CHAPTER 11

The Sargasso Sea

THE NAUTILUS didn’t change direction. For the time being, then, we had

to set aside any hope of returning to European seas. Captain Nemo kept

his prow pointing south. Where was he taking us? I was afraid to

guess.

That day the Nautilus crossed an odd part of the Atlantic Ocean. No

one is unaware of the existence of that great warm-water current known

by name as the Gulf Stream. After emerging from channels off Florida,

it heads toward Spitzbergen. But before entering the Gulf of Mexico

near latitude 44 degrees north, this current divides into two arms;

its chief arm makes for the shores of Ireland and Norway while the

second flexes southward at the level of the Azores; then it hits the

coast of Africa, sweeps in a long oval, and returns to the Caribbean

Sea.

Now then, this second arm—more accurately, a collar—forms a ring of

warm water around a section of cool, tranquil, motionless ocean called

the Sargasso Sea. This is an actual lake in the open Atlantic, and the

great current’s waters take at least three years to circle it.

Properly speaking, the Sargasso Sea covers every submerged part of

Atlantis. Certain authors have even held that the many weeds strewn

over this sea were torn loose from the prairies of that ancient

continent. But it’s more likely that these grasses, algae, and fucus

plants were carried off from the beaches of Europe and America, then

taken as far as this zone by the Gulf Stream. This is one of the

reasons why Christopher Columbus assumed the existence of a New

World. When the ships of that bold investigator arrived in the

Sargasso Sea, they had great difficulty navigating in the midst of

these weeds, which, much to their crews’ dismay, slowed them down to a

halt; and they wasted three long weeks crossing this sector.

Such was the region our Nautilus was visiting just then: a genuine

prairie, a tightly woven carpet of algae, gulfweed, and bladder wrack

so dense and compact a craft’s stempost couldn’t tear through it

without difficulty. Accordingly, not wanting to entangle his propeller

in this weed-choked mass, Captain Nemo stayed at a depth some meters

below the surface of the waves.

The name Sargasso comes from the Spanish word “sargazo,” meaning

gulfweed. This gulfweed, the swimming gulfweed or berry carrier, is

the chief substance making up this immense shoal. And here’s why these

water plants collect in this placid Atlantic basin, according to the

expert on the subject, Commander Maury, author of The Physical

Geography of the Sea.

The explanation he gives seems to entail a set of conditions that

everybody knows: “Now,” Maury says, “if bits of cork or chaff, or any

floating substance, be put into a basin, and a circular motion be

given to the water, all the light substances will be found crowding

together near the center of the pool, where there is the least

motion. Just such a basin is the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf Stream,

and the Sargasso Sea is the center of the whirl.”

I share Maury’s view, and I was able to study the phenomenon in this

exclusive setting where ships rarely go. Above us, huddled among the

brown weeds, there floated objects originating from all over: tree

trunks ripped from the Rocky Mountains or the Andes and sent floating

down the Amazon or the Mississippi, numerous pieces of wreckage,

remnants of keels or undersides, bulwarks staved in and so weighed

down with seashells and barnacles, they couldn’t rise to the surface

of the ocean. And the passing years will someday bear out Maury’s

other view that by collecting in this way over the centuries, these

substances will be turned to stone by the action of the waters and

will then form inexhaustible coalfields. Valuable reserves prepared by

farseeing nature for that time when man will have exhausted his mines

on the continents.

In the midst of this hopelessly tangled fabric of weeds and fucus

plants, I noted some delightful pink-colored, star-shaped alcyon

coral, sea anemone trailing the long tresses of their tentacles, some

green, red, and blue jellyfish, and especially those big rhizostome

jellyfish that Cuvier described, whose bluish parasols are trimmed

with violet festoons.

We spent the whole day of February 22 in the Sargasso Sea, where fish

that dote on marine plants and crustaceans find plenty to eat. The

next day the ocean resumed its usual appearance.

From this moment on, for nineteen days from February 23 to March 12,

the Nautilus stayed in the middle of the Atlantic, hustling us along

at a constant speed of 100 leagues every twenty-four hours. It was

obvious that Captain Nemo wanted to carry out his underwater program,

and I had no doubt that he intended, after doubling Cape Horn, to

return to the Pacific South Seas.

So Ned Land had good reason to worry. In these wide seas empty of

islands, it was no longer feasible to jump ship. Nor did we have any

way to counter Captain Nemo’s whims. We had no choice but to

acquiesce; but if we couldn’t attain our end through force or cunning,

I liked to think we might achieve it through persuasion. Once this

voyage was over, might not Captain Nemo consent to set us free in

return for our promise never to reveal his existence? Our word of

honor, which we sincerely would have kept. However, this delicate

question would have to be negotiated with the captain. But how would

he receive our demands for freedom? At the very outset and in no

uncertain terms, hadn’t he declared that the secret of his life

required that we be permanently imprisoned on board the Nautilus?

Wouldn’t he see my four-month silence as a tacit acceptance of this

situation? Would my returning to this subject arouse suspicions that

could jeopardize our escape plans, if we had promising circumstances

for trying again later on? I weighed all these considerations, turned

them over in my mind, submitted them to Conseil, but he was as baffled

as I was. In short, although I’m not easily discouraged, I realized

that my chances of ever seeing my fellow men again were shrinking by

the day, especially at a time when Captain Nemo was recklessly racing

toward the south Atlantic!

During those nineteen days just mentioned, no unique incidents

distinguished our voyage. I saw little of the captain. He was at

work. In the library I often found books he had left open, especially

books on natural history. He had thumbed through my work on the great

ocean depths, and the margins were covered with his notes, which

sometimes contradicted my theories and formulations. But the captain

remained content with this method of refining my work, and he rarely

discussed it with me. Sometimes I heard melancholy sounds

reverberating from the organ, which he played very expressively, but

only at night in the midst of the most secretive darkness, while the

Nautilus slumbered in the wilderness of the ocean.

During this part of our voyage, we navigated on the surface of the

waves for entire days. The sea was nearly deserted. A few sailing

ships, laden for the East Indies, were heading toward the Cape of Good

Hope. One day we were chased by the longboats of a whaling vessel,

which undoubtedly viewed us as some enormous baleen whale of great

value. But Captain Nemo didn’t want these gallant gentlemen wasting

their time and energy, so he ended the hunt by diving beneath the

waters. This incident seemed to fascinate Ned Land intensely. I’m sure

the Canadian was sorry that these fishermen couldn’t harpoon our

sheet-iron cetacean and mortally wound it.

During this period the fish Conseil and I observed differed little

from those we had already studied in other latitudes. Chief among them

were specimens of that dreadful cartilaginous genus that’s divided

into three subgenera numbering at least thirty-two species: striped

sharks five meters long, the head squat and wider than the body, the

caudal fin curved, the back with seven big, black, parallel lines

running lengthwise; then perlon sharks, ash gray, pierced with seven

gill openings, furnished with a single dorsal fin placed almost

exactly in the middle of the body.

Some big dogfish also passed by, a voracious species of shark if there

ever was one. With some justice, fishermen’s yarns aren’t to be

trusted, but here’s what a few of them relate. Inside the corpse of

one of these animals there were found a buffalo head and a whole calf;

in another, two tuna and a sailor in uniform; in yet another, a

soldier with his saber; in another, finally, a horse with its

rider. In candor, none of these sounds like divinely inspired

truth. But the fact remains that not a single dogfish let itself get

caught in the Nautilus’s nets, so I can’t vouch for their voracity.

Schools of elegant, playful dolphin swam alongside for entire

days. They went in groups of five or six, hunting in packs like wolves

over the countryside; moreover, they’re just as voracious as dogfish,

if I can believe a certain Copenhagen professor who says that from one

dolphin’s stomach, he removed thirteen porpoises and fifteen

seals. True, it was a killer whale, belonging to the biggest known

species, whose length sometimes exceeds twenty-four feet. The family

Delphinia numbers ten genera, and the dolphins I saw were akin to the

genus Delphinorhynchus, remarkable for an extremely narrow muzzle four

times as long as the cranium. Measuring three meters, their bodies

were black on top, underneath a pinkish white strewn with small, very

scattered spots.

From these seas I’ll also mention some unusual specimens of croakers,

fish from the order Acanthopterygia, family Scienidea. Some

authors—more artistic than scientific—claim that these fish are

melodious singers, that their voices in unison put on concerts

unmatched by human choristers. I don’t say nay, but to my regret these

croakers didn’t serenade us as we passed.

Finally, to conclude, Conseil classified a large number of flying

fish. Nothing could have made a more unusual sight than the marvelous

timing with which dolphins hunt these fish. Whatever the range of its

flight, however evasive its trajectory (even up and over the

Nautilus), the hapless flying fish always found a dolphin to welcome

it with open mouth. These were either flying gurnards or kitelike sea

robins, whose lips glowed in the dark, at night scrawling fiery

streaks in the air before plunging into the murky waters like so many

shooting stars.

Our navigating continued under these conditions until March 13. That

day the Nautilus was put to work in some depth-sounding experiments

that fascinated me deeply.

By then we had fared nearly 13,000 leagues from our starting point in

the Pacific high seas. Our position fix placed us in latitude 45

degrees 37′ south and longitude 37 degrees 53′ west. These were the

same waterways where Captain Denham, aboard the Herald, payed out

14,000 meters of sounding line without finding bottom. It was here too

that Lieutenant Parker, aboard the American frigate Congress, was

unable to reach the underwater soil at 15,149 meters.

Captain Nemo decided to take his Nautilus down to the lowest depths in

order to double-check these different soundings. I got ready to record

the results of this experiment. The panels in the lounge opened, and

maneuvers began for reaching those strata so prodigiously far removed.

It was apparently considered out of the question to dive by filling

the ballast tanks. Perhaps they wouldn’t sufficiently increase the

Nautilus’s specific gravity. Moreover, in order to come back up, it

would be necessary to expel the excess water, and our pumps might not

have been strong enough to overcome the outside pressure.

Captain Nemo decided to make for the ocean floor by submerging on an

appropriately gradual diagonal with the help of his side fins, which

were set at a 45 degrees angle to the Nautilus’s waterline. Then the

propeller was brought to its maximum speed, and its four blades

churned the waves with indescribable violence.

Under this powerful thrust the Nautilus’s hull quivered like a

resonating chord, and the ship sank steadily under the

waters. Stationed in the lounge, the captain and I watched the needle

swerving swiftly over the pressure gauge. Soon we had gone below the

livable zone where most fish reside. Some of these animals can thrive

only at the surface of seas or rivers, but a minority can dwell at

fairly great depths. Among the latter I observed a species of dogfish

called the cow shark that’s equipped with six respiratory slits, the

telescope fish with its enormous eyes, the armored gurnard with gray

thoracic fins plus black pectoral fins and a breastplate protected by

pale red slabs of bone, then finally the grenadier, living at a depth

of 1,200 meters, by that point tolerating a pressure of 120

atmospheres.

I asked Captain Nemo if he had observed any fish at more considerable

depths.

“Fish? Rarely!” he answered me. “But given the current state of marine

science, who are we to presume, what do we really know of these

depths?”

“Just this, captain. In going toward the ocean’s lower strata, we know

that vegetable life disappears more quickly than animal life. We know

that moving creatures can still be encountered where water plants no

longer grow. We know that oysters and pilgrim scallops live in 2,000

meters of water, and that Admiral McClintock, England’s hero of the

polar seas, pulled in a live sea star from a depth of 2,500 meters. We

know that the crew of the Royal Navy’s Bulldog fished up a starfish

from 2,620 fathoms, hence from a depth of more than one vertical

league. Would you still say, Captain Nemo, that we really know

nothing?”

“No, professor,” the captain replied, “I wouldn’t be so

discourteous. Yet I’ll ask you to explain how these creatures can live

at such depths?”

“I explain it on two grounds,” I replied. “In the first place, because

vertical currents, which are caused by differences in the water’s

salinity and density, can produce enough motion to sustain the

rudimentary lifestyles of sea lilies and starfish.”

“True,” the captain put in.

“In the second place, because oxygen is the basis of life, and we know

that the amount of oxygen dissolved in salt water increases rather

than decreases with depth, that the pressure in these lower strata

helps to concentrate their oxygen content.”

“Oho! We know that, do we?” Captain Nemo replied in a tone of mild

surprise. “Well, professor, we have good reason to know it because

it’s the truth. I might add, in fact, that the air bladders of fish

contain more nitrogen than oxygen when these animals are caught at the

surface of the water, and conversely, more oxygen than nitrogen when

they’re pulled up from the lower depths. Which bears out your

formulation. But let’s continue our observations.”

My eyes flew back to the pressure gauge. The instrument indicated a

depth of 6,000 meters. Our submergence had been going on for an

hour. The Nautilus slid downward on its slanting fins, still

sinking. These deserted waters were wonderfully clear, with a

transparency impossible to convey. An hour later we were at 13,000

meters—about three and a quarter vertical leagues—and the ocean floor

was nowhere in sight.

However, at 14,000 meters I saw blackish peaks rising in the midst of

the waters. But these summits could have belonged to mountains as high

or even higher than the Himalayas or Mt. Blanc, and the extent of

these depths remained incalculable.

Despite the powerful pressures it was undergoing, the Nautilus sank

still deeper. I could feel its sheet-iron plates trembling down to

their riveted joins; metal bars arched; bulkheads groaned; the lounge

windows seemed to be warping inward under the water’s pressure. And

this whole sturdy mechanism would surely have given way, if, as its

captain had said, it weren’t capable of resisting like a solid block.

While grazing these rocky slopes lost under the waters, I still

spotted some seashells, tube worms, lively annelid worms from the

genus Spirorbis, and certain starfish specimens.

But soon these last representatives of animal life vanished, and three

vertical leagues down, the Nautilus passed below the limits of

underwater existence just as an air balloon rises above the breathable

zones in the sky. We reached a depth of 16,000 meters—four vertical

leagues—and by then the Nautilus’s plating was tolerating a pressure

of 1,600 atmospheres, in other words, 1,600 kilograms per each square

centimeter on its surface!

“What an experience!” I exclaimed. “Traveling these deep regions where

no man has ever ventured before! Look, captain! Look at these

magnificent rocks, these uninhabited caves, these last global haunts

where life is no longer possible! What unheard-of scenery, and why are

we reduced to preserving it only as a memory?”

“Would you like,” Captain Nemo asked me, “to bring back more than just

a memory?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that nothing could be easier than taking a photograph of this

underwater region!”

Before I had time to express the surprise this new proposition caused

me, a camera was carried into the lounge at Captain Nemo’s

request. The liquid setting, electrically lit, unfolded with perfect

clarity through the wide-open panels. No shadows, no blurs, thanks to

our artificial light. Not even sunshine could have been better for our

purposes. With the thrust of its propeller curbed by the slant of its

fins, the Nautilus stood still. The camera was aimed at the scenery on

the ocean floor, and in a few seconds we had a perfect negative.

I attach a print of the positive. In it you can view these primordial

rocks that have never seen the light of day, this nether granite that

forms the powerful foundation of our globe, the deep caves cut into

the stony mass, the outlines of incomparable distinctness whose far

edges stand out in black as if from the brush of certain Flemish

painters. In the distance is a mountainous horizon, a wondrously

undulating line that makes up the background of this landscape. The

general effect of these smooth rocks is indescribable: black,

polished, without moss or other blemish, carved into strange shapes,

sitting firmly on a carpet of sand that sparkled beneath our streams

of electric light.

Meanwhile, his photographic operations over, Captain Nemo told me:

“Let’s go back up, professor. We mustn’t push our luck and expose the

Nautilus too long to these pressures.”

“Let’s go back up!” I replied.

“Hold on tight.”

Before I had time to realize why the captain made this recommendation,

I was hurled to the carpet.

Its fins set vertically, its propeller thrown in gear at the captain’s

signal, the Nautilus rose with lightning speed, shooting upward like

an air balloon into the sky. Vibrating resonantly, it knifed through

the watery mass. Not a single detail was visible. In four minutes it

had cleared the four vertical leagues separating it from the surface

of the ocean, and after emerging like a flying fish, it fell back into

the sea, making the waves leap to prodigious heights.