Eco Warrior by Philip Roy Read Free Book Online

sight of land brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t help it. I was so used to seeing nothing but water I forgot just how much I missed the land. When I caught my first glimpse of it—just a thin flat line on the horizon—my eyes flooded with tears. That we had almost died on the way here probably had something to do with it.
    Hollie’s nose was twitching all the time now. He was picking up new smells through the open hatch, and wouldn’t leave my side for fear I might go for a walk without him. If I went to the stern to check the engine, he had to come with me. If I went up the ladder, he sat at the bottom and whined pitifully until I came back down.
    “Don’t worry, Hollie. I won’t go for a walk without you, I promise.”
    Seaweed knew there was land because he went for a flight and never came back. He always got to explore first. He’d be there when we arrived, and greet us with a bored look on his face, as though he had seen everything already and was anxious to go somewhere else.
    I had debated entering Australia secretly, and keeping the sub hidden, as we were used to doing, but had decided against it. Ever since I first went to sea I had been an outlaw, because registering the sub required an inspection, and the Canadian government had a zillion rules and regulations, and the chances of getting a homemade submarine registered were next to none. So, I just went to sea without papers. And that made me an outlaw.
    But two officers from the South African navy kindly registered the sub in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, returning a favour for a friend of theirs I had helped. That made the sub legal for the very first time, and me no longer an outlaw. While I didn’t know if that would hold up in Canada, it ought to work everywhere else. Still, I was nervous calling the harbour authorities in Perth to request permission to moor. What if they decided the sub was a threat to the security of Australia, or judged it unseaworthy? By the Law of the Sea they had the right to seize it. They probably wouldn’t, but they could , and that made me nervous.
    I called the harbour authorities on the shortwave when we entered the twelve-mile territorial zone of Australia. I wasn’t actually sure if we had entered it or not—it wasn’t like there was a sign floating in the water that said “Twelve-Mile Zone”—I just guessed. It took awhile to explain who I was, and what my vessel was. Harbour police never expect to see a civilian submarine. If you say, “submarine,” they always assume it is a military sub, and their voices get really stiff over the radio.
    But the Customs officers who came out to meet us two miles off shore were very friendly. There were three of them in an outboard harbour boat: two men and one woman. They were carrying machine guns, which was what I had expected. Canadian officials did the same. Over the radio I was ordered to stay on the surface all the way in, and leave the hatch open, which I did. I was also told to have the entire crew on deck when the harbour boat rendezvoused with us, which I did, holding Hollie in my arms. Seaweed was already gone. He didn’t take orders from anybody but himself.
    They approached quickly, and circled us three times before cutting their engines and coasting to a stop. Once they had a good look at Hollie and me, they were all smiles. “G’day!” they yelled through a megaphone. “Welcome to Australia!”
    They inspected the sub in ten minutes, asked me a few questions, stamped my passport, and offered us a berth in Jervoise Bay, about six miles south of Fremantle, Perth’s enormous harbour. I happily accepted. We followed them in at eight knots, and they showed us where to tie up. Then they wished us good luck, waved, and sped away. I had heard that Australians were friendly. In all our travels, I had never felt so welcome as I did here. And how wonderful it was to come in legally.
    The berth was in a small floating pier, with enough room for about a dozen