Welcome Aboard!!!!!!!

Reminded of this column a few days ago... I've decided to re-post it and some related columns... Enjoy... 

My thoughts often drift back to my years in the US NAVY and serving aboard fast attack submarines.

I am repeatedly asked to describe the life aboard a submarine. Since there were no embedded reporters, "Losing their tan, off the coast of Iran", I thought I'd write this column. As a tribute to those who shared this experience with me and to those who have followed. I hope that as they read this they can chuckle along with me as the memories come flooding back. (Maybe flooding isn't the word I want to use in a submarine story).

Many who have experienced submarine life would say (and there are times I'd have to agree) that it's not a life. Others might say that it's extreme boredom punctuated by moments of shear terror. It's during this time that you watch the "This is Your Life" video pass before your eyes in fast forward. These are the times that with almost no thought, but as a result of repeated practice and drill you react to the situation at hand. Albeit fire, flooding (there's that word again) or a power plant casualty. Only after the adrenalin begins to wear off, do you realize that you almost died. These stressful moments become the source of some quality "gallows humor" as a means to deal with the stress and boredom.

I don't want you, the reader, to think it was all bad and I don't want to write this as an embedded reporter. I wish to write this, so that you, the reader can experience a taste of this salty adventure as a new crew member. So come aboard with me shipmates, and let me be the first to say, "Welcome Aboard"!

As we cross from the pier to the boat let me take this opportunity to explain that a ship is a ship, but a submarine is a boat. This being a hold over from the German U-boat terminology.

We're standing topside now staring down the main hatch and at the ladder bolted to the wall below the hatch. Before you begin to descend fill your lungs completely with a deep breath of fresh air and look straight up. This is your last breath of completely fresh air and your last look at the sky for the next sixty days.

As we reach the bottom of the ladder and proceed forward you begin to become aware of your new surroundings. The first is the ever present and distinct odor that permeates everything and everyone on board. It's a mixture of diesel exhaust, lube oil, food, sweat, cigarette smoke, grease, salt water and trash. Yes, a regular "eau de toilet water" kind of smell. (I think submarine air comes from France).

Remember that description and you'll understand why people are looking at you funny when we get to our first liberty port.

We continue to go forward, down another deck and through a water tight door, we are now in the bow compartment of the boat. Here we'll assign you your rack (this is your bed). It's approximately six feet long, three feet wide and three feet high, with a reading light, an air conditioning vent and a curtain for privacy. That sea bag you're carrying with all your worldly possessions in it, gets unpacked and stowed in the three inch deep bed pan that is the length and width of your rack. And since you're new on board, you get to share these luxury accommodations with one, maybe two other people.

The good news is that you'll probably rarely get to sleep anyway until your qualification cards are completed. These earn you the right to proudly wear your silver dolphins pin(the symbol of the submarine service) with your uniform. It also earns you a seat at the evening movie, until then though you're on the "dink" (delinquent) list.

Well, before you get to work let us go to the mess decks for the evening meal. Of course we'll have to stand in line for these culinary delights. I hear they're serving fried chicken that tastes like shrimp, because they never change the grease in the deep fat fryer. We get to wash it all down with "bug juice", the navy's brand of high potency kool-aid. It's so full of ascorbic acid that it's also used to clean the grill and the toilets. Bon appetite, shipmate!

As an added bonus the "doc" is waiting at the head of the line to make sure we're all up to date on our shots. I haven't decided yet if it's because we're going overseas or to protect us from the food.

We'll skip ahead now on this adventure story. We've left port, we're underway now and you've poured coffee all over yourself upon hearing the diving alarm for the first time. (2 blasts on the loudest "uh-ga" horn you've ever heard, followed by the announcement of "dive, dive"). Now you experience the same anxiety felt by every new crew member the first time you realize that this is what submarine life is all about. You're underway, hundreds of feet below the surface and if something happens, you can't escape and there is no rescue.

Your crusty old chief has sensed your tension and shared the "two key secrets of a successful submariner". The first is so profound that you're amazed at its wisdom.

"Son", say the chief, "We want to keep the water out of the people tank". You're speechless at the wisdom of that statement and at the fact that the chief seems to love being asea. "Maybe he's just confused", you think, after all you certainly are. You're wondering, "What the hell am I doing here?" As he continues to try to ease your fears, he shares the second secret of submarine life. It may take some higher math skills to understand this, but thank God for our public school system. "The second secret", says the chief, "is to make sure the number of dives equals the number of surfaces" You thank the chief for sharing those with you and silently vow to get the hell out of the navy before you end up like him.

We've been out at sea now for a few weeks and the closeness of the quarters is beginning to wear on you. There are few places on board where you can stretch your arms straight out and not touch something in a 360degree circle. When you find one, you're reminded of your surroundings by the fact that something is in the overhead just inches from your head.

You're standing your watches in the engine room, the hottest, sweatiest, oiliest place on the boat. Six hours on watch, twelve hours off during which time maintenance, cleaning and training, etc. get done. Notice that sleeping is not on that list.

The evaporator, which is used to make fresh water from seawater has been secured for weeks now because it makes too much noise. The trash compactor and overboard trash disposal unit is also secured and all trash is bagged and stored in the engine room, your watch station. (Stealth is important in this business).

Unfortunately, when the evaporator is secured so are the showers. This is not good when you have to share a rack with someone. At least everyone smells the same, but twice already in the few moments you've been able to sleep, you've woken up wondering "What the hell stinks?" only to realize it's you!

You're developing a taste for navy chow and continue to be amazed at the creativity of the boats cooks. You've even won some awards for correctly identifying the "mystery meat of the day".

You've settled into the routine of the days, even though you don't know what day it really is. You've stopped wondering what the weather is like back home, but hope that there is some mail waiting for you at the first liberty port.

As the boredom builds the tension does also. You're starved for entertainment and read Louis LaMour novels as fast as possible. All the time imagining yourself in the story and the wide, open spaces of the American West. The days slowly go by as you begin to think about how good an ice, cold beer and some real food will taste.

Then one day you hear, "surface, surface, surface"!!! A short time later you're out in town, and yes the locals think you smell. Hey, you do smell! But the beer is cold and God bless McDonalds there's real food almost everywhere in the world.

The tension that was building slowly goes away and before you know it, it's the next day and you're trying to explain why you and some of your shipmates got into trouble out in town. A couple of more days like that and you'll be glad to be back to sea, you'll need the rest!

A week or so later you're out to sea again. But, now you're not the new man on board since some new crew members reported during the port call. The cycle continues until six months later you finally return home. It's great to be home, but you feel like Rip Van Winkle. The world continued without you, the whole time you were gone. There are new songs on the radio, new shows on TV, it was summer when you left, its Christmas time now. The car you left parked on base has become a seagull roost and the paint job is ruined.

The next day you take the motorcycle out and ride, ride, ride, up over the mountains and east into the desert. Ride with the wind in your face and no one around. Ride until the closed in feeling is gone and you feel like being around other people again. As time goes on, these trips will get longer and longer, sometimes even requiring a night of camping alone in the southern California desert.

Then comes the day, the day it's all over. The day you walk off that base for the last time knowing you never have to go back, you experience a feeling like none other. Then you're left with the memories that mellow with time…

Memories of maybe "the worst of times" and certainly of the "best of times". Memories of youth and of friends now scattered across the country. Then you hope they see this story and they remember also, as you raise your glass and say "this ones for you, shipmate"!