It is the vessel that inspired a generation of divers. Now she lies forgotten in a berth in France. Geoff Stanton believes there is only one suitable fate for Jacques Cousteau's Calypso
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Lingering death of a legend
SOMETIMES A NAME IS ALL THAT IS NEEDED: Concorde, the Flying Scotsman - the Calypso. I recently had the most wonderful, yet strangely disturbing, experience during a weekend visit to La Rochelle, a pretty harbour town on the Atlantic coast of France. I succeeded in tracking down Jacques-Yves Cousteau's famous boat, but it was a discovery that gave rise to inner conflict.
My earliest memories of the Calypso were of the '70s series Jacques Cousteau's Underwater World. To me it was the most romantic, adventurous, glamorous and exciting programme in TV history.
Cousteau was a true "fly by the seat of your pants" pioneer. The inventor of the aqualung, he plumbed the depths without knowing the physiological effects of the deep, breathing compressed air with its unknown chemical effects on internal organs and bodily functions.
The crew were a select band who were there because they wanted to be. It wasn't a job, it was their life. They were all part of a wonderful adventure, to travel, to dive, to experiment with things they had never seen before.
It is difficult to explain the profound effect that finding the Calypso had on me. On that first morning, though she was covered by a giant white plastic sheet in a quiet backwater near the maritime museum, I easily identified her unique shape. I sneaked aboard to take a few surreptitious photographs, with a view to putting pressure on the French government or perhaps the Cousteau Society to restore this remarkable vessel to her former glory.
I knew she had been badly damaged in Singapore harbour in 1996, but naively believed that if enough money was thrown at her, she would become that prized trophy once again.
As I stole along the foredeck, I could see all the winding gear, the winches, ropes and shackles, spewed in an untidy mess. I could almost feel the excitement of the crew as they gathered round to see the latest item being winched aboard.
The galley was also alive with memories - Christmas decorations on a small table reminded me of a photo I had seen of the vessel crossing the Equator at Christmas time.
The cooker, cupboards, pots and pans, empty wine bottles, all gave the feeling that the crew had only just got up and left. There was the raw energy of the engine room - eight oxygen cylinders linked together, the compressor - the atmosphere was palpable.
The Calypso moored at La Rochelle
ladder down to the underwater observation chamber
the engine-room
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I felt as if I had slipped through a door in time, especially in the workshop, which measured no more than 2.5m by 2.5m but which contained the vice - the implement of so many revolutionary ideas that worked, and influenced today's diving.
The area was littered with bits of dive gear and several Johnson outboard motors with the name Calypso on the covers. The store-room had a "busy" atmosphere - it had once been crammed full of items they might need, from screws, nuts and U-bolts to angle iron, ropes and balls of string.
Another room had an air of tranquillity, almost like a chapel for someone to have private thoughts. It was the photo lab, where the empty shelves once held reels of film documenting Calypso's expeditions. The atmosphere in the sleeping quarters was also peaceful. There was bedding strewn about in what had been the place of rest when the toil of a day was done.
Finally, the bridge brought an overwhelming feeling of privilege that I was sharing this small area with the ghosts of Cousteau and his crew.
That evening, I entertained wild thoughts of raising the funds to buy Calypso and get others together to help restore her. After a sleepless night, I returned to the vessel to take more photos, but this time taking more note of the damage, the air of decay and the ravages of years of neglect.
It dawned on me that Calypso could never be restored unless as a tourist attraction. Technology has moved so far, so fast, that this brave ship could never compete, and would be reduced to having people like me traipsing over her, poking and prodding.
I asked myself why she had ended up in this backwater, left to rot under a plastic sheet, and finally understood - this ship has a soul, an indomitable spirit. She is being kept alive as a terminally ill patient when she should be laid to rest in an environment in which she feels at home. She wants to be sunk!
The Calypso has been ignominiously abandoned but it has an air of acceptance about it. It's had its day; its era is over. The quest should not be to restore her, but to return her to the sea as a designated dive site, where all divers will be able to visit her.
On the third and last day, I bought a cheap torch and returned to Calypso for the last time. I lifted the hatch on the foredeck and descended the rusty ladder to the innovative observation chamber, to try to make sense of my thoughts.
I felt privileged to wander the decks of this once-great ship, still so alive with memories. If I could bring any pressure to bear it would be to return the Calypso to the sea to rest in peace. This is the forgotten ship I can never forget.
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