Part 1 · Chapter 4Ned Land

Captain Farragut was a seriously good seaman, totally worthy of the frigate he commanded. The ship and he were practically one - he was its heart and soul.

He was completely convinced about this sea monster, and he wasn’d letting anyone on board argue otherwise.

He believed in it, like some people believe in legends - by faith, not logic. The monster existed, and he’d vowed to clear the oceans of it.

He was like a knight, a second Dieudonné de Gozon, heading out to face the serpent that was terrorizing the islands.

Either Captain Farragut would take down the narwhal, or the narwhal would get the captain. No other option.

The officers on board were on the same page as their captain. They were always chatting, strategizing, and figuring out the chances of spotting it, constantly scanning the huge ocean.

More than a few volunteered to sleep in the crow's nest, something they'd normally hate.

As long as the sun was up, the rigging was packed with sailors, even though the deck was so hot it was practically burning their feet. Still, the Abraham Lincoln hadn’t yet reached the Pacific waters where they suspected it was hiding.

The crew was eager to meet the unicorn, harpoon it, haul it aboard, and finish it off. They watched the sea with intense focus.

Plus, Captain Farragut had announced a reward of two thousand dollars for whoever first spotted the monster - whether it was a cabin boy, a regular seaman, or an officer.

You can imagine how everyone’s eyes were used on board the Abraham Lincoln.

For my part, I wasn’t slacking off, and I made sure I contributed my share of daily observations. The frigate could’ve been called the Argus, for a hundred reasons.

Only one of us, Conseil, seemed to protest with his lack of interest in the whole thing, and he just didn’t seem to fit in with everyone else’s excitement.

I’d mentioned that Captain Farragut had fully equipped his ship to catch the giant cetacean. No whaling ship was better armed.

We had every tool imaginable, from the harpoon thrown by hand to the barbed arrows from the blunderbuss, and the explosive balls from the duck-gun.

On the forecastle was this incredible breech-loading gun - thick at the breech, narrow in the bore - a model that had been shown at the eighteen sixty-seven World’s Fair.

This amazing American weapon could easily launch a nine-pound conical projectile a staggering ten miles.

So, the Abraham Lincoln lacked nothing in terms of destruction; and, even better, she had Ned Land on board, the prince of harpooners.

Ned Land was Canadian, with lightning-fast reflexes, and who had no equal in his dangerous job.

He had skill, coolness, nerve, and smarts in abundance, and it would take a seriously clever whale or a surprisingly "cute" sperm whale to escape his harpoon.

Ned Land was around forty years old; he was a tall guy (over six feet), powerfully built, serious and quiet, occasionally explosive, and very passionate when challenged.

His appearance drew attention, but even more so was the boldness of his gaze, which gave his face a unique expression.

Calling yourself Canadian means you’re essentially French; and, as quiet as Ned Land was, I have to admit he took a liking to me. My nationality drew him to me, no doubt.

It was a chance for him to talk, and for me to hear, that old language of Rabelais, which is still used in some Canadian provinces.

The harpooner’s family was originally from Quebec, and they were already a tribe of tough fishermen when that town belonged to France.

Little by little, Ned Land started opening up and I loved hearing about his adventures in the polar seas.

He's tell his fishing stories and battles with a natural, poetic way of speaking; it felt like listening to a Canadian Homer singing about the North.

I'm portraying this tough guy just like I really knew him. We're old friends now, bonded by that friendship that gets forged in really dangerous situations. Man, brave Ned!

I just wish I could live a hundred years longer just to keep remembering you.

So, what did Ned Land think about this whole marine monster thing? Honestly, he didnn't believe in the unicorn, and he was the only one on board who didn’t share that idea.

He even avoided the topic, which I eventually felt I needed to push him on.

One gorgeous evening, July thirtieth - about three weeks after we left - the frigate was near Cape Blanc, about thirty miles off the coast of Patagonia.

We’d crossed the tropic of Capricorn, and the Straits of Magellan were less than seven hundred miles south.

In less than a week, the Abraham Lincoln would be sailing the waters of the Pacific.

Ned Land and I were hanging out on the poop, chatting about random stuff as we looked at this mysterious ocean, whose depths had been totally unreachable until now.

I naturally steered the conversation towards the giant unicorn, and thought about the chances of the expedition being a success or a failure. But, seeing that Ned Land let me talk without saying much himself, I pressed him harder.

"So, Ned," I said, "is it possible that you don’t believe this cetacean we're following actually exists? Do you have a reason for being so skeptical?"

The harpooner stared at me for a moment before answering, then slapped his forehead (a habit of his) like he was trying to collect his thoughts, and finally said, "Maybe I do."

"But, Ned, you, a whaler by trade, familiar with all the giant sea mammals - you, whose imagination could easily accept the idea of huge cetaceans - you should be the last one to doubt something like this!"

"That’s exactly what’s misleading you, Professor," Ned replied.

"Just because regular people believe in crazy comets flying through space and antediluvian monsters deep inside the earth doesn’t mean they’re real. I’ve spent my whole life hunting cetaceans, harpooning a bunch, and killing a few."

"But even the biggest, strongest ones couldn't scratch the iron plates of a steamer."

"But, they say the teeth of the narwhal have pierced ships all the way through."

"Wooden ships - maybe," said the Canadian.

"But I’ve never seen it happen. And until I see proof, I’m not convinced that whales, cetaceans, or sea-unicorns could do what you’re describing."

"Okay, Ned, I’m telling you this with a confidence based on the facts.

I believe there’s a powerfully organized mammal out there, part of the backbone animal family, like whales, sperm whales, or dolphins, and equipped with a horn that can seriously penetrate things."

"Hmm," said the harpooner, shaking his head like he wasn’t going to be convinced.

"Notice one thing, my Canadian friend," I continued.

"If this animal exists, if it lives in the depths of the ocean, if it hangs out in layers of water miles below the surface, it has to have an organization that’s incredibly strong."

"And why would it need such a powerful organization?" Ned demanded.

"It takes seriously crazy strength to stay alive down there and fight against the pressure. Listen to me. Let's say the pressure of the water is like the weight of a tower of water that’s thirty-two feet tall."

Actually, it would be a little shorter because we’re talking about saltwater, which is denser than freshwater.

Okay, so when you dive, Ned, multiply thirty-two feet by how many times you go deeper than the surface, and that’s how much pressure your body has to handle - that’s about fifteen pounds per square inch of your body.

So at three hundred and twenty feet, the pressure is like being ten atmospheres; at three thousand, two hundred feet, it’s one hundred atmospheres, and at thirty-two thousand feet - about six miles - it's ten hundred atmospheres.

"That means if you could actually get that deep, every three-eighths of an inch of your skin would be pushing against five thousand, six hundred pounds of pressure!

Wow, my brave Ned, do you even realize how many square inches you have on your body? "No clue, M. Aronnax."

"Around six thousand, five hundred. And since the air pressure is about fifteen pounds per square inch, your six thousand, five hundred square inches are feeling about ninety-seven thousand, five hundred pounds of pressure right now.

"Without me even noticing?"

"Without you noticing. And you’re not crushed by all that pressure because air is filling the inside of your body, creating equal pressure.

It’s perfect balance between the inside and outside, which cancels each other out and lets you handle it without feeling anything."

"But underwater, it’s a whole different story."

"Yeah, I get it," replied Ned, getting more focused; "because the water’s all around me, but it doesn’t get inside."

"Exactly, Ned.

So at thirty-two feet under the sea, you’re dealing with ninety-seven thousand, five hundred pounds of pressure; at three hundred and twenty feet, ten times that; at three thousand, two hundred feet, a hundred times that; and finally, at thirty-two thousand feet, a thousand times that - ninety-seven million, five hundred thousand pounds! -"

"that’s like being flattened like you were squeezed between the plates of a hydraulic press!" "Seriously?" exclaimed Ned.

"Seriously, my worthy harpooner.

If some giant creature, hundreds of yards long, and proportionally huge, can stay alive at those depths - with a surface area represented by millions of square inches, meaning tens of millions of pounds - we need to figure out how much pressure they can handle."

"Think about how strong their bones must be and how tough their bodies are to withstand all that pressure!"

"Wow!" exclaimed Ned Land, "they’d have to be made of iron plates, like the hulls of battleships."

"You’re right, Ned. And think about the destruction that mass could cause if it slammed into a ship’s hull at the speed of a high-speed train."

"Yeah - totally - maybe," replied the Canadian, shaken by those numbers, but not quite ready to give in. "Well, have I convinced you?"

"You’ve convinced me of one thing, sir, which is that if these animals actually exist at the bottom of the seas, they’ve gotta be as strong as you say."

"But if they don’t exist, my stubborn harpooner, how do you explain the accident to the Scotia?"