Free Seas of South Africa by Philip Roy

floor. Seaweed, Hollie, and Little Laura were standing by my feet, watching every move, and hoping I would drop one. The air was a little smoky. The sub smelled a bit like a restaurant, which was a huge improvement.
    I had just sat down and taken the first bite when the radarbeeped. I glanced over and saw the light blinking on the screen. There had been surprisingly few vessels in the water all along the Mozambique coast, and I had gone out of my way to avoid them these past few days. But this vessel wasn’t coming from the north or south, it was coming from shore.
    I put my plate down, picked up the binoculars, climbed the ladder, and scanned the water. There was nothing there. Not a thing. That was weird. I ducked my head inside and listened. The radar was still beeping. So, I looked more carefully, drawing the binoculars along the shoreline very slowly. Nope. There was nothing there. What the heck?
    I jumped back inside and took another look at the radar screen. Whatever had been three miles away from us was now just a mile. The only thing that could move that fast was an airplane, or a helicopter. But I never heard one. I raced back up the portal and scanned the sky. Yup. There it was.
    It was sort of an airplane. I couldn’t tell if it was really old, or really new. There was someone in it, but he wasn’t covered. He was pedalling with his legs, and swinging levers with his arms. There was a small engine in front, a propeller, and a pair of wings that looked like they were made of canvas. In the centre was a bicycle. He was pedalling as if he were in a race. But he was losing. The plane was coming down. He was going to hit the water.
    At first he didn’t see me, until I waved with both of my arms over my head. And then he did. He made an awkward turn, losing more height, and steered towards us. But hewasn’t going to make it. I couldn’t hear his engine because it wasn’t running. He was pedalling faster and faster, trying to stay aloft. The bicycle must have been hooked up to the propeller, and it was spinning, but it wasn’t enough to keep him in the air.
    I watched him drift closer. He looked frantic. I wondered if he could swim. I jumped inside, switched on the engine, and motored towards him. Just as I poked my head out of the portal again, he plunged into the sea. He dropped like a dead bird.
    His plane didn’t sink right away, and he was clinging to it like somebody who couldn’t swim. As we approached, I cut the engine and drifted to a stop. He was staring at me with a mix of panic and curiosity. He was a few years older than me. “Are you okay,” I yelled?
    He didn’t answer. He was trying to untangle himself. That was a good idea; his plane was going to sink. I grabbed the lifebuoy. “Do you want this?”
    He looked up. “Is that a diesel-electric submarine?”
    â€œYes.”
    He wrestled free of his contraption, but never took his eyes away from the sub. “Where are you from?”
    â€œCanada.”
    â€œCanada? What are you . . . ?”
    â€œCan you swim?”
    â€œNo.” He said it as if it was not important. I threw the lifebuoy at him. “Here. Pull it over your head and I’ll haul you over.”
    He pulled the lifebuoy over one shoulder and began thrashing at the water. I yanked hard on the rope. He tried to swim, in a panicky sort of way, but it was as if he didn’t even know what water was. His eyes were wild with panic, like an animal, yet he couldn’t seem to take them away from the sub. It was the worst attempt at swimming I had ever seen. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere but straight down if I hadn’t been pulling on the rope.
    By the time he reached a handle and climbed halfway up, he was exhausted. I waited for him to catch his breath. When he did, he continued talking, as if he had never stopped. “Are you burning diesel fuel?”
    â€œOf course. It’s a diesel