The control centre hums with the quiet rhythm of an ancient submarine. A cross-grid of brass and glass stretches along the walls, instruments glowing softly as the vessel moves through the deep. The navigator and pilot keep their eyes forward — “steady as she goes” — all hands firm at their posts.
At the great front window stands Captain Nemo, watching the abyss. Out there, shapes drift past, indeterminate. The sea presses close, immense and silent.
Footsteps echo, coming down the metal stairs.
A small figure has can be seen, hair tousled from sleep, eyes wide and searching. A child. Brave enough to leave the warmth above, drawn by the steady pulse of engines and the promise of being near him.
Captain Nemo turns at once. He does not send the child back. He gently lifts his precious one and holds him close so they both can see. A little head nestles on his father’s shoulder as an arm pulls him closer still. Together, as one, they stand as silent as the dark sea before them.
“Whatcha doin’?” the child whispers, still half inside a dream.
“Watching,” he answers gently.
Outside the thick glass, something immense glides past — a shadow vast enough to swallow light. The pilot lets out a startled breath; the navigator stiffens.
Captain Nemo does not flinch.
“Hold’r steady, boys,” the Captain murmurs.
The child rubs sleep from his eyes but does not pull away. There is no fear in that small body — only trust. The kind that comes from knowing the arm around him will not let go. The kind that grows from being loved deeply and without condition.
They stand together at the window — captain and child — gazing into dark blue mystery.
“This is the bridge,” Captain Nemo whispers, bending close.
Running Down Vimy 