Seas of South Africa (23 page)

One boat looked as though it carried harbour officials. The other was navy. They arrived at the same time, although the navy boat had to race to catch up. As they reached me, I saw the naval officers wave the harbour officials away. “We've got this! We've got it! No worries!”

But the harbour officials didn't like that. They were insisting upon inspecting the sub. Then one of the naval officers jumped into the other boat and had a word with them. I heard him say something about it being a sensitive military matter, and that the harbour officials should stand down. They didn't like that at all, but they obeyed. The harbour boat turned around and went back. The two naval officers threw me a line. I tied it to a handle, and they jumped onto the hull.

“You must be Alfred,” said one of them. He was a tall, tough-looking sailor with black curly hair. “I'm François. This is Major Richards.”

“Tom,” said the other man.

I shook their hands. They were both big tough guys, and I wouldn't want to mess with them.

“Mickey called me,” said François. “Told me everything. Sounds like you've had quite the run-in with pirates.”

“Yes. I have.”

“Will you let us take a look at your sub, Alfred?” said Tom. “And your passport.”

“Sure. I have a dog inside. And that seagull . . . there, is part of my crew, too.” Seaweed had flown a short distance away when the boats came. He was sitting in the water, picking at his feathers. Both men looked at Seaweed and thought I was joking.

“This won't take long,” said François. “It's just a formality, so we can say that we did it. And we'll return your passport.” He looked apologetic. “Won't take long.”

They followed me down the ladder. They had to bend their heads quite a lot once they were inside. “Well, isn't this something?” said François. “Here you go, Tom. Isn't this what you've been looking for?”

“It is indeed,” said Tom, looking all around with curiosity. “This wouldn't do too badly at all. I might raise the ceiling a couple of inches. Can we see the engine, Alfred?”

“Sure. It's in the stern.”

“You're a man after Tom's own heart, Alfred. He's been dreaming of a machine like this pretty much all of his life. Haven't you, Tom?”

Tom answered from inside the engine compartment. “I have. Come look at this, François. Look at the diesel he's got. Clean as my mother's table.” He stuck his head out. “You should take care of the engines of our boats. How far have you come, Alfred?”

“Uhhh . . . well, I left Newfoundland last August. Then I came through the Northwest Passage . . . down through the Bering Strait, and into the Pacific. Then over to India. Then here.”

François was beaming at Tom. He slapped him on the arm. “There you go, buddy. You're looking at your dream.”

“Where did you build it?” said Tom.

“We built it in a junkyard in Newfoundland. My friend, who owns the junkyard, designed and built it. I helped him. It took us about two and a half years. A year after we launched it, we put the diesel in it. The first motor was a gas engine from a Volkswagen.”

Tom nodded. He examined the batteries and driveshaft and nodded again. “It's a work of art. That's what it is. I'd say your friend knows a thing or two. He should come and build half a dozen of these for the South African navy. What we couldn't do with a few of these, hey?”

François opened the cold-storage compartment and peered in. I hoped he didn't lift up the potatoes. “Potatoes, Tom. All you need now is a side of beef, a dozen cases of beer, and you're set.”

“Yah. And a couple of tuna fish and a grill. That's the life for me.”

“Well . . .” said François, looking more serious, “I don't think there's any question of her being seaworthy. You've just come around the world. Mickey mentioned you sank a boat with guns and drugs, but I don't see any here. Have you got a rifle, hand gun, or weapon of any kind?”

“No. I have a flare gun, but I'm out of flares.”

“Noted. And drugs? Did any of those drugs happen to stay on board this vessel by any chance?”

“No.”

“No, you don't look like the sort of lad who would waste his life with that. Good for you. Will you follow us in, Alfred? We'd like to hear all you know about the pirates on the east coast. It's a serious problem for us now, and getting worse all the time. We'll set you up for the night, and fix up your passport for you. Mickey asked us to refurbish you with a few supplies, and we'd be more than happy to do that. If you let
us throw a tow line around your hatch, you can follow us in at ten knots.” He made an apologetic expression and winked. “It looks good if we tow you in. You understand, of course.”

“Yes, I do. Thank you.”

“A pleasure.”

They climbed out, tossed me a line, and I tied it around the portal. Then they churned up the water with two powerful outboard motors on the back of their boat, and the rope snapped taut. I carried Hollie up, and we stood in the portal, and watched the harbour as we were towed in.

Chapter Twenty-eight

FRANÇOIS AND TOM
took Hollie and me out to a pub for supper, and we were served the biggest plate of fish and chips I had ever seen, and then a plate of apple pie and ice cream that we couldn't even finish. Hollie fell asleep on the bench before the meal was over, and my eyes were getting heavy. We weren't used to eating such large meals anymore. While we ate, I answered their questions about the pirates, and told them about everything, everything except the money and treasure. But the treasure came up anyway.

François and Tom were very committed to their job, and I respected them. They weren't stuffy and official, or afraid to
bend the rules. They had families, played football, liked to fish, and were just regular guys who truly wanted to stop the piracy that was invading their country. So did I.

“The guy who was knifed by the pirates on Mozambique Island, I'm pretty sure we know who he was,” said François. “His name was Jones.”

“Yah,” said Tom. “That's who he must have been. He was a really bad character.”

“Mickey will be glad to hear he was killed,” said François. “They had run-ins in the past. And Jones stole a treasure that Mickey had found in a wreck. It took him something like twenty-five years to find it.”

“He found a treasure?”

“Yah. A few years ago. It was off one of the French islands . . . Europa, I think. The French took Mickey on board for questioning, and, while he was there, Jones raided his boat, took the treasure, and all his diving equipment, too. But Jones lived too dangerously for anyone's sake. It's no surprise to hear he was finally killed. He used to sell guns to the guerillas. Sounds like he was still doing that. That's pretty much a suicidal business in this part of the world. No doubt he sold drugs, too. You ran into some pretty tough characters, Alfred. You're lucky you're still here.”

That reminded me of Katharina's belief that I had a guardian angel. I wondered if I did. “I know. How do you fight them?”

François took a deep breath. “Yah. That's the question.
After Apartheid, military funding was sharply cut, just like everything else. We don't have nearly the resources we need. But we do the best we can. We've got thirty harbour boats like the one you saw. We arm them when we need to. Then they're pretty formidable. We're moving some of our forces into Durban now. Buffing it up. That's where the biggest threat is. Mostly drugs. Pirates are all the way down the coast now. They get in with the locals, make them dependent upon them, and get them addicted to drugs. Then they control every aspect of their lives. The people live in fear.”

“That's really terrible.”

“It is. It's hard to fight, though. Up north, they attack freighters and tankers, take their crews hostage, and demand ransom. You see that on the news.”

“I have.”

“It's a battle we're waging. And we'll win. It'll just take time. But what about you, Alfred? I don't imagine you came here to fight pirates.”

“No. I sure didn't. I'm just exploring. I've been exploring for more than two years now. But I want to become an environmentalist, and help protect the sea. I've seen some of the damage that's been done, and I want to help clean it up.”

“Now
there's
a noble cause if I ever heard one,” said François. “You've got my vote. Seems to me you're off to a good start.”

“You should go to Australia,” said Tom.

“Australia?”

“Yah. That's where the action is for environmentalism and the sea. That's where the Great Barrier Reef is. It's the largest reef system in the world. I visited there just two years ago. It's an awesome place. And it's
full
of environmentalists. If you want to get into the thick of active environmentalism, that's where you need to go. Tasmania, too. You won't find a more beautiful place, where people have been fighting for years to save the environment. And winning! Court cases in the papers, demonstrations, organizations going after whalers, that sort of thing. That's where I'd go if I were you.”

He sounded like he wanted to go right now.

“How long would it take you to sail to Australia?” said François.

“I don't know. I never thought about it. I was planning to sail around the Cape of Good Hope and back home to Newfoundland.”

“It's always good to go home,” said François.

“I'd go to Australia,” said Tom. “If I were in your shoes.” He looked excited.

“You just want to travel in his submarine, Tom, that's what you want. Hah, hah!”

After supper, François and Tom showed us where we could stay for the night. Hollie and I slept in a room in a small barracks right on the dock. We were the only ones in the room. I was given a bunk bed, and there was a shower in the hall. It didn't matter that the bed wasn't moving; we were so tired. Hollie curled up by my feet. Seaweed was outside somewhere,
maybe even sitting on the hull of the sub, because it was sitting on the surface and moored to the pier. The irony that we were being so well looked after by the navy, after hiding from navies and coastguards all over the world, was not lost on me as I drifted off to sleep. Funny, too, that it should happen in the most violent country in the world. Sometimes life was stranger than you could ever imagine it.

In the morning, François and Tom met us at the pier. I was happy to see that the sub was still there, moored between two navy harbour boats, as if it were part of the fleet. It was strange beyond words to see it tied up there. And I never had to worry about it because the pier was under constant surveillance. It almost felt like we were in the navy.

François and Tom drove onto the pier in a black pickup truck. They pulled out a bunch of supplies from the back. François had a stack of papers in his hand. “Okay, we got the paperwork done,” he said. “Here's your passport. It's got a stamp. And here's a visa. You can come and go as much as you like. It's good for one year.”

He handed me my passport. I opened it and saw the stamp, my very first one
ever
. There was a folded piece of paper stapled to another page. That was the visa. For the first time since I went to sea, two and a half years ago, I was actually travelling legally in another country.

“Wow! I can't believe it. Thank you so much! This is amazing.”

“That's not all,” said François. “We knew you didn't have papers for your sub, and so, here they are. Your sub is now
officially registered in the city of Port Elizabeth, in the country of South Africa.”

François handed me the registration papers. I stared at them and saw my name, a description of the sub, a serial number, an official stamp, and the South African flag. My mouth dropped. I really couldn't believe it. This was official documentation. I could present this anywhere.

“And here,” said François, “is our flag.” He handed me a shiny, brand new South African flag to fly from the portal.

I was really moved. “I don't know what to say. This is a really big thing. This will make my life so much better, I just cannot tell you. I can go through the Panama Canal now.”

François stood with folded arms and smiled.

“And,” said Tom, “we've got a South African navy issued rubber dinghy for you, an assortment of flares, a lifebuoy, some rope if you want it. And last, but not least, we're going to fill your tank with fuel, compliments of the South African navy, and our mutual friend, Mickey.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “And that reminds me. I have something of Mickey's that I'd like to give you to give to him.” I had decided this the moment I woke up.

“Sure thing. What would that be?”

“I'll have to get it out of the sub.”

I climbed into the sub, gathered up my food tins, and carried them out. I put them down on the pier, opened them up, stuck my hands inside, and pulled out the plastic bags. François and Tom watched with confused faces.