How to Live 800 feet Underwater and Not Die

At first glance it was a frightening and sobering image.
The fast attack submarine USS Puffer rested ominously next to
the pier. Free of the usual array of decks, railings, guns
and other structures seen on most Navy ships,this streamlined
beast seemed built for a singular purpose, to seek and destroy
with the torpedoes hidden somewhere inside. Roughly as long
as a football field and painted completely black, it symbolized
death incarnate and grew more frightening as I walked closer.

I had spent two years so far in my military life in a
classroom learning how to run the nuclear reactor that powered
this behemoth. But as I crossed the rickety metal bridge that
spanned the distance between the pier and the ship, I became
more and more anxious. I had heard rumors about harassment,
hard work, and claustrophobia, but my instructors had always
maintained an air of mystery about the truth of submarines. I
had no idea what to expect.

I was escorted down the one, small hatch by a member of
the crew who seemed amused at my wide-eyed amazement. As we
dropped down into the first level and my eyes adjusted to the
relative darkness, my nose was assaulted by the smell of oil
and sweat. I sought to hear my escort over the soft roar of
ventilation fans as he described various pieces of equipment.
I was shown to my bunk that was nestled in between two huge,
green torpedoes. Almost as soon as I had packed away some meager
belongings, a loud voice blared something over the ships P.A.
system. Every member of the 120 man crew seemed to begin
scurrying at once. I managed to find my way to the mess deck.
The most spacious room on board, it was where the crew ate,
watched movies, or just hung out. Even here, space was cramped
as crew members donned life vests and harnesses. Other people
were pulling out bags of tools, and still others tromped in,
sweating and complaining about the heat in the engine room.

After about an hour, during which time I tried to stay out
of the way, I heard another announcement proclaiming that, "The
ship is underway!", and a chill went up my spine as I knew that
this was the beginning of four years of sea duty. It would mean
being out to sea for any amount of time from four days to six
months. Although we would only be gone a week this time, I was
not sure I could take the pressure. I had heard stories from my
instructors about guys who literally went nuts from the bizarre
life submariners lead. My daydreaming was interrupted by a rough
looking guy sitting across from me. "Who the hell are you?", he
barked at me.

"Uhh, Atwell. I'm a new guy.", I sheepishly replied.

"Great, that's all we need. Another friggin' nub", he sighed
and then commenced ignoring me. I would find out later that "nub"
stood for Non-Useful Body.

As my luck would have it, the seas were a bit rough that
day. Having never been on any other boat than the Belle of
Louisville, a massive steamboat on the Ohio River, I was
immediately affected by the slow rocking of the ship. The further
out in the channel we traveled, the more the ship teetered back
and forth, and the sicker I became. I heard some mild chuckling
as I stumbled out of the room toward my bunk. To my amazement, the
ship began to get tossed so badly that I was slammed right and
left into the wood paneling of the passageway. I soon reached my
bunk, crawled on top, held on for dear life and tried to sleep it
off. The last thing I remembered was a loud klaxon blaring and a
man's voice announcing, "Dive! Dive!". The entire ship tilted
again, only this time nose-down, and the rocking immediately
stopped. With my world now still, I drifted off to sleep.

"BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG!". I was jolted awake by this noise.
I promptly smacked my head on the torpedo rack and lay back down,
clutching my skull. A huge dark blur rushed by and threw an air mask
on my chest. I did not understand what he said, but I realized I
should get up for the fire drill. I lurched out of my bunk, hit my
head again, and stumbled toward the crew's mess, trying to wrestle
on my air mask. I had just walked into the room with my mask
adjusted, when I realized I could not breathe. I had forgotten to
plug the masks into one of many air connections that jutted from
the overhead. More stifled laughter erupted as the crew watched the
"nub" try to get air. I was so thrilled to breathe when I found a
free connection that I did not see the 200 pound monster with a bag
of tools as he bowled me over upon entering. By the time they
announced ,"The fire is out!", I was ready to go back home and crawl
into a big ball.

The rest of the week was filled with insults from the crew and
complete neglect from my superiors. No one seemed to have time to
grade my initial qualification exam, see me for interviews, or even
tell me what I was supposed to do while they worked. I had never
felt so alone. How could I possibly take this for four years? The
hours would drag by until Friday, the final day at sea. On Wednesday
as I wandered alone through the engine room, I noticed a small depth
gauge bolted to the bulkhead. On its tiny face a needle pointed to
the number "800". I looked up and recalled the fact that there were
eight hundred feet of water between us and all the fresh air in the
world. As I contemplated the fact that we would could all die if we
somehow lost the ability to return to the surface, a voice broke my
concentration. "Don't worry, Atwell, you'll get used to it." The
voice came from a shocking creature resembling a sailor covered with
oil and soot. "My name's Palmer. I've been here about month", he
continued.

"What have you been doing?", I asked.

"Just some maintenance on the motor-generator. Hey, I heard you
freaked out during the fire drill. Everybody goes through it. Don't
stress out over this place; it's not worth it."

"Thanks, I'll live I guess," I replied.

"Cool, see ya" , Palmer said before spinning around and
descending down a hatch in the floor.

* * *

"So you goin' to O'Hungry's tonight with us?"

"I can't. I'm not twenty-one yet", I replied between sips of
coffee. It was finally Friday. Palmer sat across from me on the mess
deck as the ship steamed toward San Diego.

"That's too bad. Maybe we'll just let you drive us!"

I laughed at this and continued to drink. Okay, so it was not so
bad. There were at least twenty other nubs learning the horrors of
submarine life with me. It took me awhile to find them, since they
spent most of their time studying or cleaning. I learned that, yes,
it was very tough at first, but if I stuck with it, I would get used
to the abuse.

At the sound of "The ship is moored!", the attitude changed for
everyone. We shared one thought alone: to get the hell out of here.
The shaft of sunshine was blinding as it shot through that one same
open hatch. I had never seen such a beautiful day. The ocean
glittered deep blue while holding up dozens of white sailboats in San
Diego bay. The beaches on either side of the pier were littered with
the whitest sand and the tallest palms. I breathed in the clean,
oil-free, air and walked off the brow. As I headed toward my barracks,
I knew I had better make the weekend count. After all, we were going
out again on Monday.