01x14 - Lagoon of Lost Ships

[bunniefuu]

The central Pacific,

longitude 150 degrees east,

latitude 7 degrees north.

Aboard an antiquated tug,

appropriately named Hopeful,

a group of divers from the Calypso under
the leadership of Philippe Cousteau

approach a group of volcanic
islands in the heart of Micronesia.

Within the islands
is their destination,

a 40 mile wide natural harbor,

once one of the finest
anchorages in the world,

despoiled now by remnants of w*r.

Truk Lagoon.

Phillippe Cousteau.

The wrecks grounded in the lagoon

bore silent witness to an American
bombing mission of World w*r II,

more than 25 years ago.

These weather-beaten relics
were merely the prologue.

There were over 30 Japanese warships
lying on the bottom of the lagoon,

and our assignment would be
to dive and search for them.

For the children of Truk,

the remnants of w*r have become
a natural part of the environment.

Our goal lay beneath the sea,

the fleet of ships submerged in the
lagoon for a quarter of a century.

Truk, a tropical atoll on the
eastern tip of the Caroline Islands,

its lagoon a burial ground
for a vast fleet of ships.

Entering the sheltered bay,

Philippe Cousteau and
his team from Calypso

are confronted by a ghostly display.

Oxidized mementos of w*r,

now symbols of waste,

tragic testimony that a
battle was fought here,

the rusted residue
of Truk's violent past.

During World w*r II,

Truk was home base for the combined
fleet of the Japanese Imperial Navy.

From the beginning of the w*r,
its buildup was fast and efficient.

Truk was the center of
Japan's defense perimeter,

not only the main
staging area for its fleet,

but also an important air base.

It was called the
Gibraltar of the Pacific,

and it was considered
the strongest naval base

in this part of the world
since Pearl Harbor.

Most of the fortifications
were built for defense

against a landing from the sea,

but the Allied decision
was to neutralize Truk

by a concentrated air attack.

On the morning of February




Initial objective, the airfields.


before they can take off.

Japanese air defense
is quickly paralyzed.

Next the main targets,
the ships anchored in Truk Lagoon.

The Japanese command has ordered
its warships to safer waters.

Delayed by bad weather
and trapped at anchor

are more than 30 vessels,

the pride of Japan's auxiliary fleet.

In two days, the lagoon is
transformed from a naval fortress

to a ship's graveyard.

For a sailor, a ship is a home.

And for my men aboard the Hopeful,

the pilgrimage to a
fleet of drowned vessels

will be like exploring a sunken city.

They will be on their own,
far removed from the mothership Calypso.

They are experienced, but young.

Like the natives who greet them,

they have no personal
memory of World w*r II,

its battles, or its headlines.

Before leaving the Calypso,

Philippe had reviewed
every detail of the battle.

Now prior to diving,
he and his crew

look for what is left of the
Japanese fortifications.

I felt as though I were
on familiar ground

because of the research I
had done prior to our arrival.

I found that I was able to identify
every feature of the terrain.

It was as if I had been a fighter
pilot during the Truk raid,

although I was only three
years old at the time.

Our men had a hard time making their
way through the thick tropical grove.

Elsewhere, jungles have erased
remains of entire civilizations.

No wonder then that nature here has
covered over the instruments of w*r.

b*mb craters have been
transformed into breeding pools.

With time, scars from human clashes

merely provide homes for creatures
such as the amphibious mudskipper.

The mast of a sunken Japanese
ship stands like a beacon,

beckoning Cousteau's divers to their
first sample of Truk's hidden cargo.

With Captain Sequel,
a local sailor, as their guide,

the crew has been assured
that the anchorage is safe

despite the apparent
proximity of the wreck.

The sunken ship is clearly visible
just below the Hopeful's bow.

This first dive will be a shallow one.

Chief diver Christian Bonnici

has decided that he and his
co-diver Dominique Sumian

will not use aqualungs,

but they will wear wet suits to protect
them against cuts and bruises

from poisonous fire coral,

which abounds in these shallow waters.

Philippe Cousteau, who will film

all the underwater action
during the Truk expedition,

checks out his camera with
maintenance engineer Armand Davso.

Christian and Dominique take
with them their shark billies,

a routine precaution in tropical waters.

We'd been told by the natives

the wreckage was that
of a small harbor boat,

but as was often the case,

the Trukies knew little
about the sunken ships.

Instead of a small boat,

what we found was an armed
cargo ship of substantial size.

The ship is broken in two,
evidence of a direct hit.

Christian and Dominique
dive for 90 seconds at a time.

They enjoy freedom
from mechanical lungs

as they make a rapid inspection
of the sunken vessel's hull.

On deck is heavy gear
for handling freight,

but there is no evidence
of cargo on board.

This ship must have unloaded

and been preparing to return
to Japan when it was struck.

There is other debris nearby.

They have been informed
by Captain Sequel

that in this area of the lagoon,
a downed aircraft may be found.

It is a Japanese dive b*mber

of the class known to
the Americans as Judy's,

a plane which operated both
from carriers and shore bases.

This b*llet-riddled plane,

shot down not far from the airstrip,

was one of the few not
caught on the ground.

Upon landing from Monaco,

I read enthusiasm in the
eyes of this young man.

The same enthusiasm
I felt 30 years ago

when I made my first
dive to a sunken ship.

For us who dive,
shipwrecks are adventure,

mystery, human emotion.

All the wrecks I had visited over
the years were lonely victims,

but here in Truk Lagoon
was an entire fleet of wrecks

with a story behind them.

I was impatient to dive
and see them for myself.

Preparations for the
first series of deep dives

in Truk Lagoon are underway.

The Hopeful has anchored close to
a half dozen sunken Japanese ships.

Maximum estimated depth
in this area, 130 feet.

Captain Cousteau has called for
a full-scale diving operation,

utilizing all the manned
equipment at their disposal.

Careful exploration of wrecks may well
uncover previously unknown details

of the historic Truk raid.

As I prepare to dive,

the consequences of the Truk
raid monopolize my thoughts.

I feel that the history of man is
closely related to natural history.

In all his deeds, man is
responsible to nature,

and acts of w*r have
consequences on nature.

Now I will observe the
effects on this lagoon

of the largest concentration of
sunken warships there has ever been.

I taught Philippe to dive
when he was four years old.

He saw things then with a child's eye.

Now he retains that same fresh
approach in his underwater filming.

To film shipwrecks, we need
electrical cables for the lights.

They add to the difficulty of
the dives and require extra men.

As always, I look forward to
filming my father underwater,

to his fluid diving style and
his oneness with the sea.

Moving over the starboard
flank of a capsized ship,

I search for a nameplate.

With steel brushes,
one of the diving teams

scrapes clear the name of his ship.

It is a 12,000-ton
submarine tender,

the Heian Maru.

In two months' time, we will explore
the wreckages of eight armed vessels,

three tankers and 19 merchant marus,

three-quarters of the sunken fleet.

Another identification,

a 10,000-ton cargo ship,
the Rio de Janeiro Maru.

I am struck by a contrast.

In the dry world above, fragmented
structures loom in rusted ugliness.

But here, beneath the
surface of the lagoon,

the skeletal remains are
fleshed out with new life.

They blossom with
myriads of creatures,

like this gracious
antedon, a sea lily.

Cousteau and the Calypso's
divers will make 480 dives

to explore 30 ships in Truk Lagoon.

And with each dive,
there are new discoveries.

In tropical waters, swarms
of tiny fish and coral gardens

provide live shrouds for dead ships.

A once deadly cannon
rests now, adorned.

Cousteau swims to the
top of a ship's funnel,

thickly encrusted with coral growth.

It offers a good vantage point from
which he can survey the hulk below.

The funnel's interior is
like an underwater cave.

In other waters, it would
provide a coral-insulated home

for large marine creatures.

But here in the lagoon,
the house has no tenants.

Never before have I seen
shipwrecks void of large fish.

Where are the groupers?

The moray eels?

The lobsters?

If there were such
fish in the lagoon,

these vessels would
be their logical habitat.

Cousteau keeps moving, with
an extreme economy of gesture,

anxious to take maximum advantage
of his single tank full of air.

On the deck of a sunken cargo ship,

a piece of land a*tillery,

with its rubber tires showing
little sign of decay.

And on every ship,
from bow to stern,

there is the ever-present
carpet of coral.

Coral does not grow on mud or sand.

It needs a hard support,
which the wrecks provide.

Every rigging is a display
of miniature marine life.

Although larger fish are absent,

hives of tiny, multi-hued fish

move in and out of the stone
floors, the sponges, the shells.

I am spellbound by this
riot of blinding beauty.

To move freely, effortlessly,
in any direction,

is a luxury only the diver knows.

A gentle sigh is energy enough to
slip through the jagged framework.

Further exploration suddenly
yields an unexpected find

in the northwest
anchorage of the lagoon.

At a depth of 150 feet,

a group of Japanese ships
with cargo still on board.

At such depths, divers may
experience flights of fantasy.

Perception is distorted.

Danger magnified.

An operating table,
underwater for 25 years.

A fully equipped medical
dispensary, preserved.

Wheelchairs still carefully stacked.

A gas mask, intact.

I am instinctively cautious.

On land, a roof is protection.

But I am in the sea, where a
ceiling over my head is a menace.

One enters his own home directly.

But on the threshold
of submerged quarters,

a diver always hesitates
before entering.

And then swims only
a few feet at a time.

An officer's quarters, empty.

Except for a chest.

A wooden chest.

Its lacquer, now black,
has protected it against decay.

There is no sunken treasure here.

Merely a handful of penny coins.

Worthless now.

Symbolic, perhaps, of the true benefit
mankind might expect from w*r.

Truckloads of food and drink.

After the attack,
the Japanese garrison,

and the people of Truk, starved.

While tons of food were lying
on the bottom of the lagoon.

The officer's mess is barren.

What remains here is buried
in a thick layer of mud.

From the silt,
I extract deer antlers.

In Japanese mythology, antlers
are said to be messengers of God,

traditionally held by one
of the seven wise men.

There is no wisdom here.

In a ship's galley,
steel walls were torn apart,

but fragile dishes have
somehow survived

the explosions which
rocked this vessel.

Out of the confines, a brief
moment of relief in open water.

Instinctively, I check the door to
make sure it won't close behind us.

I have been bothered
throughout these dives

by the strange absence of large fish.

Now, I begin to suspect why.

These are expl*sives
and explosions k*ll fish.

I would soon learn that the
wartime stockpiles of ammunition

on the islands had been pilfered.

Dynamite fishing had
practically eliminated fish

that take 20 or 30 years to grow.

Another legacy of w*r.

A passageway invites me to
an underwater promenade.

My thoughts are with a man
who once walked this deck

and leaned against this railing.

Like all sailors on the high seas,

they must have felt close to
nature and at her mercy, as I feel.

They are no longer
alive to tell their story.

I feel now compelled to
investigate further their fate.

We would dive in the lagoon
deeper than we had dared before.

The first phase of the
diving expedition is over.

Nearly all the sunken ships and
various anchorages of Truk Lagoon

have been visited and
thoroughly inspected.

The explorations so far
have supported the theory

that Truk was poorly
prepared to resist attack.

The Gibraltar of the
Pacific was a myth.

Now, with artifacts for study,

Cousteau and the divers
make their ascent.

It is rare to find diversion
during decompression periods,

but once in a while we
are given a special treat.

Jellyfish come to visit.

Among the most primitive
creatures of the sea,

they are also among the most graceful.

The divers hover close
to the contingency tank,

an emergency supply
in case of air shortage.

Decompression time is up.

The playful pilot fish will soon have to
seek new underwater companions.

The Hopeful is small.

It is not very glamorous,
but it is floating and it is alive.

The divers will now
compare their impressions.

It has become clear that
the two-day tragedy of Truk

has had far-reaching consequences.

The undersea environment
is still damaged

and it may take several generations
before the lagoon recovers, if ever.

Yet for the men, there is the
exhilaration of meaningful dives.

Now Cousteau plans
their most crucial dive,

a dive which will involve a detailed
and thorough search for a lost ship.

The larger Japanese ships were
always anchored in the southeast,

off the island of Aten.

It is the deepest part of the lagoon,

the most difficult in which to dive.

If they can spot the ship and if the
depth does not exceed 300 feet,

they will attempt the dive.

Its precise location, its contents,

and even its identity are unknown.

An aerial survey is
undertaken to evaluate

diving conditions off Aten anchorage.

The crew will also look for oil
slicks and other visual clues,

which might expose the
position of the target vessel.

In shallow water, they pass over
an overturned tanker, split in two.

The southeastern anchorage is void
of any evidence of the wreckage,

said to be at its bottom.

Another pass is made over the area,

in one final search for surface
signs of the hidden ship.

It is to no avail.

Electronic methods
will have to be employed.

The simple tugboat Hopeful is now
transformed into a research vessel.

The compass sightings are
transferred to the map.

The landmarks establish position.

Sonar soundings will register
if they pass over a wreck.

The sonar scope registers a large object
lying ahead on the floor of the lagoon,

within 200 yards of the Hopeful.

They chart the course that will
bring them directly above the wreck.

They've found it.

Depth, close to 300 feet.

A deep dive, but
within acceptable range.

A marker is dropped.

According to sonar, the object below
is a large mass of varying heights,

a strong indication that there
is indeed a shipwreck off Aten,

unseen and untouched for 25 years.

Now air is pumped into
the larger deep dive tanks.

This raises their temperature
and causes air expansion.

The tanks must be cooled

so they can be filled to capacity
for a dive to exceed 250 feet.

Even on board the Calypso, a dive
like this would present problems.

On board the Hopeful, without an
emergency decompression chamber,

our technical facilities
are barely adequate.

But at least we have
our latest regulators,

which will allow easier
breathing at great depth.

And the larger high pressure tanks will
increase the depth range of the dive.

The atmosphere is tense.

Words are few.

Each man knows very well
there is no margin for error.

Our men wear a depth gauge on
one wrist and a watch on the other.

Two vital references
for the deep divers.

Philippe Cousteau reviews the
standard decompression charts

with chief diver Christian Bonnici.

They must be memorized

because a decompression error can
result in permanent injury, even death.

At 250 feet, the divers will enter
the realm of nitrogen narcosis.

It is called rapture of the deep
and it will impair their judgment.

Under such conditions, confusion
must be avoided at all costs.

So that a diver in trouble
can be instantly identified,

the aqualungs are initialed.

The divers are now ready to go.

Philippe Cousteau, who will
film this carefully planned dive,

makes a last minute
check of his equipment.

With Armand Davso,
the man who built his camera.

And now Philippe, too, is ready to go.

Three thousand years before Christ,

Gilgamesh, the king and hero of Sumer

dove beneath the sea in search
of an herb that gave eternal life.

He was the first to be
obsessed by the unknown.

He would not be the last.

Down into a world
where the mind blurs,

where the air is thick
and hard to breathe.

Down beyond the limits of safety,
drawn by the unknown,

resting in the deepest
cavern of Truk Lagoon.

Depth, 215 feet.

The Cousteau divers continue
their descent toward a lost ship

in the deepest waters of Truk Lagoon.

As they go deeper, light diminishes.

The water is hazy
and visibility is poor.

They swim down toward
the yet unseen object.

Suddenly, the ship.

Anti-aircraft g*ns aimed
up toward the sky

testify to sailors who continued
to fight while the ship was sinking.

I empty my lungs to sink further.

I feel at ease, suddenly lightheaded.

I know this is the first
sign of nitrogen narcosis.

Amidship, Christian finds an entry.

Piles of entangled metal beds,
sleeping quarters for sailors.

Depth 280 feet.

Another opening.

A watertight compartment
crushed by outside pressure.

There could have been no survivors.

Christian takes the lamp.

Dominique will remain here to
clear the cable and keep watch.

Out of the deep soft silt,
a sailor's hat.

I feel blinded, disoriented.

Christian's lamp is barely visible.

Nervously, I move close to the glow.

The lamp's cable is my
only link to the exit.

From a crack in the
rusted ceiling, a shoe.

Only the sole has resisted rot.

A still folded blanket,
intact after 25 years.

It's impossible.

I lose my bearings.

All I can do is follow the lights.

I lean forward to touch
where last I saw Christian.

I keep the camera rolling.

And suddenly, a vision of hell.

This seems an hallucination,
a nightmare.

But Christian is real.

I struggle for control.

I feel something fall at my feet,

and then, as if a hand had
reached out to stop my retreat,

I am held back.

I fight it off.

Christian looks at me now,
sensing my anguish.

He too is shaken,
and he points, indicating the exit.

To emerge from the ship's
entrails is to be born again.

As we swim up toward the Hopeful,

I feel I am stealing away with
my most precious treasure, life.

Only the lack of oxygen could
have prevented human remains

from disintegration
after 25 years in the sea.

Truk Lagoon presents a mysterious
blending of life and death.

On the one hand, nature
absorbs the artifacts of w*r,

and on the other, she has
strangely preserved them.

Only centuries from now
will every trace of man's folly

vanish from the bottom of Truk Lagoon.

Two months after their arrival,
the Truk expedition team departs.

They had come in the
spirit of adventure.

Now, as they leave on their
last voyage in the lagoon,

they carry with them the rueful
memory of what they have found.

The issues of w*r evolve
eventually into nothingness,

but the consequences of w*r persist.

The waste of human lives,
of precious goods,

and the waste of nature itself.

Truk Lagoon, damaged
for generations to come.

For the dead, it is over.

It is for the living
to carry the burden.

In the beginning, w*r was the
business of the chosen ones,

gods and kings.

The common man helplessly
endured it like a plague.

For millennia, w*r has had the
inevitability of Greek tragedy.

But today, individual
men are concerned

not merely with the
consequences of w*r,

but with the choices that
lead to w*r or peace.

And with this new
awareness comes hope.

As the prophetic poet
John Donne wrote in 1623,

"Every man is a piece of the
continent, a part of the main."

"Any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind."