By the 1950’s, the Bahamas, or British West Indies, had become of strategic importance as a location for monitoring Russian submarine activity. A series of hydrophones had been deployed near a Navy base at Eleuthera to listen for approaching subs. In June of 1958, the Soviets were on the verge of launching their first nuclear powered submarine. Soviet subs were out there.
June 28, 1958. Another perfect day in paradise. The British West Indies.
Bill was restless. Paradise had grown dull. The endless blue, the coconut palms, the sun-soaked hours, no longer felt like freedom. They felt like drift. He wasn’t cut out to be a beach bum forever. The world was changing fast, and Bill had decided: he’d change with it.
Two days earlier, the last “bird on the pad” (tracker slang for a launch-ready missile) had lifted off from Cape Canaveral. Vanguard SLV-2, bound for Earth orbit. It failed.
Meanwhile, on land and in the headlines:
Sheb Wooley’s “Purple People Eater” hit number one.
Imre Nagy was executed by the Soviets.
A U.S. federal judge ordered the desegregation of Little Rock schools.
These were the tremors shaking the world – but not Bill. Not today. Today was for one final dive.
Just before dusk, Bill met Don near the boathouse. The sea was flat as hammered tin. A returning crew of fishermen – Reese, Suter, Kramer – were stepping out of the boat, laughing, sunburnt, a cooler of half-melted ice between them.
“You’re not taking it back out?” one of them asked. More statement than question.
Bill didn’t answer. Don already had one foot in. The water shimmered with the last light – purple and orange like an oil slick.
No bird on the pad meant no launch tonight.
No launch meant no radar.
No eyes on the sea.
Their absence would be noticed later. But not yet.
No one saw them leave.
No one was watching the sea – not that night.
Somewhere beneath them, a current whispered north-northwest. Somewhere even deeper, something else moved.
They dropped into the water backward. No temperature shock. The warm sea embraced them like a dream. At 175 feet, visibility was still clear. A hundred feet in every direction.
The deeper water cooled, but Bill wore no wetsuit. He felt no need.. Summer seas.
He hadn’t been to a dive club meeting in months.
He knew the rules: the deeper the dive, the shorter the time.
He brought no camera. No spare tanks.
Neither would help where they were going.
Bill noticed it first. A long shadow, looming in the sea. He motioned to Don.
Elsewhere.
A windowless room. Machines humming. Paper spooling.
Rows of hydrophone recorders, each tuned to a different beam.
Undersea sound. Clicks. Echoes. A shadow.
An analyst walks the aisle. Listening.
“Walking the beams,” they call it.
Something is out there. The machine hears it first.
Direction, intensity, movement – recorded, evaluated, filed.
Back in the deep, Bill sees it:
A long shadow, rising.
He signals Don.
Don lets go of his speargun.
No threat. No fight. Just silence.
Photos taken by William Scales, British West Indies, 1956-58.
Just one possibility.
One version of events.
One thread, disappearing into the deep.
Mere speculation.
Outermost Uncle 
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