At the point when the sea liner Andrea Doria sank south of Cape Cod, she brought fifty-one with her. From that point forward she’s taken twelve more, five in the last two summers alone. On this very day, a man is tying on two hundred pounds of scuba apparatus to influence the plummet, to bring back a little trinket from the watercraft’s blessing to shop, to conceivably stay away for the indefinite future.
You hurl in your sailor’s bunk and dream the most established, strangest scavenger’s fantasy: Something has siphoned away every one of the waters of the oceans, and you’re taking a frosty, sodden climb down into the world’s vacant pool. Brew jars, busted channels, solid squares, staple trucks, a Cadillac on its back, each of the four tires missing- – each protest throws a long, stark shadow on the puddled sand. With the Manhattan horizon and the Statue of Liberty behind you, you trek due east into the dawn, following the dangerous trough of the Hudson River’s surge – referred to jumpers in these parts as the Mudhole- – until the point when you arrive, a few miles out, at Wreck Valley.You see entire angling armadas sleeping on their sides and around a million lobsters slithering around like goliath cockroaches, waving jumbled recieving wires in the thin air. Better believe it, what a dump of history you see, a genuine Coney Island of fiascoes. The best human movement in the historical backdrop of the world went through here, first in a stream of dauntless hard-asses, and afterward in that popular surge of crouched masses, Western man’s fundamental show fate arcing over the northern sea. The entire story is composed in the remains: in worm-ridden middens, unimportant stinking heaps of mud; in tall boats bit to angle bone skeletons; five-hundred-foot steel-plated cruisers plunked down onto their firearms; the battered stogie containers of German U-water crafts; and smooth yachts left close by depressed tubs as unassuming as old boots.
You can’t stop to jab around or fill your pockets with trinkets. You’re on an excursion to the landmass’ edge, where maybe the missing water still fills the Atlantic chasm with the colossal thunder of a thousand Niagaras. Something holds up there that may clarify, and that must legitimize, your essence in this nonappearance, this scooped-out plain where no living soul has a place. What’s more, you know, with a sudden chill, that lone your faith in the fantasy, the concentration of your brain and your will on the likelihood of the incomprehensible, keeps down the obliterating weight of the water.
You wake up oblivious and for a minute don’t know where you are, until the point that you hear the drone of the diesel and feel the bar roll. At that point you understand that what stirred you was the sudden diminishing of clamor, the motor throttling down, and the pontoon and the bunk you lie in dying down into the swell, and you recall that you are on the vast ocean, gravitating toward to the disaster area of the Andrea Doria. You feel the pontoon incline toward a turn, journey a little ways, and afterward turn once more, and you derive that up in the pilothouse, Captain Dan Crowell has started to “cut the grass,” guiding the sixty-foot investigation vessel the Seeker forward and backward, taking her through a progression of moderate passes, sniffing for the Doria.
Crowell, whom you met the previous evening when you pulled your apparatus on board, is a major, rough looking person, around six feet two crawls in deck shoes, with sandy dark colored hair and a brush mustache. Just his huge, somewhat hooded eyes put an alternate turn on his generally abrupt appearance; when he flickers into the green light of the sonar screen, he looks like an insightful sentinel owl. Another light sparkles in the wheelhouse: a PC, basic to the sort of specialized jumping Crowell cherishes.
The Seeker’s team of five divvies up 90 minutes looks for the ten-hour trip from Montauk, Long Island, however Crowell will have been up throughout the night in a condition of tense carefulness. A veteran of fifty Doria trips, Crowell considers the hundred-mile voyage – both going back and forth – to be the most hazardous piece of the sanction, plagued by inevitable risk of haze and tempest and overwhelming transportation movement. It’s not in vain that sailors call this fix of sea where the Andrea Doria slammed into another sea liner the “Times Square of the Atlantic.”
You feel the Seeker’s motor down with a snarl and can think about what Crowell is seeing now on the forward-looking sonar screen: a scattering of pixels, similar to the attractive shavings on one of those draw-the-whiskers slates, blending into halfway depictions of the seven-hundred-foot liner. What the sonar renders is yet a pale dim picture of the outsized mass, which, in the event that it stood up on its stern on the last, 250 feet underneath, would tower almost fifty stories over the Seeker, dribbling and thundering like Godzilla. In all likelihood you’re specifically over her now, a vicinity you feel in the pit of your stomach. As much as the physical wreck itself, it’s the Doria legend you feel releasing upward through the Seeker’s structure like some sort of radiation.