The Mediterranean—the most famous blue sea in the world. The Hebrews called it “the Great Sea,” the Greeks simply called it “the Sea,” and the Romans named it Mare Nostrum, “Our Sea.”
Its shores were lined with orange trees, aloes, cacti, and sea pines. The air carried the sweet fragrance of myrtle. Rugged mountains surrounded its waters, and the atmosphere was pure, clear, and refreshing. Yet beneath this beautiful surface, the hidden fires of the earth were still active, making the Mediterranean a vast battlefield where Neptune and Pluto seemed to continue their ancient struggle for control of the world.
As Michelet once wrote, it was on these shores and across these waters that mankind was renewed by one of the most powerful climates on earth.
But no matter how beautiful this sea was, I had little time to admire it. I could only take a brief glance at this immense basin, whose surface covered nearly two million square miles. Even Captain Nemo’s remarkable knowledge of the region was unavailable to me, because that mysterious man did not appear even once during our entire high-speed crossing.
I calculated that the Nautilus traveled nearly six hundred leagues beneath the Mediterranean waves, completing the journey in only forty-eight hours.
We left the coast of Greece on the morning of February 16th, and by sunrise on February 18th, we had already passed through the Strait of Gibraltar.
It was obvious to me that Captain Nemo disliked this Mediterranean Sea, trapped between lands he wished to avoid.
These waters and winds must have awakened too many memories—perhaps even painful regrets. Here, he no longer possessed the same freedom and independence that he enjoyed in the open ocean. The Nautilus seemed almost confined between the nearby shores of Europe and Africa.
Our speed had increased to twenty-five miles per hour.
Naturally, Ned Land was extremely frustrated. His plan to escape had become impossible. He could not possibly launch the small boat while the Nautilus was moving so quickly through the water.
Leaving the submarine under such conditions would have been like jumping from a speeding train—a reckless act that would almost certainly end badly.
Besides, the Nautilus only came to the surface during the night to renew its supply of air. During the rest of the time, it remained hidden beneath the waves, guided only by its compass and measuring instruments.
I saw no more of the Mediterranean than a passenger on a fast train sees of the countryside rushing past the windows.
I could only catch sight of the distant horizon. Everything closer disappeared like a flash of lightning.
At that moment, we were passing between Sicily and the coast of Tunisia.
In the narrow passage between Cape Bon and the Strait of Messina, the seabed suddenly rose upward. A huge underwater ridge stretched across our path. On top of this submarine barrier, the water was no more than nine fathoms deep, while on both sides the depth dropped to ninety fathoms.
The Nautilus had to move with great care to avoid striking this hidden wall beneath the sea.
I pointed out the location of this underwater ridge to Conseil on the map of the Mediterranean.
“But, sir,” Conseil said, “it looks almost like a real bridge connecting Europe and Africa.”
“Yes, my boy,” I replied. “It forms a natural barrier across the ancient Libyan Strait. The surveys made by Smith have shown that, in earlier geological times, the lands between Cape Boco and Cape Furina were once connected.”
“I can easily believe that,” said Conseil.
“I should also mention,” I continued, “that another similar barrier exists between Gibraltar and Ceuta. Long ago, these two barriers may have completely enclosed the Mediterranean.”
“What would happen if some great volcanic force raised these barriers above the surface of the sea one day?”
“That is very unlikely, Conseil.”
“Please allow me to finish my thought, sir. If such a thing happened, it would create a serious problem for Monsieur Lesseps, who has worked so hard to cut through the isthmus.”
“You are right,” I answered. “But I repeat, Conseil, such an event will never happen. The power of underground forces is slowly decreasing. Volcanoes, which were countless in the earliest ages of the world, are gradually becoming extinct. The inner heat of the earth is weakening, and the temperature of its deeper layers has been slowly falling with every century. Unfortunately for our planet, its heat is the source of its life.”
“But what about the sun?” asked Conseil.
“The sun is not enough, my friend. Can the sun warm a body that is already dead?”
“I suppose not.”
“Exactly. One day, this earth will become such a lifeless body. It will become cold and empty, just like the moon, which lost its internal heat long ago.”
“How many centuries will that take?”
“Hundreds of thousands of years, my boy.”
“Then,” said Conseil, “we still have plenty of time to finish our journey—unless Ned Land prevents us from doing so.”
Feeling reassured, Conseil returned to studying the underwater ridge that the Nautilus was slowly passing over.
During the night of February 16th and 17th, we entered the second basin of the Mediterranean, where the greatest depth reached nearly 1,450 fathoms.
The Nautilus, powered by its enormous screw, descended along the underwater slopes and sank into the deepest parts of the sea.
On February 18th, at around three o’clock in the morning, we reached the entrance of the Strait of Gibraltar.
At this point, there were two currents in the strait.
The first was an upper current, which had long been known. It carried Atlantic Ocean water into the Mediterranean basin.
The second was a lower current flowing in the opposite direction. Scientists had only recently concluded that such a current must exist.
The reason was simple.
The Mediterranean constantly receives water from the Atlantic waves and from the rivers flowing into it. Since evaporation alone could not remove enough water to maintain the balance, the sea level should have continued rising year after year.
But this did not happen.
Therefore, there had to be an underwater current carrying excess Mediterranean water back into the Atlantic through the Strait of Gibraltar.
And this was exactly the current that the Nautilus used.
The submarine quickly moved through the narrow passage.
For a brief moment, I caught sight of the beautiful ruins of the Temple of Hercules, which, according to Pliny, had been buried beneath the earth, along with the small island that supported it.
A few minutes later, the Nautilus had left the Mediterranean behind and was floating in the vast waters of the Atlantic Ocean.