My Journal
By Harriman Nelson
58

“I just don’t understand it sir,” the repair party’s foreman told Chip and me in the Control Room. “The diving plane controls are making the connections, but the planes just don’t respond. It’s not that they can’t,  they just won’t. We’re lucky we were on the surface. If we’d been under, well, we wouldn’t have been able to surface or dive very well.”
“Very well, dismissed,” Chip said, “we’d better make for the nearest port. O’Brien?”
“That would be Lisbon, Portugal, sir. But there’s no U.S. base there.”
“Set a course anyway,” Chip said, “flank speed. Sparks? Contact the city’s harbor authority for clearance to use their maritime port. We’re damaged and request parking space. Add that NIMR is good for the port fees and the cost of additional security.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Sick Bay?” Chip continued, speaking into the mike, “stand by to issue Dramamine and barf bags to all hands. We’re going to be stuck on the surface awhile.”
“Wouldn’t anti motion sickness shots be better than pills?” O’Brien asked.
“Wouldn’t take effect in time…trust me.”
“Yes sir.”

And so we've made a U-turn, visible to shipping, air traffic, satellite imaging, and the inevitable press.

Will Lee give the news a passing glance, I wonder? Or is his love for Seaview a thing of the past now, because of me?

Cookie’s decided on nothing more hearty than Chicken Noodle Soup, crackers, Ginger Ale, and 7-Up. It’s going to seem like long cruise. When one is miserable, time goes very very slow.

At least I have my own cabin to lie down and be sick in. God help the duty crew.

Once Sparks isn’t quite so busy, I’ll have him fax my signed Revocation of Adoption form to Madrid. Along with a letter to Lee, so he’ll have no doubt about how I feel. I don’t want to revoke anything, but he made it damn clear that he wants to. I just love him too much to deny him.

As for the ancient Nelson ring, it’s in Chip’s custody, though I don’t know where and haven’t asked. Later, when we’re back home, I’ll store it in  my safety deposit box at the bank until I decide if I want to donate it to the Boston Museum or something.

I’m already beginning to feel queasy, but told Chip that I can be relied upon to assist in the Control Room if needed. I’d better lie down, with a bucket in hand...just in case.