stunts driven out of the papers. A New York newspaper carried a photograph of Mike Rogo in which, as his friends remarked, he looked a good deal more criminal than anyone he had ever arrested. A young reporter from the Anaheim Dealer tried to get background information on Mr. James Martin, their newly minted local hero, only to discover that no one could remember what he looked like. A retired naval officer who had not seen water since 1945 found himself whipped from his rose garden in Kent to the London television studios as an instant expert on sea disasters. There was a great deal of wild, fruitless speculation about what had caused a New York cop to pull a gun on the rescue helicopter’s crew and insist on returning.
Television crews came up with dramatic footage of the scene, and studio-bound reporters reconstructed the events as they appeared on film. It was evident, they all agreed, that the yacht Naiad, the Magt, and the Komarevo were launching a salvage operation. The retired naval officer pointed out the features on a swiftly prepared mock-up of the cross section of a cruise liner and explained how the Poseidon could stay afloat. “It’s rather like a giant sponge,” he said, amazed at his own knowledge. “Some of the cells are full of water and are dragging it down, some remain full of air and hold it up. The water must be advancing, and as soon as the balance tilts, the ship will go down.” Exhausted, he retired to the hospitality room for a pink gin.
He was substantially right. The Poseidon was held in its position by dozens of pockets of air, some tiny, some massive, that had been driven by the advancing waters into the stern of the ship. The launderettes, the car elevator, the garage, the indoor swimming pool, and the Turkish baths, all inverted, held the principal bubbles that kept the vessel afloat. Two entire sections of the passenger cabins were free of water. But the weight of the ship, bearing down on the water, created an intolerable pressure that sooner or later would burst the bubbles.
The retired naval officer, emboldened by forty minutes in the hospitality room, told the nation at the next newsbreak that it would happen slowly. One by one the watertight doors and bulkheads would be broached, and the Poseidon would sink gracefully beneath the waves.
He was wrong. The garage and a whole section of cabins went simultaneously, and the water ripped through their silent rooms. This shifted the balance completely. The bow end became heavier and sank further, lifting the stern even higher out of the water.
The retired naval officer, dragged from the bar to consider the newly reported position for an emergency bulletin, took one look and said, “That’s it. The next movement will be the last and the whole thing will go.” This time he was right.
It launched another rash of spontaneous speculation. Would the rescue ships be able to do anything in time? How long could the Poseidon last? Why didn’t the French navy send their helicopter back? The French navy replied courteously but firmly that they had already had one pilot almost shot and did not propose risking another.
A New York cop, over an afterwork beer with a colleague, offered the opinion, “If they think they can kill Rogo that easy they don’t know the guy. You couldn’t kill him with a napalm bomb.” The reporter in Anaheim finally traced Mr. James Martin’s mother, who, sobbing, told him, “All he ever wanted was to find a nice girl and settle down.” He also found a photograph of him at a Christmas raffle; his face was obscured by someone’s shoulder. Desperate relatives telephoned shipping line offices and newspapers. Cranks contacted radio stations with demented suggestions for saving the ship. A Portuguese zoo owner telephoned a newspaper to say he was worried about a Bengal tiger he had on board, on its way to Athens for a mating exercise. The reporter asked him if he realized that hundreds of people had died, and to
Television crews came up with dramatic footage of the scene, and studio-bound reporters reconstructed the events as they appeared on film. It was evident, they all agreed, that the yacht Naiad, the Magt, and the Komarevo were launching a salvage operation. The retired naval officer pointed out the features on a swiftly prepared mock-up of the cross section of a cruise liner and explained how the Poseidon could stay afloat. “It’s rather like a giant sponge,” he said, amazed at his own knowledge. “Some of the cells are full of water and are dragging it down, some remain full of air and hold it up. The water must be advancing, and as soon as the balance tilts, the ship will go down.” Exhausted, he retired to the hospitality room for a pink gin.
He was substantially right. The Poseidon was held in its position by dozens of pockets of air, some tiny, some massive, that had been driven by the advancing waters into the stern of the ship. The launderettes, the car elevator, the garage, the indoor swimming pool, and the Turkish baths, all inverted, held the principal bubbles that kept the vessel afloat. Two entire sections of the passenger cabins were free of water. But the weight of the ship, bearing down on the water, created an intolerable pressure that sooner or later would burst the bubbles.
The retired naval officer, emboldened by forty minutes in the hospitality room, told the nation at the next newsbreak that it would happen slowly. One by one the watertight doors and bulkheads would be broached, and the Poseidon would sink gracefully beneath the waves.
He was wrong. The garage and a whole section of cabins went simultaneously, and the water ripped through their silent rooms. This shifted the balance completely. The bow end became heavier and sank further, lifting the stern even higher out of the water.
The retired naval officer, dragged from the bar to consider the newly reported position for an emergency bulletin, took one look and said, “That’s it. The next movement will be the last and the whole thing will go.” This time he was right.
It launched another rash of spontaneous speculation. Would the rescue ships be able to do anything in time? How long could the Poseidon last? Why didn’t the French navy send their helicopter back? The French navy replied courteously but firmly that they had already had one pilot almost shot and did not propose risking another.
A New York cop, over an afterwork beer with a colleague, offered the opinion, “If they think they can kill Rogo that easy they don’t know the guy. You couldn’t kill him with a napalm bomb.” The reporter in Anaheim finally traced Mr. James Martin’s mother, who, sobbing, told him, “All he ever wanted was to find a nice girl and settle down.” He also found a photograph of him at a Christmas raffle; his face was obscured by someone’s shoulder. Desperate relatives telephoned shipping line offices and newspapers. Cranks contacted radio stations with demented suggestions for saving the ship. A Portuguese zoo owner telephoned a newspaper to say he was worried about a Bengal tiger he had on board, on its way to Athens for a mating exercise. The reporter asked him if he realized that hundreds of people had died, and to
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