Lower than Whale Shit

After a few introductory remarks from the diving officer, Lieutenant G.F. Heeger, our orientation was turned over to the training team.

"Gentlemen!"

"My name is Downey ... Chief Downey. Welcome to the Navy's submarine escape training facility, where you will receive the required instruction leading to qualification in scuba. Those of you who graduate will be eligible to wear the pin designating this qualification. You will be as proud to wear this as we are to present it to you. Standing to my right are your instructors, who you will come to love more and more each day."

"During this course, we leave our rank at the door. You will address us as 'Instructor.' The exception to this rule is the one person here who will be your only friend for the duration of your stay at this school."

All of the instructors were dressed in their khakis except for an individual standing at the entrance to the classroom wearing his dress uniform. "This, gentlemen, is Master Diver Einhellig. He will be happy to meet with you if and when you decide to check out and will make that process simple and quick. You will address him as 'Master Diver!!!'"

Chief Downey then set the tone.

"You, however, are lower than whale shit on the bottom of the ocean and will remain that until graduation. I see among you a lieutenant, an ensign, and," Downey looked in my direction, "a civilian retread. I repeat. You are all whale shit! Look at the person on either side of you. History has shown us that at least one of you will not be sitting here by the end of this course." Downey was right. We had a large class—thirty-two of us on day one. Fourteen would graduate. (Figure 4)

Chief Downey then introduced each instructor, who nodded to us as his name was called. The mood was tense. There were no smiles.

"Instructor Simlich ..."

"Instructor Willis ..."

"Instructor Moon ..."

"This is Instructor Schmidt. As your diving med tech, you may address him as 'Instructor' or 'Doc' Schmidt."

"Finally, this is Instructor Clark. He is an instructor in training and will be even more enthusiastic assisting you with your progress."

"Good God," I thought, "what have I gotten myself into ... and for a second time!" Downey referred to me as a "retread." It had been a year since I sat in this same classroom. Scuba training is the first step that all Navy divers must complete before advancing on to other diving specialties. I had lasted only one week in May 1973, when, during a run, I landed in a rain-filled pothole and hyper extended my knee. It would be two months on crutches and physical therapy, and ten months of training. Now I was back for a second try—prepared but fully aware what was coming next, cringing when Chief Downey proclaimed to the class: "The only easy day was yesterday."

But why would any sane, well-educated engineer, working under the guidance of other sane, even better-educated engineers, venture into a world that by its very nature is filled with risk—and for a second time? Dropping out of dive school forced me to face the awful truth that I was not in control of my future. I returned to my cubicle, set the crutches against the wall, and was handed my next design task. A month after dropping out I completed my graduate work, receiving a Masters degree in mechanical engineering from the University of Connecticut. Yet the disappointment at failing to complete the scuba training far exceeded any satisfaction gained from receiving the degree. I knew right then that my career path would have to eventually include diving for the Navy. I was born to be a field engineer—not tied to a cubicle.

The morning I checked out, the Master Diver said I would be welcomed back, but that I would need to be better prepared and in much better physical condition than what he had observed during my short stay. He didn't know if I was mentally up to the task but would be willing to give me another chance. My office overlooked the Thames River, where I could watch the submarine base dive boat carrying my classmates out into Long Island Sound. It was one of those "take a deep breath" moments, and I swore to make it back. While the projects were interesting, and I liked and respected the people around me, they all questioned my sanity. No one understood what I meant when I tried to explain that diving would help me regain my rapidly disappearing sanity. I was losing sight of the reason I joined the Sound Lab in the first place.

A TEENAGER IN THE 1960s

I had been a typical high school kid, stumbling through my early teenage years listening to Elvis and wearing a James Dean haircut. I liked to tinker with a Model A Ford and was curious about everything that crossed my path. On weekends I would join my family hunting for Indian artifacts. When it finally came time to decide what would be next, I was certain I would become Indiana Jones (long before Steven Spielberg and George Lucas invented their fictional character), and by the end of my junior year I had been accepted to Yale University's anthropology department. While my parents were quite proud of me, there was soon to be a reality check. My dad was a postal worker, and we lived comfortably from payday to payday. They encouraged me to be creative, but I knew that I might have to set somewhat less lofty career goals. I was pretty good in math, and liked mechanical things, so as my senior year progressed an engineer I would become—Indiana Jones would have to explore without me.

Bowing to collegiate peer pressure, I staggered through my early college years (often under the influence of frequent fraternity parties) until once again we all had to face that same question: What's next? Two years of mandatory ROTC immortalized in the 1978 movie Animal House, an all-too-accurate portrayal of 1960s college and fraternity life, convinced me that I wasn't a good candidate for an Army career. I was, however, intrigued by military technology, and that of the Navy's in particular. Raised along the Connecticut shore, being in and around the water was a part of daily life. I lived less than a mile from the homestead of David Bushnell, a local Revolutionary War hero, who invented the world's first submarine used in naval combat. Okay, so to Hell with Indiana Jones! I would become a modern-day David Bushnell. Then I began reading (a risky behavior for those with overactive imaginations) about William Beebe's 1934 descent to 3,028 feet in his bathysphere. Then...