01x12 - The Water Planet

[bunniefuu]

Infant man, ancient Medusa,

all living things, plant and animal,

are largely molecular
arrangements of water.

The pulsing life force of the
exotically evolved pelagia

shares with the rhythmic contractions
of the human heart a common ancestry.

Brewed in that unique
cosmic plasma, the sea,

mother of all life.

Today marks the end of the
third year of our expedition.

Faithful Calypso has carried us
nearly 140,000 nautical miles.

And the divers have spent the one man
equivalent of 14 months in the depth.

Yet we go on, farther
and deeper in the sea.

There is a fresh sense
of urgency in our work,

observing and reporting on the
awesome alchemy of the sea.

For we could well be the first
witnesses to the death of life.

It is tragic that among all the men

scurrying about the tiny continental
islands of our water planet,

too few are able to sense the
serum coursing in their veins.

Too few who can feel,
I am the sea and the sea is me.

Every living thing,

eagles, roses, whales,

butterflies, trees, fishes,

corn, turtles, amoebas,

and even man himself,

all are mainly composed
of organized water.

No matter what the form of water,

clouds, snow, dew,
rivers, lakes, or glaciers,

there is only one source of
life-sustaining water, the sea.

On no other planet of
our entire solar system

is there another great sea,

ripe with the vital
elements of the universe.

The Earth is the only water planet.

Man then, as a chance traveler on
the water gifted spaceship Earth,

must never forget that all of
the waters of the world today

are the same waters which first
materialized on the newly born Earth,

four and a half billion years ago.

That's all the water there is.

There won't be anymore.

If most inland bodies of water
are not contaminated by men,

they too are able to sustain
specialized forms of life.

But there are exceptions,

such as the Great Salt Lake,

or the aptly named Dead Sea.

Another is here, Lake Assal

in the Danakil Desert of
West Africa's Somaliland.

Without natural outlets,

and located in once humid
but now arid climates,

the Dead Seas or Salt Lakes
gradually evaporate.

This causes the proportion of salts,

long ago derived from
the surrounding rocks,

to increase to a searing
saturation, lethal to all life.

Our diver Serge Foulon

cannot resist proving out
an old Archimedean principle.

Sun shrunken to nearly


the waters of Lake Assal
are heavy with salt.

The additional buoyancy turns
Serge into a fishing bobber.

The combined weight of Serge
and his equipment is 200 pounds,

normally balanced
for diving in the sea.

But only with the addition of


can Serge submerge below
the surface of Lake Assal.

In the hazy shallows,
Serge quickly discovers

sunken gardens of
strange crystal flowers.

Perhaps it is salt.

So Serge obtains for us,
not without difficulty,

a lab specimen of this
unusual mineral blossom.

There are other rare bodies of water

which can only support
the most limited kind of life.

Such as the much publicized
Crystal Lakes of Florida and Australia,

or the lesser known Seven
Lakes of Madagascar.

Beaded along the Tropic of Capricorn

and terraced beneath the wind-scoured
escarpments of the La Sallo Mountains,

the Seven Lakes are fed by chilling
streams of sun-distilled rain.

Barely enriched by the
erosion-resistant terrain,

the water flows into the


almost as pure as it was in
its cumulus configuration.

The incredible clarity of the water
reveals its total barrenness.

The only visible life are fragile algaes

clinging to the branches of decaying
trees like saprophytic snow.

Here, there are too
few dissolved salts,

too few suspended mineral nutrients
to cloud the water with fecundity.

There is a lack of photosynthetic
plants here,

and without plants underwater
creatures cannot survive.

It is only in the sea

that the chemistry for life
remains relatively stable.

Here, phosphates, nitrates,
iron compounds,

all the salts of the earth and
the gases of the atmosphere

are energized by the sun.

And they have long been
stirred by the winds and tides

into 330 million cubic miles
of a life-producing protoplasm.

It is estimated that 200 billion
tons of drifting aquatic dust,

microscopic specks of plant life,
bloom in the sea each year.

These enormous pastures
of phytoplankton

are the first link in a
long complex food chain,

interconnecting several hundred
thousand species of marine life,

and ultimately, man.

During the first 100,000
years of his existence,

most men dwelled along coastal areas.

Hence, man's integration
with the life cycles of the sea

was more direct, more apparent.

For example, he might use the remains
of a fish he had eaten to trap a crab.

He would then use the
crab to catch small bait fish.

The bait fish would then be
used to catch a larger fish

for him and his family to eat.

Once more, with the remains of the
large fish, he would catch another crab.

And so on, repeating the
process over and over again

throughout his short lifespan.

Then, upon his death, all that he was,
was returned to the deep.

The essences of his body slowly seeped
back to the waters of their origin.

The Maldives islanders
of the Indian Ocean

conduct their ancient rites of the sea

in a quaint, but nevertheless
efficient manner.

In their Viking-like fishing craft,

built hull first, with the
ribs added afterwards.

They construct a live bait compartment
drilled with holes below the water line.

This method of keeping
the bait live works,

but it also means the Maldivers
are sailing perpetually sinking ships.

So to remain afloat,
crewmen must perpetually bail.

But there is more method to this
Maldivian madness than meets the eye.

??? of a few Judas bait fish,

combined with the agitation
of the water's surface,

deceives hungry bonito
into a frenzy of feeding.

Savagely, they attack
the flashing splashes,

which no doubt appear to
be a school of escaping fry.

Among some of the Maldive fishermen,
there is an ancient law.

Take no more from the sea in one day
than there are people in your village.

If observed, it is said, the bonito
will run well again another day.

Beyond the shallow water
horizons of the Maldive islands,

other men fish for the
people of their villages.

Their catch, 200,000
tons of fish daily,



The villages have grown.

As the world population soars
and its land resources shrink,

man has accelerated his
exploitation of the sea.

His technology is imaginative and
efficient, but potentially disastrous.

For the sea, mother of all
life on the water planet,

is not, after all, invulnerable.

The future of the sea
is now dependent

upon man's understanding of
her strengths and precarities,

and man's profound respect
for her life-producing nature.

The alternative is clear.

We have not sighted
another ship in weeks.

Often I am vaguely haunted
by a fantasy that we are alone,

that beyond the horizon
there is no longer a landfall.

But the sun draws
reason to the surface

and my thoughts return
to our primary mission,

to observe and record on
film the life song of the sea.

In 1893, Frenchman Louis Boutin

was the first to succeed in
taking underwater pictures.

It was said that he achieved
his remarkable results

in the face of obstacles that would
give pause to ordinary men.

Today, filming in the
depths of the water planet

still remains a formidable task.

Frequently, we must improvise
our filming techniques

because of our diving time
or the wariness of wildlife.

For example, the shy garden eels

withdraw tail-first into
their sand burrows.

To film this exceptional
method of defense,

two remotely operated
cameras are required.

One wide-angle,
the other for close-ups.

Another diver then approaches
the meadow of eels,

causing them to take protective
cover in their own unique way.

Calypso cameramen must constantly
struggle with poor visibility,

turbulent currents
and pressure problems.

But their greatest concern is keeping
the interior of their cameras dry.

The results of their unimaginable
patience and stamina

can be annihilated even
by the slightest leak.

Hence, detailed stripping,
desalting and reassembly

of the 326 pieces of a flooded
precision instrument

takes priority over
all other ships' work.

But not for long.

For the team of 29 who man Calypso,
life aboard is an incessant labor.

Repair and re-repair,

improvise and re-improvise,

and when it's all fixed,
all fashioned,

refix it and refashion
it all over again.

The work requires pros,

men who've got guts and brains,
and few romantic illusions.

There are no Conrads here,
no Melville's, no Lowry's,

only realists with two or more trades.

Only men who can endure,

ignore or shrug off long confinement,

the perpetual rack
and pitch of Calypso,

the endless cacophony of wind and sea,

machinery and other men's work.

And when it isn't fix it,
it's scrub it or paint it,

an endless fight against
corrosion, peeling, blistering.

Whatever the job,
complex or mundane,

the men of Calypso do
it and they do it well.

They all know that they are vital
parts of a collective endeavor,

that our discoveries will be seen
by millions of television viewers,

and that our awe will echo in the
hearts of young people worldwide.

Work about Calypso is also
no nine to five proposition.

For while there are intermittent
meals and sleep-pikes,

the work is continuous.

But then, of course, there
is always the unexpected.

In the darkness of an early
morning, a runaway engine.

Intuitively, the pajama-clad
Falco goes over the side.


nearest dry dock facility,

Calypso's starboard propeller shaft is
snapped off clean at its bearing case.

Water drag has carried it back
against the rudder, jamming it.

Calypso is helpless.

At first light, the emergency
work party moves into action.

A filmed record of the
operation will be made.

While at the same time,
underwater television cameras

will enable Cousteau to
direct the work from topside.

With extreme caution,
the divers move to secure

the precariously balanced


Below them lies 13,000 feet of water.

Loss of the prop would mean serious
delays in Cousteau's schedule.

Next, the divers remove
the propeller cap nut.

In the choppy sea, there's no certainty
that the winch cables will hold.

All's well for the moment,
but a lengthy dry docking lies ahead.

Later that night, Captain Cousteau
makes an entry in his personal logbook.

At times, I find myself flirting with
a morbid seduction of lassitude.

The constant breakdowns, repairs,
delays, empty me of resolve.

And in the bilges of my mind,

I deeply resent anything and anybody
which interrupts our dreams of action.

Even the necessity of dry docking
or taking on fuel and provisions

becomes adversity.

And in the blackest
of my black moments,

when my imagination has worn thin,

I feel I can no longer tolerate this
constantly rocking and dripping ship.

Its bugs, chlorinated water,

its deafening noises,

even the bell calling us to meals.

Our poor cook. I hate
him too for competing

to make our stomachs the
focus of our expeditions.

Even the joyous interruptions of our
infrequent mail calls demoralizes me.

And then, those agonizing questions.

Am I sincere?

Why am I doing all this?

And who after all cares?

Only the tiny seas of my cells reply,

reminding me too that I am the sea,

and the sea is me.

In the morning sun,

Cousteau directs his divers to
investigate a disturbance in the sea.

Cousteau knows that often when the birds
of the sea gather in shrieking assembly

and dive frantically
beneath the surface,

it signals the presence of death.

A ravaged mola mola,
an oceanic sunfish,

has attracted the scavenging gregolds.

Like winged piranhas, they strip the
flesh from the still living mola mola.

This day, death is a sea lion,
several of them.

Momentarily distracted by
Calypso's divers and cameramen,

they now return to
claim what is theirs.

Below, the divers discover that
the sea lions have torn off

the tall dorsal and ventral swimming
fins of several mola mola fish.

Even their stabilizing pectoral fins
have been chewed away from their bodies.

Stripped of their ability
to swim and maneuver,

the mola molas will now
become a live food reserve

for the cunning and
resourceful sea lions.

Once convinced that the c*ptive
mola mola is exhausted and helpless,

the sea lions scatter
in search of other prey.

In the natural world,
there is no cruelty,

no charity, and no hypocrisy.

Things are simply what they are.

Since the beginning, there has
been no good, no evil in the wild.

Only a day-to-day existence
fraught with perpetual fights and

struggles against environment,
parasites, enemies.

One cannot moralize
about the purity of nature.

Indeed, long before man and
his ideas, nature endured.

And who knows, in the end,
it may be nature which prevails.

Exploring in the depths of
the sea is grinding work.

Yet as Calypso criss-crosses
the wide oceans of the world,

following the migrations of life
and the seasons of the sea,

there is time to rest,
time to feed the body and spirit.

Each man must decide for
himself what's most restorative.

For a topside bosun's mate,

it's making friends with the
easily tamable triggerfish.

For Andre Laban,

it's a quiet afternoon
with his paints and easel,

alone at last, away from it all.

Alone, that is, except for the
always ubiquitous kibitzer.

But 100 feet down,
there's a grace note.

Laban will be spared that
eternal question, what is it?

And the kibitzer will be
spared a reply of equal acuity.

Appraising his work,
Laban moodily reflects back

to the occasion of his
first important showing.

Celebrities, critics, champagne, music.

Gallery Row in Los Angeles.

It was loud, g*y, friendly,
and everybody was there.

Fantastic, they said.

Bold and vivid, excitingly fresh.

The phrases warmed the air
and Laban's innocent ego.

So why, broods Laban?

Why didn't anyone say, how much?

Next to diving, the closest thing
to a diver's heart is gastronomic.

With luck and a little free time,

the two interests sometimes
coincide brilliantly.


and then an extraordinary find.

Sea-chilled bottles,

with a tantalizingly
familiar color and shape.

Cousteau is astonished,
and the diver's expectant.

They explain, they discover the remains
of a wrecked ship, a cargo vessel.

Gauged by its deterioration,

they estimated its age
to be about 50 years.

Deep within the crumpled vessel,
probably the galley,

they found stacks of chinaware

and a motherlode of the
carefully packed bottles.

To the divers, it was
simply a matter of fate.

Quite obviously,
broiled lobster tails

deserve to be accompanied by
a beverage of exotic interest.

No time was wasted in
returning to Calypso.

Cool, tangy English brew.

Good reason for a good time.

The men of Calypso,
all men of the sea,

know well that life can be short

and that the good life is best
whenever and wherever you find it.

I know too that sometimes

the men of Calypso hide moments
of loneliness and desperation.

But somehow this breed of men can
always find a way out of darkness.

Few ports of call for the sea-roaming
Calypso are 20th century.

But when they are, it's an occasion.

Cousteau's adventure, courage, news.

The curious, the concerned,
the well-wishers welcome him.

Their most common question,
how can I help?

Cousteau's most frequent reply,
love life.

Perhaps above all, it is this capacity
of Cousteau to love all life,

which prompts to memory vivid images
of his total commitment to the sea.

But for Cousteau,
what's past is indeed prologue.

Many tasks lie ahead, some to begin,
some to complete.

And time has a way of running out.

Not long ago, the Pacific Walrus,
monarchs of the Arctic,

flourished a quarter
of a million strong.

But today the herds have been
reduced greatly by b*llet and lance.

They are not very elegant, the great
ones who walk with their teeth.

But they deserve compassion
and protection.

I believe there are more
important things in life

than hides, oil, meat or ivory.

I am also anxious to complete
our film on the red salmon,

the anadromous strain.

As adults, salmon cruise
the depth of the sea.

But to spawn a new generation,

they are compelled to
return thousands of miles

to the same freshwater
streams of their birth.

Many never make it.

Commercial fishermen
net them by the ton.

And thousands are defeated by
the insurmountable waterfalls

blocking their way upstream.

The salmon who do clear
the water obstacles

must face other adversaries,
predator or climate.

For a single season of low rainfall

can often make the final leg
of the salmon's journey home

the most hazardous.

The unfinished project which
presents us with the most problems

also gives us the most pleasure.

The sea otter.

Extraordinarily intelligent and crafty,

we have found sea otters the most
difficult of all sea creatures to observe,

to study, to film in the wild.

But slowly we are making friends
with these gourmets of the sea.

Once technically extinct but
now completely protected,

the sea otter thrives.

His fastidiousness is remarkable.

If the sea otter's fur is
soiled by food or mud,

it means loss of insulation and
exposure to lethally low temperatures.

Grooming, therefore,
is constant and comical.

In 1944, Operation Hailstone

was acclaimed a great American
victory against Japan.

The Battle of Truk Island
was sweet revenge,

they say, for the sneak
attack on Pearl Harbor.

Today, the largest concentration of
sunken planes and ships in the world

lies in one of the most lovely
underwater paradise in the South Seas.

Still entombed within this
decomposing residue of violence

are the countless artifacts
and drifting bones

of those who once dared
dream the dream of w*r.

We are anxious to complete
our documentation

of this tragic encounter
between man and nature.

Devil fish, most common misnomer
for the shy and intelligent octopus.

Even our divers admitted
at first slight revulsion

at the thought of handling
the tentacled creatures.

But in the end, divers
and octopus became,

they said, quite attached
to each other.

Our study of the behavior of the
octopus will take many months.

Observing them under controlled
conditions is an exercise in patience.

Houdini of the deep, the c*ptive
octopus is a notorious escape artist.

As hunters of crustaceans in
underwater holes and caves,

the octopus has developed the
ability of passing his entire body

through an opening no larger than
the diameter of one of his tentacles.

So our specimen octopus
has little difficulty in slipping

through a sheaf hole on his quiet and
deliberate journey back to the sea.

We are always hurrying to observe the
oddest behavior of the ocean's denizens.

Today, our curiosity is aroused by
a pack of thousands of barracuda.

En masse, they surround their quarry

and devour a few whenever
they feel the urge.

Small and large barracuda,

the octopus who vanishes in the night.

Wrecks consigned to the ocean floor.

Salmon, walrus, sea otters.

An old song of the sea returns to mind.

"I will go back to the
great sweet mother,"

"mother and lover of man, the sea."

"I will go down to her,
I and none other,"

"close with her, kiss her,
and mix her with me."