When I was a young Navy journalist stationed in Hawaii I was doing a story about a joint operation with the Japanese Navy and our miniature submarine Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle (DSRV) capabilities. As part of my story I was offered to ride the miniature submarine during the training exercise. It was a privilege to go and I was the envy of my cohorts.

So while underway and submerged on the submarine USS Greeneville I climbed up a hatch in to the miniature submarine air-locked on the hull, along with about 10 other chosen crew members from the Greeneville. From the outside a DSRV looks similar to a typical submarine, while the inside looks like three spheres. The mini-sub had at least 4 crew members of its own; three in control (fore sphere) and one in the aft sphere. In the center sphere on the deck was the escape trunk, complete with a thick, transparent glass window. I felt like I was in a Jules Verne book!

I was in the aft sphere with about six other Sailors. It was kinda’ like sitting inside of I Dream of Jeannie’s lamp: the ceiling concave with a giant circular cushion for the floor. There was barely enough room for someone of my height to stretch out completely without hitting someone else. Quarters were cramped and there wasn’t much to see from the aft sphere.

One of the sub mess cooks packed us sandwiches and put them in a cooler for our trip. I remember looking inside and seeing some of them marked “tuna fish” and thinking, “That’s the last thing I want in here.”

The DSRVs were based out of San Diego where the waters are cooler. The exercise was taking place off the coast of Hawaii… Evidently the DSRV crew failed to take in to account the difference in water temperature. This meant that the ride was uncomfortably hot. I was told it would be kinda’ stuffy, but under the conditions that was an understatement. And to top it off the DSRV was having air circulation issues.

After a while of being stuffed in this small submerged vehicle, beads of sweat started trickling down everyone’s brow. Soon, Sailors were relaxing their uniforms. It was so hot in there.

I know this sounds like I’m writing up some sort of bizarre gay Sailor sex romp, but I promise you I’m not.

Most of us in the aft sphere were getting impatient and bored. The pilots were having a hard time landing on the Japanese submarine. Every time their landing was off they had to circle back around for another pass. I think this happened 5,672 times. And it was frickin’ hot in the DSRV. I remember thinking I felt like a baked potato. And it smelled horrible. Sweaty Sailors! Oh, and did I mention we had to take off our boots in the aft sphere? Yeah. That didn’t help. Oh, and did I mention that someone forgot to put ice in the cooler full of tuna sandwiches? Yeah. That didn’t help either. The combined scents were quite putrid.

But there was no escape. At least not until the exercise was complete.

And then, after about an hour of slow roasting, something happened. Loud beeping noises blared from the fore control sphere. The crew was clamorous. Lights were flashing. Passengers were alert and there was a sense of panic. Our heads were on a swivel , all looking to each other for answers. These guys in the submarine with me, while they weren’t crew members on the DSRV, they were submariners. Certainly they knew what was happening. Nah, not really.

Within a moment the only person with answers — the aft sphere DSRV crew member — hopped through the hatch between the mid and aft sphere, quickly slamming and securing it behind him. “Uhm, What? Why did he lock us in here?” I kinda’ started freaking out. I could faintly make out his command to “KEEP THIS SECURE!” Then I heard the words “CASUALTY CASUALTY. CASUALTY IN THE [unintelligible]…”

I started to get anxious. A casualty in Navy terms usually means fire. Then the word came over the 1MC to don oxygen masks. What? I don’t know how to do that! I mean, yeah, I was trained in boot camp, but that was months ago! All the other Sailors were grabbing for their masks and securing them with relative ease… I was having a harder time. Where is my mask? Why don’t the hoses fit? Why is one hose big and one hose small? Why won’t they mate? Why won’t my mask get a tight seal? Oh god. Are we running out of oxygen? Could I actually die in here? I wasn’t in complete panic mode, but my mind was racing.

The noises were getting louder. My mask was hissing. Lights were flashing. Sweat was dripping. Alarms were blaring. I actually thought about death. Like, real, serious death. I considered that I might die in this piece of shit miniature submarine with a bunch of randoms. I was here to write a story but instead of people reading my name in the byline it would be in obituaries. Our corpses would slow rot on the bottom of the ocean inside this can. I was trapped in a sinking, cursed tomb of sweaty tuna stench! I was too young to die!

We all sat in the aft sphere with our masks donned and our backs leaned up against the interior walls. My eyes were scanning faces for some sort of look of comfort from one of the submariners but I wasn’t getting much.

Then I caught the glare of the Sailor directly across from me. His mouth was moving — was he saying something to me? Maybe he had some words of comfort? This ship has a casualty… we were losing propulsion and were to be subject to ultimate irony; a rescue submarine needing to be rescued. Maybe he wanted to offer me some solace? He reached his hand out toward me. “What?” I hunched my shoulders and mouthed the word through my mask. He pointed at me.

“What?”

Then he removed his mask. My heart stopped. WTF was he doing? We were 2,000 feet below the surface and on fire, and this guy is taking his mask off? Maybe not 2,000 ft. I don’t remember exactly. Might have been more like 400 ft. Not important.

“The cooler,” he said. So I handed him the cooler. And man, was I confused while I did it.

He opened the little blue cooler and started sorting through the contents. What was going on? Was he MacGuyver? Was he going to fix The Casualty with plastic wrap? He was so stoic and confident. He had answers. His face lit up as he found what he was looking for.Eureka! He knew what to do!

Then he started to unwrap and eat a sandwich. “If I’m gonna’ die I’m not gonna’ die hungry.”

Oh god. It’s true. We’re gonna’ die down here. He just said so.

Everyone else started laughing nervously. I started thinking about all the things (girls) I didn’t get to do. I thought about my parents blubbering about me on the local news. “He was such a good boy!” I thought about what music they’d play at my memorial. Hopefully some 90’s R&B. Maybe some PFunk and then a gratuitous slow, emotional operatic ensemble so everyone could get their cry on. Veggie trays and cheese balls at the reception while they talked about that one time “he slammed his penis in a drawer”. They would reflect on my life and know that my sweaty bloated corpse was stuck inside metal tube with a bunch of other dudes. Well, that’s that!

People would read about the failed rescue training mission long after my body (6'2", tan and slender FYI) begins to self digest; my skin loses pigment and sea monkeys (they exist) lay eggs in my orifices, the sea maggots hatch under my cold epidermis and commence to eat my festering flesh. My arm-hairs will be sucked down through the pores like Bugs Bunny sucks down carrots in cartoons, my own bacteria and stomach acids, free of the subordinate bonds regulated by my once thriving immune system, begin to percolate to the extremities of my cadaver leaving a wake of funk pustule pus and cankered membrane pooled atop a wrinkled, bunched-up Navy uniform. When I am nothing but a pile of sea mite-infested, dried out seamaggot feces on the floor of this DSRV, the irony will live on forever.

Within a moment the hatch opened and the crew member informed us that there was smoke in the propulsion line but everything was okay. We were returning to the Greeneville.

Relief!

I was so happy to get off the miniature submarine and back on to a regular submarine. When we finally docked and air-locked, stepping down the ladder and back on the Greeneville was akin to stepping on dry land. We were all covered in sweat and I know that I looked like death. Certainly the Greeneville crew was savvy to what happened — but did they know what really happened? How close we were to certain death? And the tuna? And the socks? And the male ends and female ends of oxygen masks not fitting and my family using Nessun Dorma as the soundtrack for my life’s photo slideshow at my funeral and all of the other chaos?

The first person I saw as I turned away from the ladder was Admiral Konetzni, the commander of the entire Pacific submarine fleet. “How’d it go Shewdude?” he asked.

“Great, sir!”

“Good. We’ve got another one at 1800 hours!”