The next morning was November 18. I had completely recovered from the exhaustion of the previous day and went up onto the platform just as the second officer was saying his usual daily report.
I stood there, admiring the magnificent ocean stretching endlessly around us, when Captain Nemo appeared.
He did not seem to notice me. He quietly began making a series of astronomical observations.
When he finished, he walked over to the watch-light cage and leaned against it, staring silently into the distance.
At that moment, many sailors from the Nautilus came up onto the platform. They were all strong, healthy men, and they had come to pull in the nets that had been left in the sea overnight.
They were clearly from different countries, although they all had European features.
I recognized several Irishmen, Frenchmen, Slavs, and even one Greek or perhaps a man from Crete.
They behaved politely, but among themselves they spoke a strange language that I could not identify. I had no way to ask them about it.
The nets were finally brought up.
They were huge fishing nets, similar to the “trawls” used along the coast of Normandy. They were large pockets kept open by the movement of the waves and by chains attached to the smaller sections of the net.
Dragged through the water by iron rods, these nets swept up everything in their path.
That day, they brought back an astonishing collection of creatures from the rich waters of the ocean.
I estimated that the catch weighed more than nine hundredweight.
It was an excellent haul, though not surprising.
The nets had been left down for several hours, allowing them to gather countless varieties of sea life.
We never lacked fresh food.
The speed of the Nautilus, together with the attraction of its electric lights, always allowed us to replenish our supplies.
The ocean’s harvest was immediately sent down through the opening into the steward’s room.
Some of it was prepared fresh, while the rest was preserved.
After the fishing was finished and the air supply had been renewed, I thought the Nautilus was ready to continue its underwater journey.
I was about to return to my room when Captain Nemo suddenly turned toward me.
“Professor, do you not think this ocean is a living world?”
“It has its moments of anger and its moments of peace. Yesterday it slept just as we did, and now it has awakened after a calm night.”
“Look,” he continued.
“It awakens beneath the gentle touch of the sun. It is about to begin another day of life.”
“To observe the movements of this great organism is a fascinating study. It has a heartbeat, arteries, and sudden movements. I agree with the famous scientist Maury, who discovered that the ocean has a circulation as real as the circulation of blood in animals.”
“Yes, the ocean truly has its own circulation. And to maintain it, the Creator has filled it with countless things—heat, salt, and tiny living creatures.”
As Captain Nemo spoke, he seemed completely different from the man I usually knew.
His words stirred a powerful emotion inside me.
“Besides,” he continued, “real life exists here.”
“I can imagine cities built beneath the sea, groups of underwater homes that, like the Nautilus, would rise to the surface every morning to breathe.”
“Free cities. Independent nations beneath the waves.”
“But who knows whether some tyrant—”
Captain Nemo suddenly stopped.
A violent movement of his hand showed that he had touched upon some painful memory.
Then, as if trying to push away his sad thoughts, he turned back to me.
“M. Aronnax,” he asked, “do you know the depth of the ocean?”
“I only know what the major soundings have discovered, Captain.”
“Could you tell me those measurements? I would like to compare them with my own calculations.”
“These are the ones I remember,” I replied.
“If I am not mistaken, the North Atlantic has been measured at a depth of about 8,000 yards, while the Mediterranean reaches around 2,500 yards.”
“The deepest measurements have been made in the South Atlantic near the thirty-fifth parallel. They reached depths of 12,000, 14,000, and even 15,000 yards.”
“In general, scientists estimate that if the ocean floor were made completely flat, the average depth of the sea would be about one and three-quarter leagues.”
“Well, Professor,” said Captain Nemo, “I hope we shall show you something even greater than that.”
“As for this part of the Pacific Ocean, I can tell you that its average depth is only about 4,000 yards.”
After saying this, Captain Nemo walked toward the opening panel and disappeared down the ladder.
I followed him and returned to the large drawing room.
The propeller immediately started turning, and the log showed that we were moving at twenty miles per hour.
During the days and weeks that followed, Captain Nemo rarely visited us.
I hardly saw him.
The lieutenant carefully marked the Nautilus’s course on the chart, so I could always know exactly where we were traveling.
Almost every day, the windows of the drawing room were opened, and we never grew tired of exploring the mysteries of the underwater world.
The general direction of the Nautilus remained southeast, and we usually traveled at a depth of between 100 and 150 yards.
One day, however, for reasons unknown to me, Captain Nemo used the inclined planes to guide the ship downward at an angle until it touched the ocean floor.
The thermometer showed a temperature of 4.25 degrees Celsius.
At that depth, this temperature seemed to remain almost the same in every part of the world.
At three o’clock in the morning on November 26, the Nautilus crossed the Tropic of Cancer at longitude 172°.
On November 27, we saw the Sandwich Islands, where Captain Cook had died on February 14, 1779.
By then, we had traveled 4,860 leagues from our starting point.
That morning, when I went onto the platform, I saw Hawaii, the largest of the seven islands in the group, about two miles away.
I could clearly see its cultivated hills, the mountain ranges running parallel to the coast, and the great volcanoes rising above Mauna Kea, which stood 5,000 yards above sea level.
Among the many things caught by the nets were several flabellaria and beautiful coral-like creatures unique to this region.
The Nautilus continued southeast.
On December 1, it crossed the equator at longitude 142°.
Then, on December 4, after a rapid journey with no unusual events, we reached the Marquesas Islands.
Three miles away, I saw Martin Peak on Nuku Hiva, the largest island of the group belonging to France.
I could only see the forest-covered mountains on the horizon because Captain Nemo had no desire to bring the ship closer.
The nets, however, brought back magnificent fish.
Some had bright blue fins and golden tails, with flesh of extraordinary quality.
Others had almost no scales but had a delicate flavor.
There were also fish with bony jaws and yellowish gills, as delicious as bonito.
All of them were valuable additions to our food supply.
After leaving those beautiful islands protected by the French flag, the Nautilus traveled nearly 2,000 miles between December 4 and December 11.
On the morning of December 11, I was reading in the large drawing room.
Ned Land and Conseil were watching the glowing water outside through the half-open windows.
The Nautilus was motionless.
While its tanks were being filled, it remained at a depth of 1,000 yards, a region rarely visited by humans and where large fish were seldom seen.
I was reading a fascinating book by Jean Macé called The Slaves of the Stomach and learning many interesting things from it when Conseil suddenly interrupted me.
“Will master come here for a moment?” he asked in a strange voice.
“What is wrong, Conseil?”
“I want master to look.”
I stood up and walked over to the windows.
I leaned forward and watched.
Under the powerful electric light of the Nautilus, an enormous black shape hung motionless in the water.
I studied it carefully, trying to understand what kind of gigantic sea creature it was.
Then a sudden thought struck me.
“A ship!” I whispered.
“Yes,” replied the Canadian.
“A damaged ship that sank straight down.”
Ned Land was correct.
We were close to a vessel whose torn ropes still hung from the broken masts.
The keel appeared intact, and the ship seemed to have sunk only a few hours earlier.
Three broken masts remained, each cut off about two feet above the deck, showing that the ship had lost them before sinking.
Lying on its side, the vessel had filled with water and was leaning toward the left.
The remains of what had once been a proud ship created a heartbreaking sight beneath the waves.
But even more terrible was the view of the deck.
Several bodies, still tied with ropes, remained there.
I counted five.
Four were men.
One of them was still standing at the wheel.
The fifth was a young woman standing near the stern, holding a baby in her arms.
Her face was still clear because the cold water had preserved her features.
In a final desperate attempt, she had lifted her child above her head.
The poor little baby’s arms were wrapped tightly around its mother’s neck.
The four sailors were trapped in horrifying positions, their bodies twisted by their final struggles as they tried to escape the ropes that held them to the ship.
Only the helmsman looked peaceful.
His serious face was calm.
His gray hair was pressed against his forehead.
His hand still gripped the wheel.
Even in death, he seemed to be guiding the broken ship through the endless depths of the ocean.
What a terrible sight.
We stood speechless.
Our hearts raced as we stared at this shipwreck, preserved like a photograph of its final moment.
Already I could imagine huge sharks approaching, drawn by the scent of human bodies.
But the Nautilus turned and slowly circled the sunken ship.
For a brief moment, I saw the name written on its stern:
“The Florida, Sunderland.”