The Lost Paradise of Panamá

When I’m not traveling, I live in the upper Midwest state of South Dakota. The Black Hills, Deadwood, Mount Rushmore, The Badlands, and endless prairie. I heard an interesting story through a third party about an old farmer trying to relive his former Navy days. It went something like this:

“Bob,” Joe said into the mouthpiece, shaking his head, not believing a word of what he just heard. He normally called his friend by his nickname, Chicken Head Bob. He earned that name in the service because of his bird-like features, and because he had a tendency of getting overly excited. Joe dropped the moniker to let him know he was serious.

“Sure,” Chicken Head Bob said.

“You want me to come out to your farm, specifically Miller’s Pond, and salvage—a submarine?”

“That’s right.”

Joe didn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice, or joking, or anything but the tone of an old friend who sounded serious.

“Look, Bob,” Joe said slowly, the way you do when you want to emphasize a point. “Surely you must understand that submarine and South Dakota simply don’t go together. It’s past April First, so what’s the deal here? Did my wife put you up to this?”

“No!” Chicken Head Bob shouted. Joe pulled the phone away from his ear.

“Sorry, Joe. But it’s my wife I’m worried about.”

“You’ve completely lost me.”

“Do I have to tell you everything? Can’t you just come out and pull up the submarine with your crane and let it go at that?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Darn right I don’t believe you. Look, I’m not hauling heavy equipment all the way out to your place, dive forty feet into some murky pond and hunt for a fictitious submarine that doesn’t exist.”

Chicken Head Bob sighed. Joe could see his face in his mind, his chicken lips pursed together. 

“All right. I see your point. I’ll tell you what happened. But this is between you and me and not your drinking buddies at the Alpine Lodge.”

“No problem,” Joe said.

“Well, as you know, I’ve always loved the sea, ever since my days in the Navy, and I’ve always been fascinated with submarines. I think there’s something very mysterious about them. But Ethel can’t stand boats of any kind, not even a raft. Anyway, a while back, I saw this ad on eBay for a submarine.”

“A real submarine?”

“Yeah. A fourteen-footer. Not all that big, but completely functional. It’d been used in an amusement park down south that was going out of business. It has a working engine, it can dive, surface, and there’s even a mini-conning tower—the works.”

“And this is something you wanted?”

“Yes. I thought I’d try it out on the pond. With the low profile, Ethel would never see it. Once everything was checked out, I’d tell her. I couldn’t do it before because the last time I mentioned something like this she laughed. She said if there was anyone who could sink a submarine, permanently, it’d be me.”

“I think I’m beginning to get the picture. So, you went ahead and bought it?”

“Yep.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars, delivered.”

As if the word delivered meant anything. Joe cringed at the amount and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Joe, ya there?”

“I’m here. I take it Ethel still doesn’t know?”

“Heck no.”

“You might as well tell me the rest.”

“I took delivery when I knew Ethel was out. We launched her right into the pond. It worked perfectly, until I decided to dive.”

“What happened?”

“Well, that’s where I kinda screwed up. That’s the part I don’t want anyone knowin’. I opened the valves to let the pond water in and before I knew it, I was going down fast. And then, black widow spiders swarmed from nowhere and there was no time to close the valves, and I wasn’t going to close the hatch, not with those spiders there. So I just kinda floated out and watched my ten k disappear all the way to the bottom.”

With the picture of Chicken Head Bob trying to escape from a sinking sub on his own pond, Joe started to giggle. He covered the mouthpiece so Bob couldn’t hear.

“I climbed out of the pond all covered with algae just as my Ethel drove up. I told her I had fallen in. Joe, I can’t tell her, I just can’t, not after what she said. You’ve got to help me.”

“If you’re pullin’ my leg—”

“I’m not.”

Joe slipped on his SCUBA tank, pulled down his mask and dived to the bottom of Miller’s Pond. The water was a murky green. He turned on a spotlight. Suddenly, looming a yard in front of him and surrounded by catfish and carp, was the gray hulk of Bob’s submarine. Only then did the ridiculousness of the whole situation hit home. 

Joe started laughing so hard that he couldn’t breathe and had to surface. There was Bob, standing on a large, flat rock, twitching, and gazing at his shoes. Next to him was Ethel, arms folded, and staring at Joe with dagger eyes. He still had about forty-five minutes of air left, so he decided to wait it out on the bottom of Miller’s Pond in Chicken Head Bob’s submarine.