The Fabled Sunken City
615 miles off the west coast of Africa near the Canary Islands, seabirds began to flock overhead as a small rusted boat populated by two men glided swiftly across the waves.
On deck Isaac continuously examined his gear. He was always cautious when plunging into unknown waters and the last thing he wanted was for something to go wrong. Finally satisfied by his thorough search he sat in the shade and once again fixed his eyes on Lord Mortlock’s tattered journal he had expertly retrieved from the 11th century chateau.
He carefully flicked through the old damaged pages, full of illustrations and sketches, anecdotes and descriptions of strange locations, before reading once again his favourite quote: In the fabled city of Atlantis rests the most precious thing to be found: a flawless raw sapphire of the deepest darkest blue, larger around than the reach of a man’s arms.
A hand-drawn map illustration accompanied the quote revealing the North Atlantic Ocean. On the right sat Morocco, Spain and the Canary Islands, on the left one word in faded letters – Atlantis – and below the words 620 miles off the west coast of Africa.
The engine died and Haytham let go of the helm.
“Alright kid this is it…620 miles off the coast,” Haytham said in his unmistakably deep voice and distinctive accent.
Both men gazed down into the water before Isaac slipped into his gear. After putting on the wetsuit he proceeded to don his rubber flippers and breathing apparatus. He tested the small microphone that was contained within the mask allowing Isaac to keep in vital contact with Haytham.
Haytham helped Isaac lift the oxygen tank onto his shoulders and secured the straps.
“Ok kid, you’re set to dive. Good luck, and don’t go dyin’ on me down there,” He said with his right hand resting firmly on Isaac’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry Haytham. I’ve had enough experience, you know that.” Isaac replied with a grin. He rotated to face the back of the boat, threw a trademark wink to his friend, and dropped expertly into the water.
The elderly man watched as Isaac’s frame swam downwards and vanished out of sight, before relighting his damp, chewed Cuban cigar and reaching for another cool beer.
Down in the water Isaac could barely see as fish masked his vision, swimming around him, unaffected by his existence.
Up above, Haytham finishes his refreshing beer and with nothing else do he grabs Mortlock’s journal and begins to nonchalantly skim through the yellowed pages, filled with stains and marks ranging from a vintage bottle of Romanée Conti wine to the ever favourite coffee stain. Hell it even looked like someone had chewed on the journals cover. After Haytham had reached the last page he put the journal down and then checked up on the “kid,” the name with which he usually addressed Isaac.
“You okay kid?” Haytham asked as he peered up at the birds circling overhead while shielding his eyes from the sun’s rays. He sighed and then continued,...