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AN AQUANAUT'S JOURNALBY PHIL TRUPP |
DECEMBER 6, 1979: At the command console of America's only underwater habitat I
feel like Captain Nemo in my castle on the floor of the Caribbean Sea.
Through HydroLab's huge view port I watch the ocean bottom describe the patterns of
the surface, 50 feet above. The white sand moves with the contour of the swells, and
the strange world of Salt River Submarine Canyon off the north coast of St. Croix, in
the U.S. Virgin Islands, is momentarily dimmed as if the waves were watery clouds
passing before the sun.
I'm absorbing large amounts of nitrogen in the air under this hydrostatic pressure, and
I'm getting a touch of nitrogen narcosis-rapture of the deep.
My companions feel it, too. I can tell. But as leader of the first team of journalists ever
to become Aquanauts, I am in the Nemo Power Seat. It makes me feel a little higher.
We have departed the world "up there. " We no longer belong to the world of sky and
sunlight. We are here, in the lab, for three days. And the same nitrogen that now gives
such a nice buzz and makes writing hard will kill us "up there. " Without nearly a full
day of decompression it will bubble out of solution, and the blood in our
nitrogen-saturated bodies will boil and fizz like an agitated litre of champagne.
So we are here to stay, and the world above, the green island of St. Croix, isn't friendly,
isn't real any longer.
HydroLab was built in 1961 by Perry Oceanographics, Inc. Officially the National
Underwater Laboratory System-I (NULS-I), it is an eight-by-16-foot cylinder rigged to
support four Aquanauts for a week. It is located at the head of Salt River Submarine
Canyon, a gash in the island's submerged slope which ends at a drop-off into 12,000
feet of water.
Seen from the air the canyon looks like a dark triangle with its base jutting into the
sea. The lab is at the southern point of the triangle. Most of our underwater excursions
will go to the north, toward the deep water of the open sea.
On the west side of the canyon the walls of limestone and core rise vertically off the
bottom. On the east, the slope is gently rounded, strewn with cobbles and decorated
with brilliant sponges and seafans.
We have waterproof maps and polypropylene lines on the bottom to help us navigate
when we lock out of the lab and explore the canyon using slights modified scuba gear.
To us it is a submarine rain forest into which we have come as trespassers-almost.
We have an edge. Unlike divers who intrude from the surface or shon periods of time,
we have moved into the neighborhood. Back at HydroLab Base on St. Croix they call it
in situ-in place -and the laws of physics that compel ordinary divers to return quickly to
the surface don't apply. We're saturated by nitrogen, and so long as we stay at 50 feet
it or more we can explore the canyon for days and go deep for periods of time far in
excess of those listed by the official compressed air diving tables.
This places us in a unique category: We are creatures mixed up between sky and sea,
not quite men, not quite fish: what Cousteau calls "Menfish."
For an undersea explorer, being a Manfish has great value. You are no longer an
intruder, the marine creatures get used to you being around and don't shy away: You
are one of the boys. It's the difference between actually living somewhere and just
passing through.
Our new living quarters are fairly spartan. The lab has three bunks, a sink with instant
boiling water, a shower down in the lockout trunk, radio gear, indoor-outdoor carpeting,
a storage area for wet suits and other gear, and a basement leading to an unused
submarine docking tunnel.
There is no head. Aquanauts do it in the ocean, as the fish do. Our instructors at the
West Indies lab of Fairleigh Dickinson University, which operates HydroLab for the
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, called it "physiological house
cleaning. " It gives us a feeling of simple barbarism. Dr. William Schane, the
hyperbaric physician responsible for our well-being, says Hydrolab is like camping in
the woods in a pup tent.
I am not conscious of time, only light and shade, and as the first day becomes late
afternoon I am aware of the isolation. But it isn't desolation. I am warm and dry and
comfortable, and the internal pressure makes our voices squeak stupidly. I grin
whenever I hear myself or the others talking. It isn't good to be grinning all the time.
It's serious business, being an Aquanaut, but it's hard to be too serious with a nitrogen
buzz and a squeaking Nemo.
Between 4:30 and 5 p.m., the sun is low. Its slanting rays barely light the bottom. Night
comes quickly in the sea. We have made several excursions around the canyon, and
the anxiety that might have been inherent in our mission has disappeared.
I study my teammates: Steve Blount of Miami, editor of Sport Diver magazine; David
Abrahamson, a writer-editor from Manhattan; Rod Catanach, a support diver on the
staff of the West Indies Lab and a member of the HydroLab onshore support team.
Steve and Rod are in their twenties. David, the soul of sobriety in the world of blue
chips and paperclips before the nitrogen got to him, is in his early thirties. I am the old
man at 41.
8 P.M.: I report to Barrie Walden, Hydrolab program manager, that Steve, Rod and
David are prepared to venture out under the submarine moon while I stay in my little
castle, in voice communication with the surface support divers and HydroLab Base.
Minutes after leaving the lab the night divers are joined by three dolphins that had
made their presence known to us before the mission began. We were returning from
our final practice excursion along the network of lines when we saw them, three of them
dancing at the surface as we boarded our Zodiac for the return to base. We
immediately got back into the water and watched as they performed for us and sang
with squeaks and squeals, letting us know that our mission was under a lucky star.
But tonight the dolphins are staying out of sight, just beyond the circle of illumination
created by the Aquanauts' underwater lights. I can hear them "talking" through the
hydrophore, and the encounter goes like this:
"HydroLab, this is Rubber Duckie (the support divers overhead in the Zodiac).
Dolphins are following the Aquanauts along the west wall. "
The dolphins chatter excitedly whenever Rubber Duckie reports the divers are
descending to greater depths or switching in midwater to fresh tanks of air. I wonder if
they are also responding to the Chick Corea album we've piped into the water through
our transducer. It was David who supplied the tape; Steve contributed Earl Kluge.
Why shouldn't the dolphins respond to music? Fish and many sea mammals do. All
right, they are cooking on the reef with jazz and when I report this to Barrie, his deep,
New England voice replies, "Say again, HydroLab?"
A few minutes later David explodes into the lockout trunk, his mask shoved back on
his balding head, his eyes wide.
"Man, I'm having a rush!" and before I can ask him what it's all about he says, "I'm
going back out. "
I want to know about the dolphins. I assume by David's animation that they've followed
the Aquanauts all the way back to HydroLab, that they are playing out there in the
front yard near the tank rack with its fresh bottles of air.
I ignore the regulation requiring one Aquanaut to be in the lab at all times and head for
the lockout trunk, only to be blocked again by David.
"What the hell is it?" I insist.
Now David is sober again, Mr. Real and Dry. Oh, it was nothing, really. No, the
dolphins didn't come into the front yard. "Just had a rush is all... "
Steve, a former rock musician, is almost always cool. But now, coming through the
trunk in his red wet suit, he's grinning, a good ol' boy from Mississippi who sees the
canyon as another stage for childhood swamp-stomping. I think Steve is feeling mud
between his toes.
Rod is pretty much the same: calm, together, with a quiet dignity that is hard to ruffle.
Tonight he is only slightly less intense than he was the day I first met him. David calls
him "the wrench," the only man among us who knows the system, all the Vs & Gs
(valves and gauges)and the complex piping. If anything goes wrong, Rod can fix it.
Beyond that, the mission is a tremendous opportunity to haul out his cameras and
expose miles of Ektachrome.
DECEMBER 7, I979, MIDNIGHT: The excitement of the first night dive has been
transformed into a sense of womb-like well-being. Everyone is asleep, and I am taking
the lobster shift at the console until 4 a.m.
HydroLab is humming softly as I try to make one sentence follow another. Before
turning in the crew was somewhat disassociated, as if they had jet lag. But I am fully
awake, being nocturnal by nature, and carry my Circadian cycle with me. Each of us
had his body rhythms tuned to the biological clock, but the experts tell me this will
change. People in isolation tend to wake up earlier each day, and if they are
comfortable tend to feelings of euphoria.
On this first night under the sea Steve and Rod sleep peacefully. David wakes up
several times, holds brief conversations with me, and slips back into sleep.
At about 3 a.m. I decide to take a late night stroll in the front yard. I slip down the
lockout trunk, find the hookah breathing device attached to the surface support buoy,
and sit legs crossed on the big HydroLab ballast slab. The water still feels warm after a
day of diving, and lights peeking through the ports describe a small circle of
illumination around the lab. Fish dart in and out of the beams.
In front of me is the canyon floor, a wide, flat table of sediment and sand sloping
downward into deep black water. I try to imagine the very edge of the canyon: From
here the sea floor falls rapidly to 100 feet where HydroLab Base has installed "limit
line"-a level beyond which the Aquanauts are not allowed to travel without direct
surface support. Beyond the line the sea floor shelves rapidly down to nearly 200 feet
before ending in an abyssal drop-off. Near the edge of the drop-off a large formation of
limestone and coral rises up to form a cathedral-like spire, and the endless transport of
sediment, carried by the tides, forms an endless "underwater fall" into the abyss.
I swim from the ballast slab to the tank rack, where fresh double-bottles of air are
waiting. From there it's only a few yards to the PUTS-portable underwater talking
station. The PUTS is a little yellow tent made of steel with its own air supply. Internal
air pressure keeps it from flooding, and I can stand up inside, remove my mask and
regulator, and peer out through a series of small view ports. Very cozy, very private.
Maybe too private, too exclusive, because HydroLab is the only working inner space
ship in America, and there is only one other in the world, West Germany's Helgoland
four-man system. It's hard to believe that ocean exploration is so poverty stricken,
especially when I recall the billions of dollars we spent on the Apollo moon program.
At 4 a.m. I wake David and slip into his bunk. Sleep is instantaneous.
DECEMBER 7, 6:30A.M.: We lock out and swim to a remarkable dropoff along the
east slope where the West Indies Lab crew has installed a wooden park bench. Seated
on the bench, I watch the sunrise beneath the sea. The light comes very slowly.
The bench is on-a shelf 60 feet or so below the surface and overlooks a huge
bowl-shaped area bottoming out 180 feet below. As the minutes tick by it slowly fills
with muted sunlight. The marine creatures in this remarkable fish bowl are now
discernible. Suddenly-the bottom is alive with a cool, golden light; the sun has come
over the horizon. Nearly two hours have gone by, and I note that true sunup under the
sea is about eight a.m.
Later we take time to make our "phone calls from the bottom of the sea." Steve calls
his fiancee in Miami. Rod calls his grandparents. David calls his girlfriend and the
president of a large publishing house. I call home. By this time our bodies are truly
saturated by nitrogen and the narcotic effect is pronounced. The phone conversations
are dream-like, a little boring, and all of us ring off quickly. We are losing touch.
The rest of the day is spent in the water, where we belong.
DECEMBER 8, 1979, 12:30 A..M: I hear a high-pitched whine. I pass it off as a touch
of tinnitus and go on with my novel, The Greek Tycoon. The whine becomes a hiss. I
ignore it. The lab is always making sounds. But the hiss gets louder, and I go aft to the
storage area where we hang our wet suits. It seems to be coming from there,
somewhere...Suddenly something goes bang! The decking is trembling. I stand there,
contemplating. What the hell is this? The others are asleep. No point in waking them.
Wonder why they don't hear it? I certainly hear it. Maybe I should report to base. No,
no good. Might cause a scene.
I stand there for a long time. Then I hear another sound-a rushing in the lockout trunk.
Water is rising up, splashing around the circular equipment bank at the base of the
trunk where we hang our masks and swim fins. I watch as the gear is sucked down and
out into the sea. I don't know if we've lost pressure and water is going to flood the lab,
or if it's just rough out there and surge is coming up the trunk.
"Rod.... "
I have only to say his name, and Rod is awake, as if he's been dreaming about all of
this and has been awakened just in time to save us from disaster. He is crouched down
over a decking plate and before I can say a word he pulls it away, exposing valves and
piping.
"The emergency air's blown," he says.
I call base as the last of the emergency air supply whistles out. I'm unconcerned, it's
quiet again, and I return to my novel. Rod interrupts to assure me it's no problem; we
have enough air in the lab to keep us alive for days, even if everything blows.
When I wake up I have only a vague recollection of the air blowout. At this point, the
difference between waking and sleeping is unclear; not that we are becoming careless
or lazy, but we occasionally drift in and out of sleep. At one point, Steve falls asleep in
the middle of a thought, only to pick it up again after a short nap. I'm not sure he's
aware of it.
Rod is another story: He is serious, somber, and his voice is clipped as he reports to
base on the hour. I think he's annoyed that I keep missing mandatory check-ins with
our overseers; I've violated section such-and-such of the Aquanaut's code. His
expression seems to say, "Enough of this nonsense!"
This morning we are going to explore the deep portions of the west wall, and this will
call for several changes of tanks, and so I tell the support crew to send down fresh ones
at various points along our planned route. We exit the lab and strap on the double
tanks hanging from the rack and swim down "A line, " which leads from the lab to the
base of the wall. Visibility is poor in the front yard. The bottom was stirred up by last
night's topside swells, which base reported as high as ten feet. But once past the
sediment and sand flats surrounding the lab the scene brightens, colors snap into sharp
focus, and it's a lovely day.
The reverie is broken when I notice David flinging himself into deeper water. How
deep, I don't know. But too deep for comfort, and it is obvious we are both
super-narced on nitrogen. I laugh into my regulator. Good old David, Mr. Manhattan,
bombed out. This is worth its weight in scotch and soda.
DECEMBER 8, 1979, 1:20 A.M.: "Gentlemen Aquanauts, tentative dive #1:1. Leave
tank rack with full doubles, approximately 8-8:30 a.m.; 2. Change tanks at drop-off on
east wall, approximately 8:45 a.m.; 3. Dive 30-40 minutes at 130-140 feet,
approximately 9-10:15 a.m.; 4. New tanks donned return trip to NULS-I by
approximately 11 a.m.; 5. Return to HydroLab 11:1511:20 a. m. Please note: after
noon today we cannot leave storage depth (50 feet) prior to onset of 6 p.m.
decompression ...Phil. "
That's how the numbers work. To properly do 16 and a half hours of decompression
inside the lab means no more deep stuff after a certain time otherwise the
decompression calculations get thrown off, and someone might take a nitrogen hit, the
bends.
After the morning deep dive we spend the rest of the day along the walls at 50 feet and
shoot our last-minute photos. I take time to get off by myself, away from the others,
and find a small cave decorated at its entrance by bright orange sponges. Inside it is
cool and dark. My air bubbles float to the roof of the cave, hanging there like
crystalline spheres in which I see my reflection. I'm alone now-truly alone. It strikes
me forcefully, and I like the feeling. Nearly three billion souls on the planet-and me.
I'm it. I have heightened awareness of time and space, and also of the world up there
on the surface of this water planet Earth. I am at once farther away and closer to my
fellow man than I ever will be again. I want very much to share this, but I know I
cannot. My words will be only a poor reflection of my true feelings.
At 6 p.m. we climb inside the lab, dog the top hatch on the lock out trunk. The support
crew seals the lower hatch at the bottom of the trunk. We're locked in. I turn off the air
conditioning. It's very, very still, except for the sound of water sloshing around
somewhere, and there is a deep, fetal bubbling.
"It's nice," I tell David.
"You wouldn't like it after a day, " he says.
We initiate the decompression routine, which basically involves turning the Vs and
watching the Gs. A former Aquanaut called it "Dive now, pay later. "
Slowly we'll reduce the pressure inside the lab from the present 3 7.2 pounds
per-square-inch, "coming up" to the surface where it's 14.7 psi. We will remain on the
bottom as we de-saturate, breathing off this blissful nitrogen, and at this point the
nitrogen will be a curse. We don't want to do anything wrong and get those bubbles
started.
I am at the console, reading the decompression tables, reporting to base every few
minutes as pressure is reduced. I am myopic and I find it difficult to stare at the Gs,
and about two hours into it I develop a slight pain in my back and right ankle.
Immediately I report this to Doc Schane, who replies: "The bends are inconceivable at
this stage. " He tells me to take two aspirins and lie down. I am more than happy to
comply. The
others are far more tech-oriented. But David frowns: I'm going to have to learn how to
"fly this thing, " he insists, paternally, as if it were a good thing for my general growth
and development. He comments on my overall "generalship" and says, "I'd go to the
moon with you buddy," but the implication is that I shouldn't be steering the rocket. I
don't argue; the mission is winding down. "I'll try harder, " I tell him, and I can see he
is pleased.
But for the moment I'm content to stretch out on a cot in front of the big view port and
watch the last fragments of sunlight disappear.
Slowly the old considerations return-the concerns of the surface. For the first time I
crave a cigarette. I also have a strange craving for a Pina Colada. The people I know
back in the States, what are they doing now? I wonder if Alfred Kahn is telling them to
bite the bullet and cut their wrists. I wonder how that genius of doomsayers would react
if he knew it cost 3000 tax dollars a day to run this mission.
"You okay?" It's David, and he's insisting again that I "fly" this machine, and to
pacify him I will comply, and I will say nothing when he tells me that perhaps my
"generalship" isn't so bad after all, despite the double-digit zeros I've been registering
on his mail-order biorhythm computer. No point in bringing him down. He'll be back to
"reality" soon enough.
I work the Vs & Gs. My eyes cross, and at 27 feet from the surface the air inside the
lab is sufficiently light enough to allow me to whistle. And I whistle. I whistle one for
Chick Corea whose music has kept us company here; I whistle for Doc Schane and
Joan, for Barrie Walden and the support crew in Rubber Duckie. And I whistle because
in coming closer to the surface I wish more than anything to whistle a happy tune.
DECEMBER 9, 12:30 P.M.: We re up! I undo the hatch on the lock out trunk.
Because I am the skinniest, I will be the first to be taken to the surface. It's a
journalistic decision: Skinny people look best in underwater photos, and I'm the
obvious choice.
I take a small "bail-out" bottle of air with a regulator on it, don my mask, but no fins.
The bottom hatch is still shut tightly, water pressure holding it in place. I squeeze inside
the trunk and the top hatch is again dogged. I turn a valve which brings pressure inside
the trunk to ambient and the bottom hatch falls open. The support divers are waiting on
the ballast slab. They indicate: Take it easy, don't exert, do nothing that might excite
what small amounts of excess nitrogen may remain in the body. They take me under
the arms and slowly, very, very slowly, carry me up toward the waiting surface vessel.
I feel like a child, helpless and docile. I am being reborn.
It seems forever, and then we break l the surface. The sun is blinding, the air | is warm,
its aroma is delicious. The hills J of St. Croix are so green that I feel I must be
hallucinating, that it's all a dream and too vivid. I can't tell if the salty taste in my
mouth is sea water or tears.
"Easy, easy," says Doc Schane as he helps me aboard and throws me a towel. I can't
even articulate my thoughts.
When the others arrive at the surface they, too, are silent. Can't tell what they're
thinking; can't even ask.
Back at base Steve immediately seats himself before the lab's just-delivered Apple
computer. He appears strangely blank as the blips and bits dash across the screen and
the computer serenades us with electronic music.
David goes to the black board and scrawls a series of incredibly profound epigrams,
none of which makes much sense to me, but which prompts Doc Schane to remark:
"Looks like Daniel Defoe's on the loose."
Rod goes to his room and begins | working on his camera gear. He is calm, pale,
serene, and no one could know that he's just come back from another world.
I slip into my bunk and make a final note before sleep overtakes me:
"It's true, what they say: In the sea, everything is moral."
Epilogue
When I returned to Washington many people asked the same question: how did the
experience of HydroLab affect me and my fellow Aquanauts?
Steve got married.
Rod went on snapping pictures.
David proposed a HydroLab mission of his own to map the canyon-with 15 people.
Doc Schane and Joan sailed their boat from St. Croix to British Tortola. I'm told it was
the first time the boat left port.
Barrie Walden quit his job as HydroLab Program Manager and returned to Woods
Hole.
In April 1980, I flew to the French West Indies in search of a sunken city.