Cooper reside, along with a host of other celebrities. So do some smart people who bought their homes years ago.

  “Where in Paradise?” Dirk asked.

  “Do you know the area?”

  “Yeah,” Dirk said, with perfect timing, “I live there.”

  It turns out they were neighbors and lived only a few miles away. Halfway around the world in the middle of nowhere, and we meet someone from Dirk’s hometown. The trio turned out to be a gas. Ted and Sally Guenther were husband and wife. Ted’s sister, Chris, was along for the ride. The three were taking a month off from the Arizona summer heat and were traveling through the South Pacific, diving up a storm. For most of the rest of our time in Gizo, they would be our dinner companions and would prove to be good friends.

  Near the end of the trip, we also met an Australian couple, Catherine and George Ziedan, whom we would see again in Australia on our way home. Nicer people are hard to find. Upon hearing we were stopping in Surfer’s Paradise, they located us at our hotel, then came and picked us up and drove us to their home in the hills above town for an old-fashioned Australian barbecue. The steaks were a size that would shame a Texan, and the shrimp were the size of sausages. I would return to Australia just to visit George, Catherine, and their two teenage children, Georgie and Toby. George is a character straight from a gonzo novel. He attacks life with a zest I’ve rarely seen. He designed and built the beautiful house where his family resides—clearing the brush with a tractor, digging the ponds with a backhoe, and rigging a cable affair from the house down the steep hill to the pond where you can drop into the water.

  But back to the search.

  The days began to run together as we scanned the shallows off Nauru, Olasana, and Kennedy islands. Other than the single target off Nauru, which the weather was preventing us from diving, we were finding nothing. Not only that, Dirk and I had yet to dive.

  It might be time to address a statement I always hear: “I’d love to go with you.”

  No, you wouldn’t—at least ninety-nine percent of you. The idea most people have of a search is a series of fine days of sport diving interspersed with finding a wreck and reaping untold glory. The reality is hour after hour of being tossed about in small boats, listening to the increasing squawk of a balky electronic instrument, combined with lack of sleep and having to wash your underwear in a motel-room sink. Then you rise in the morning and do it all again. I would guess diving is less than five percent of the equation.

  This reminds me of a story a friend named Jedd Ladd told me in Colorado. Jedd had been at Woodstock, and I asked him about the experience. “Don’t believe all the hype about fun and free love,” he said. “It was a muddy mess, with no food and lots of rain. I lived in a tent that leaked, and the toilets were a hole in the dirt.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “The music was great, though,” he said.

  The same thing applies here. The work is monotonous, but you have a chance to make history. We always say in NUMA that if it were easy, someone would have already done it. Persistence is the key, repetition the norm. Dirk and I dug in—day after day we scanned the waters in a direction from Ferguson Passage north. We weren’t finding anything that resembled a wreck.

  About ten days into the search, we were talking to Danny about PT-109, and we mentioned Biuku and Eroni, the natives who rescued Kennedy.

  “You want to talk to Biuku?” Danny asked.

  “What?” said Dirk.

  “Biuku is still alive,” Danny said. “He’s a friend of mine. He lives down near Vonavona.”

  “Let’s go,” Dirk said.

  “Living history,” I said. “Call him up and see if we can visit.”

  “He doesn’t have a telephone,” Danny said, “but if we take one of the boats down there tomorrow, we can probably find him. He’s getting old, and he doesn’t stray far.”

  The next morning, Dirk, Danny, Smiling John the boat driver, and I climbed into a boat, crossed Blackett Strait, then proceeded on through the channel toward Vonavona. The journey was a trip through paradise. Clear water and tree-lined passages, like passing down a lazy river, would give way to outcroppings of white sands and colorful reefs just below the surface. The trip to Biuku’s home took about an hour. We slid up to a pier made from coral rocks and shells and climbed from the boat. Walking through the trees, we came upon a few wooden homes set up from the ground on pilings. A garden was to one side, and chickens roamed freely, squawking at our imposition.

  A woman clutching a baby in her arms sat on the porch of a home, puffing on a corncob pipe.

  “One of Biuku’s daughters,” Danny said, as he plopped down the large bag of rice and the betel nut we had brought as gifts.

  In pidgin, he inquired as to Biuku’s whereabouts and learned he was down at Munda. One of his children was sick, and that was the nearest hospital. We set off for Munda, another forty-five minutes by boat, and splashed ashore. The night before, I had talked with Dirk about what we could give as a gift. This was the man who had rescued one of our presidents, and for the most part the act had gone unnoticed. I had a pair of binoculars—pretty good Tascos—and we figured he’d like those. Danny went inside and found Biuku and brought him outside.

  Biuku is small, a shade over five feet tall and slightly stooped from his seventy-eight years. Danny explained in pidgin what we were doing, then helped seat Biuku next to me on a log under the shade of a large tree. Unrolling a chart of the area, we questioned him, using Danny as a translator. The primary question we needed answered was
if by chance the wreck he and Eroni had climbed aboard off Nauru might have been PT-109. It was six decades ago, but by his descriptions we began to realize that the wreck was probably Japanese. After inquiring about any other wreckage he might have seen around the same time, and learning of none, we thanked him.

  I took the binoculars out of the case.

  “Danny,” I said, “can you tell him this? We wanted to thank you for your brave actions in saving the man who became president of our country and ask that you accept this as a gift from the American people.”

  Danny translated, and I could see Biuku smile. I handed him the binoculars, and he placed them around his neck and glanced around the hospital grounds.

  “Ah,” he said, “spyglasses.”

  Then we got ready to leave and began to say our good-byes. We started to walk away, then Biuku called to Danny.

  “I have a special room in my mind for you, Danny,” Biuku said in English.

  Obviously, the gifts had gone over well.

  THE EXPEDITION WAS winding to a close, and we were both beginning to feel that the wreck was in deeper water. Our searching had failed to locate anything in the shallows. Our hopes for the wreck off Nauru were dashed by Biuku’s revelations that it was a Japanese barge, as well as the fact that on the last day the weather cleared and we could dive the target we had located. It was a strange coral-encrusted protrusion about the size of a large engine block. We tried to clear a small spot to see what was inside, but to little avail. The area could use a better analysis in the future to determine what it actually is, but our best guess is an old anchor or something that was encrusted over time. When we return, we’ll check it further.

  We began to analyze what we had accomplished. We’d done what we’d set out to do—find where the wreck was not—and in the process we had managed to cover all the shallow water in the high-probability areas. All the waters surrounding Nauru, Olasana, and Plum Pudding Islands, as well as a large block to the north, had been scanned to a depth of around two hundred feet. PT-109 was not there. There were some areas inside the reef that we had missed, but they were low-probability and outside the parameters of reason. PT-109 was in deeper water, and that was good—it meant it has a better chance of being preserved.

  It was time to take our leave and head home. We climbed aboard the turboprop, thoroughly exhausted and welcoming civilization. After a couple of nights in Surfer’s Paradise to decompress, we jumped on a flight for the United States via New Zealand.

  A few days after I got back to Fort Lauderdale, I spoke to Clive on the telephone.

  “Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

  I’d been saving a line to use for years—it comes from the movie Jaws.

  “I think we’re going to need a bigger boat,” I said.

  “So, you two know where it’s not?” Clive asked.

  “Yep,” I said, “and we have a pretty good idea where it is.”

  So stay tuned—NUMA will be back.

  PART FOURTEEN

  I America’s Leonardo da Vinci

  America’s Leonardo da Vinci

  1792, 2001

  THOUGH WE DON’T OFTEN FIND WHAT WE SEARCH FOR, it is satisfying to bring closure to a piece of history that has been surrounded in mystery. One such project was the hunt for Samuel Morey’s boat, Aunt Sally.

  Legends persisted for almost two centuries of a boat sunk in the waters of Lake Morey in Fairlee, Vermont, about a mile west of the Connecticut River. With the passage of time, colorful variations on the story have obscured the facts.

  What we do know is that Samuel Morey was a true genius whose name and accomplishments are known to very few today. Born in 1763, he became a prolific inventor, whose experiments with light, heat, and steam were half a century ahead of his time. Though it is well recorded that James Watt invented the steam engine, Morey is considered the first to put a steam engine in a boat.

  His first patent was signed by President George Washington in 1793, for a steam-powered roasting spit. His next patent was for the use of steam to propel a boat and was signed by Thomas Jefferson, who was then the secretary of state. He constructed the hull and the necessary machinery at the sawmill and iron forge he owned. History has at least credited Morey with creating the use of the first paddle wheels. He is also acclaimed—perhaps grudgingly by some historians—as having built the first successful machine-powered vessel.

  His first boat was small, with only enough room for one companion, but it worked. To this day, no one knows what he named this little historic vessel. Morey’s maiden voyage was from Orford, New Hampshire, up the Connecticut River to Fairlee, Vermont, and back. This was as early as 1792, more than fourteen years before Robert Fulton’s first trial trip up the Hudson River.

  A short time later, Morey was encouraged to travel to New York and display a model of his boat. He met a wealthy backer of inventions named Chancellor Livingston. The entrepreneur was deeply taken with Morey’s creation and introduced him to Robert Fulton, who was also fascinated by the sight of a working model of a steamboat. Morey was treated with great respect by Livingston and Fulton, who suggested minor modifications. The two New Yorkers then offered Morey $10,000 if he would make the alterations and demonstrate a working model.

  He returned home and completed the work with great success, mounting the paddle wheel in the stem, an innovation that was not employed until many years later for boats traveling the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. It was recorded that, during the effort, Livingston made more than one trip to Morey’s workshop to study the progress and take notes on Morey’s success.

  Then, when Morey returned to New York, he was greeted with great coldness and indifference. No mention was made of the $10,000, and Fulton and Livingston simply brushed him off. The two men had seen all they had to see. Morey’s secret invention had been fully acquired and was now no longer needed. The result was that Fulton, backed financially by Livingston and with the influence of powerful men in the New York statehouse, succeeded in building a large boat on Morey’s principles, mainly the paddle wheels, which went down in history as the first successful steamboat.

  Years later, it was clearly proved that Samuel Morey had taken out the necessary patents for the operation of steam-powered boats several years before Fulton, so there was an obvious case of infringement. But Morey, described as a warm and retiring sort of person, did not want the trouble or the expense of a court case, and probably realized he had little chance of winning over the powers that be in New York. To be sure, he made appeals, but he never followed through, lacking time and money.

  Truth has always been on Morey’s side, but unfortunately his ingenuity has been mostly forgotten, except by local historical organizations.

  Morey also devised gaslights and heated his house for years with what he called “water gas.” During his life, no other man was granted as many patents as Samuel Morey. He built dams, intricate irrigation canals, and fish-stocking ponds so he could study their behavior. Remains of a flume he erected to shoot logs down to his lumber mill can still be seen. When the Connecticut River was opened for navigation, it was Sam Morey who designed and built the locks at Bellows Falls, Vermont.

  After the debacle with Fulton, he returned home to Orford and continued work on his engines, building a rotary steam engine and then a turpentine-vapor engine. In 1826, he patented an internal combustion engine. Far ahead of his time, Morey installed his first small gas engine in a wagon. When he started it up, the wagon lurched forward and smashed through his workshop wall. He beat Charles Duryea’s first gasoline automobile by fifty years.

  He constructed a larger engine and dropped it in a boat nineteen feet long and five feet wide, painted white with red streaks and black gunwales. Fitted with paddle wheels on the side, the vessel was christened Aunt Sally.

  After refitting her with a vapor-type engine, Morey operated Aunt Sally on Fairlee Lake, later named after him, for a year or more, hauling lumber and other materials back and forth across t
he lake.

  Then, mysteriously, the first internal combustion-powered craft in history disappeared.

  Some said that Morey sunk it in a fit of anger, but a friend of Morey’s said, “No Vermont Yankee would sink something that was still useful just because he was mad.”

  Another story is that it was stolen in the dead of the night by Morey’s enemies from New York, filled with stones and scuttled. Still another admission, from a group of three boys who claimed they sank the boat, has added to the enigma.

  There was an attempt to find the boat in 1874 by dragging a grappling hook. But the pickerel grass was thick and reached as high as six feet, so the grapple had to be cleaned every twelve feet, and nothing was found.

  Other attempts were made, with no success. Doc Harold Edgerton, a trustee of NUMA and a grand old inventor himself, gave it a try in 1984. He used sidescan sonar, which he created and developed to search the lake. But Doc did not find Aunt Sally. As he so eloquently put it, “I don’t like to give up. I’ve been on many projects where we never found what we were looking for, others where we did find what we were looking for, and others where we found things we weren’t looking for at all.”

  IN JULY OF 1999, I received a call from Michael Colin Moore, who I believe was a descendant of Morey. He related the story of the inventor, and suggested that I might be interested in searching for the lost boat.