The Scuttlefish

Pirates are sweet. They have peg legs, talk funny, and spend most of their lives drunk and in the pursuit of money and women. Pirate mania is alive and strong, as evidenced by the fact that there’s a fourth Pirates of the Caribbean movie this summer, which will probably make loads of money. Let’s not forget, the franchise is based on a ride at Disneyworld.

Whenever we hear pirate stories, we can’t help but to raise an “Arrrrrrr!” of support for the free-spirited, anarchic thieves that plunder the seas. Our chests swell with pride at the idea of men living with so little retraint.

This pirate story is of a much different flavor. There ain’t no swashbucklin’ or “Shiver Me Timbers” in this one. Just cold-hearted revenge. Oh, and crucifixion. Delivered by none other than Julius Caesar, one of most famous people in all of history to be captured by pirates.

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a broom on the USS Wahoo

Some time during 1942, American submarines started to tie brooms to their periscope when they came home from a mission after having sank every enemy ship they encountered. The common term for a perfect record like this is a “clean sweep,” hence the broom.

It became an extremely popular practice during the war, and a proud moment in a submarine captain’s career would be to request a broom for display upon returning to base.

The tradition is said to stem back to a Dutch captain from the 1650s, Admiral Maarten Tromp, who hung a broom from his mast after a battle with the British at Dungeness, claiming to have swept the British from the seas.

But wouldn’t you know it. Just like any good legend, it’s entirely up for debate as to whether the story of Tromp is true or not.

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A quick lesson to start things off: boats are made to be buoyant, but have had to deal with the problem of stability. The shape of seacrafts tends to a very dispersed center of gravity, which makes them susceptible to capsizing due to wind, waves, or even just people moving about.

The solution that mankind has come up with is known as ballast. Ballast is basically very dense weight, centralized in the center of the hull of the boat, to provide a stable center of gravity. Ballast comes in many forms, and is most typically the ship’s cargo stashed in the bottom of the boat. In worst case scenarios, rocks or sand bags might be used.

In 1942, the USS Trout, an American submarine, took on the strangest and most valuable ballast ever recorded in naval history: 20 tons worth of golden bars, valued at almost $10 million.

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In 1896, Frank Samuelsen and George Harbo, two Norwegian-Americans, rowed across the Atlantic Ocean. They were the first to accomplish an open ocean crossing in a boat that wasn’t powered by a sail or an engine.

Their story is ridiculously bad-ass. They were apathetic New Jersey fishermen, and responded to a challenge published in a local newspaper by publisher tycoon Richard Fox, who offered $10,000 to anyone who could successfully row from New York City to England. Bored with their working class life, the pair consolidated their savings and bought an 18ft oak rowboat, which they named the Richard Fox, and set off on their journey.

Armed with a compass, a map, a bunch of surplus supplies, and a few extra sets of oars, Samuelsen and Harbo rowed across the Atlantic Ocean in 55 days. No GPS. No radio support. Just two men, a rowboat, and a crossing of the Atlantic Ocean.

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From 1 Kings 10:22, “For the king had at sea a navy of Tarshish with the navy of Hiram: once every three years came the navy of Tarshish, bringing gold, and silver, ivory, and apes, and peacocks.”

"Jonah boat to Tarshish" by Ruth Coleman

According to ancient traditions, Tarshish was an exceptionally wealthy trading town. Like out-of-this-world wealthy. So rich that, according to one source, Phoenecian traders would show up, abandon their iron anchors, and sail home with anchors made of silver, just to squeeze as much wealth out of each visit. The place was that rich. Sort of like Dubai and Monaco and Wall Street all bundled into one. Much of the wealth accumulated by King Solomon, who reigned over the most prosperous era in all of Israeli history, is believed to have originated in Tarshish.

Sounds awesome, right?

But no one knows where it is.

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Repulse Bay is a swank area of Hong Kong. The beaches are popular during the hot summer, and the coastline is dotted with luxury apartments.

One of those apartments has a giant hole built into it.

The hole is 8 apartments tall, and 4 apartments wide. It is obviously no accident.

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the harp-wielding Joanna Newsom, queen of the emerging hipster culture, published her second album, simply titled “Ys.” On its cover, Newsome is drenched in various Renaissance and medieval symbolism: she bears a scythe in one hand and a framed butterfly in another; a raven with a berry perches on the window sill behind her shoulder; the landscape behind seems reminiscent of the Mona Lisa; etc, etc, etc.

The songs are equally clad with symbolism, and in stretching to around 9 minutes, they are rife for fanboys who want nothing more than to over-analyze cryptic song lyrics

The album reached countless Top Ten lists. Pitchfork basically wet itself with glee when reviewing the CD. It’s obnoxious at first listen, with her grating vocals clashing with the otherwise lyrical harp, but if you’re willing to tolerate the original repulsion, it kind of grows on it. Or I guess, from reading reviews. It hasn’t exactly grown on me.

I happened upon this album while researching lost cities. I must admit: I’m still a bit rattled by the tsunami that struck Japan over a month ago. There’s something profoundly disruptive and disorienting about seeing pieces of civilization ravaged in an instant by rushing water. And the fact that we can watch it, from various perspectives on youtube, makes the horror all the more real and unsettling.

In my internet surfing, I came across the strange story of Ys. Not the Joanna Newsome album, or even the Japanese RPG game, but the Breton medieval city. Ys, the city built for a daughter by a doting father. Ys, the city that was lost under the sea.

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The Great South Wall juts nearly 4 miles into the Dublin Bay. It is one of Europe’s longest sea walls, and at its time of construction in the early 1700s, it was the longest that man had ever built. The end is romantically adorned with a lighthouse, standing guard to welcome boats into Dublin.

The walk along the Great South Wall is exactly how you might expect it to be. Cold, blustery wind, spitting rain, gray clouds, and utter solitude.

About 2/3 of the way out to sea, you come across an unimposing, understated building perched on the cliffs of the sea wall. I first thought it was some type of guard house. Instead, it turned out to be the clubhouse for the Half Moon Swimming and Water Polo Club, established in 1898. Toward the right side entrance of the clubhouse is a single rickety ladder, leading down to the chilly water below.

Except for the sign naming the building, there was no other indication of the swimming club. The rusted, iron doors were locked. There was no one around to talk to, in order to learn about the place. It was just an empty building on an empty pier. As I stood atop the ladder and looked down into the ocean, I tried to envision the countless swimmers who had been coming out to his pier to swim for well over one hundred years, and had to ask myself: why?

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