Chapter Twenty

“DID YOU GET HIS autograph, Al?”

“Uh … no, I never thought about it.”

“You spent a couple of days with Douglas Nickels and didn’t even get his autograph?”

“He’s just a regular guy … well, except out in public. You wouldn’t believe the fuss people make over him.”

“I think I would. Do you realize he’s married to Greta Sachs, one of the most beautiful women in the world?”

“Sheba’s more beautiful!”

“Al. Are you telling me you met Greta Sachs too?”

“Yes, but Sheba’s more beautiful and a lot smarter.”

“I will tell her you said that. But Geez, Al, what did Greta Sachs say?”

“Not much. She really wanted some ant traps but we forgot to buy them.”

“Unbelievable! So what’s next? Where are you sailing next?”

“Well, I think I should avoid France, because they’ve got the biggest submarine fleet in the Mediterranean. I think we’ll go south from here, towards Italy.”

“I’m looking at the map as we speak. Looks like Corsica and Sardinia are in your path.”

“I know but we can sail between them, through the Strait of Bonifacio.”

“Italy has submarines too, you know.”

“Oh yah. Well, maybe I should stick to North Africa. It’s pretty nice there and it’s a lot less busy.”

“Okay, but avoid Libya. The newspapers say there are terrorists there.”

“I will, though I don’t believe everything the newspapers say.”

“Better safe than sorry, Al.”

“True.”

Ziegfried was the voice of caution.

I decided to sail for Tunisia for a chance to peek at the greatest desert in the world. It would have been nice to sail through the Strait of Bonifacio, but that was just too risky. The north side was Corsica, a large island belonging to France, and the birthplace of Napoleon. The south side was Sardinia, a large island belonging to Italy. Both would have been patrolled by navy and coastguard ships, possibly even submarines. In fact, according to my guidebooks, there were twenty-four NATO bases on Sardinia. Yikes! But Sardinia also had a few incredible things, such as a herd of miniature horses and the world’s only albino donkeys. The miniature horses really were horses, not ponies, even though they stood only three feet tall. How I wished I could have seen them. But they were too far inland. I didn’t see how we could get there.

The problem with the donkeys was that they were on a smaller island, Isola Asinara, that also just happened to have a maximum-security prison. It was little wonder I had a bad feeling about that place.

Something else Sardinia was famous for was its caves. They were cut out of cliffs that dropped into the sea. Since we were going to sail so close to the island anyway, I thought maybe we could take a peek at the cliffs as we went by, maybe even get Hollie out for a run on the beach.

From a distance, through binoculars, the caves looked like black dots on a white birthday cake. I entered the twelve-mile zone a bit nervously. Why would one island have twenty-four NATO bases anyway? Canada was part of NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, and maybe that would work in our favour if we were stopped. We crossed the line before dawn and I raised the Canadian and Italian flags while it was still dark, just in case we were being watched as the sun came up.

Five miles from the cliffs I hadn’t picked up much on radar, just a few fishing boats. For an island with twenty-four NATO bases it seemed strangely quiet. And then, from the north came a radar beep, and it was coming in too fast to be a ship. Yikes! A helicopter or a plane! We didn’t even have time to dive. Well, we could have dived but would have been spotted from the air anyway, the very moment we appeared on their radar screen. It was a good thing we were not submerged, and were sailing with proper flags. We were at least legal.

It was a small plane. It flew right over our heads, made a turn and a second pass, taking a closer look. I stood on the portal and waved. I wanted to show them we were friendly. The plane dipped its wing, a way of saying hello. That was a good sign. They must have identified our flags. Was it the coastguard? I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just a pleasure craft. Would they report us? Probably, but I couldn’t know for sure. What to do — take the chance and go see the caves, or play it cautious and leave the twelve-mile zone? What would Ziegfried do? I looked down the portal at Hollie, wagging his tail and staring up expectantly. “I’m sorry, Hollie. There will be other beaches. We’ll find another one.” I turned the sub around. Less than an hour later I was glad I did. Radar revealed two ships leaving the shore in our direction, but too far away to catch us before we reached the twelve-mile zone. Then, just as we were leaving the zone, the plane flew over us once again. This time I got a closer look at it with binoculars. It was the Italian coastguard all right. I waved again as we left their waters. They dipped their wing. Ciao!

We would have to visit caves somewhere else.

Tunisia offered the best opportunity to see the Sahara. The desert wore a collar of mountains along its northern border, hundreds of miles thick in places. But in Tunisia, in the Gulf of Gabes, the Sahara reached up a thin finger and touched the sea. It was the one spot where we had a chance to see it, if we were lucky.

Also in the Gulf of Gabes was the island of Jerba, where fishermen still dived for sea sponges, although it was a dying tradition. And, there were reports of a sunken city! Could it be Atlantis? Probably not.

Gabes, a coastal town on the mainland, was the gateway to Chott El Jerid, a large salt lake that supposedly sparkled like jewels but was as barren as the moon. It was a place where you could see mirages. I wanted to see that too!

It took only a day to reach the coast of Tunisia. In the Atlantic, a day’s journey didn’t take you very far. In the Mediterranean it took you everywhere. But we were now two days at sea without a break. I hadn’t slept at all, and Hollie hadn’t been out for a run. The coast of Tunisia made a sudden downward turn, like an elbow joint, and went south for about six hundred miles before straightening out on the border with Libya. In the darkness of night, with our lights on and a hot breeze coming from the desert, we went down the coast, keeping an eye open for traffic and ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. Just a couple of hours before sunrise we reached the island of Jerba, the Land of the Lotus-Eaters, according to my guidebook, and the very island where Odysseus and his crew were bewitched into never wanting to leave. As beautiful as it might be, I didn’t think we would have that problem.

The periscope revealed a makeshift breakwater — just a pile of large rocks tossed into the sea — a wide beach, and not a soul. I surfaced and opened the hatch. Seaweed went out and inspected our surroundings. Hollie and I climbed out, moored the sub to a rock and hopped onto the beach.

Hollie was such a smart dog. He never barked in a strange place. Nor did he run far away. We went down the beach about half a mile, back up, and down again. The air was hot and dry and very pleasant. The sand was warm beneath my feet. The sky sparkled like a chest full of jewels. It felt wonderful to be back on the continent of Africa.