We were anchored in Suda Bay, a long indentation on the north side of the island of Crete. It was very hot. A steady desiccating southerly breeze, with no cooling effect, was blowing directly from the distant expanse of the Sahara. It didn't seem possible that I could be surrounded by water and still be so parched yet sweaty. The sea itself was a cool inviting turquoise, with only faint ripples darkening its metallic surface. As I draped myself limply over the rail, my khaki uniform shirt sticking to my back, and I mused idly on the refreshing possibility of swimming in those inviting waters. I was soon to get my wish.
I drifted into the officers' wardroom to wait for lunch, which was just being set out by steward's mate Norris. A recent 1951 graduate and new on board, I was still ill at ease with the other five officers: Mr. Crozier, Mr. Bull, Mr. Higgenson, Mr. Flagler, the executive officer, and our captain, Lieutenant Floyd Bragg, who now entered the wardroom, permitting the rest of us to be seated.
Norris served the soup, steaming hot. While I was contemplating how much of this heating fuel to take in, a nervous seaman appeared at the entrance to the wardroom asking, in a halting voice, for permission to enter. It was Lymes, looking like an anxious candidate for a firing squad, with a thin unconvincing mustache.
"Come in Lymes." Ordered Mr. Bull, who seemed to have been anticipating his appearance. "Get a good movie?"
Lymes was just returning from his official mission to the cruiser Raleigh, to obtain a movie from their excellent and ever-current film library.
Stillness settled over the wardroom table. Over my lifted soup spoon I noticed the rest of the officers had stopped eating and were devoting keen interest to Lymes' anticipated reply. It was my first realization of the enormous importance attached to the showing of movies on board ship, when at sea in a remote foreign port.
The distraught Lymes closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. "I dropped it over the side," he confessed abruptly.
Stunned silence greeted this announcement. I carefully returned my still full soup spoon to the soup bowl. Suddenly, the captain, directing a commanding gaze in my direction, asked crisply, "Spaulding, you're the movie officer, what do you intend to do about this situation?"
My first thought was, since when was I the movie officer? However, the idea of open expression of this irrelevant thought withered in the atmosphere of expectancy now focusing on me from around the wardroom table. Expressions ranged from faint amusement on Mr. Crozier's lean tanned continence to earnest concern on the captain's grizzled and somewhat wasted visage.
"I guess I'll dive for it." I answered without thinking.
Expressions now varied from surprise (Mr. Bull) to disbelief (Mr. Higgenson). Mr. Flagler had returned to his soup, feeling relief from any further responsibility on the part of the executive officer. The captain remained concerned, being not sure whether my suggestion provided a realistic solution. I imagined he wondered whether I intended to plunge headlong over the rail, or descend armored and weighted down with diving gear. I was no more certain myself.
Mr. Bull then sprang into action, issuing a series of orders only a part of which I heard and none of which I understood. "I'll go get into my swimming trunks," I said, feeling only faint confidence that this was a necessary first step. It was the only action I could think of at that moment.
When I emerged on deck, in my batik print swimming trunks, there was quite a commotion at the quarterdeck where the boarding ladder went over the side. A small crowd of dungaree-clad sailors was gathering. Mr. Bull, in his summer khakis, relaxed, with shirt open at the neck and no tie nor officer's cap, was in earnest discussion with an older sailor I had never seen before.
"Marshall's the only one on board who knows how to work the diving gear," I picked out from the general animated conversation around me.
I noticed an ancient, battered, and rusted collection of metal and hoses on deck at Marshall's feet. He was instructing two sailors at his side. "This here is the air pump," he began in a deep, resonant, baritone voice, full of the command and authority of experience. "The diver, Mr. Spaulding here, is completely depen'ent on your supplyin' his oxigin by your pumpin'. He will give you one tug for more air an' two for more line ... three to pull 'im up."
The pumpers were Oldfield and Lucinski, laundryman and storekeeper respectively. Lucinski was also the best helmsman on board, always used when we were coming into port or in tight situations. I felt in good hands there. I was less sure of Oldfield, who looked unsure himself, but then he was very loyal to the laundry.
After a few minutes of guidance regarding careful placement of the lines and hoses, Marshall faced me for the first time. "All at the ready, sir!" Then to the assembled throng: "Now you men there, step back and keep clear of these here lines and hoses. We don't want one of you foulin' Mr. Spaulding's line and cuttin' off his oxigin." I thought this excellent advice, as a little shiver shot down my spine.
I now stood on the second rung of the ladder with my waist about even with the level of the deck. Being partway down the ladder made it easier to lift a bulky medieval armor-like helmet over my head in order to lower it onto my shoulders. An enormous rusty gear had been lashed about my midsection and was resting heavily on my butt. "To give you more weight," explained Marshall, somewhat unnecessarily, I thought.
Just as the helmet was poised to be lowered over my head Marshall went down on one knee. With his hand upheld to arrest the descent of the helmet he brought his swarthy weatherworn face close to mine and, regarding me with his dark fathomless eyes, he conveyed his concern for me by rehearsing the diving signals once more. This is serious, I realized for the first time.
My last perception before being helmeted was of Marshall's sober countenance, conveying the ancient spirit of the sea from time beyond time, perhaps from Neptune himself. He was clearly interested in my welfare, but somehow I felt his larger sense of responsibility was in preventing the embarrassment of a Naval Officer in front of his men. I took this to heart and my faculties reached an instant sharp focus.
In spite of the heat, I experienced a chill running through me as the helmet was lowered, shutting out all sound and all vision save that afforded by a small smoky window about an inch in front of my eyes. My view of legs, feet, lines and hoses seemed like a kaleidoscope as seen through the distortions of that glass window. I was aware of my heart pounding in my chest.
As I descended the ladder fifteen feet to the water's surface, I felt an unknown crisis approaching. Breaking the smooth surface of the sea, I was immediately aware of the turquoise green, faintly murky, undersea atmosphere. The water rose inside my helmet to my mouth. I was aware of an intense salty taste. Completely submerged now in a silent cool submarine world, I began to panic as the water level inside the helmet reached my nose.
Marshall's urgent instructions penetrated my awareness ("one tug for more air") and I tugged violently on my line. Distant to and fro hissing sounds followed and the water level receded obediently.
I was now at the bottom of the ladder suspended at full length by my grip on the last rung. Two tugs for more line and one for a little more air and I let go. This resulted in a slow majestic descent. My green vista darkened its hue and the sea closed in around my bare skin with increasing coolness and pressure. Again I began to feel rising anxiety as I drifted downward for a virtual eternity. Suddenly my feet hit bottom with a jolt.
As I gazed about me I was able to see, from the power of the sun's light, even at this depth, every rock, pebble and rill of the sea floor which stretched out of sight into the murky green gloom in every direction. I was amazed to see the bottom was level and completely devoid of sea foliage. The movie was clearly visible only 20 feet ahead of me and slightly to my right. It was in a worn brown box secured with a frayed canvas strap which was cinched with a tarnished brass buckle.
I made for it in slow, lumbering, moon-like steps, groping ahead as if to lure it into my grasp. When I was about five feet from it I was drawn up short by my lifeline. I gave two tugs for more line but none was forthcoming. I was at the end of my tether. Nothing for it but to go back up and explain my situation and needs.
Three tugs and I began to replace my steps, thinking the whole while, "I'll get more line, only ten feet more, and recover the damned movie... this may turn out to be a successful adventure after all." This thought provided me energy and I was surprised at how easily, even with all my extra weight, I could swim up to the foot of the ladder. As I broke the surface I felt the weight of the helmet and gear drag on me as though some sea spirit was trying to pull me back into the water.
Finally, up on deck, my head pounding, I felt the heat rush into my helmet with a wave of fatigue as the helmet was lifted clear. There was Marshall's appraising countenance.
"You've got a nose bleed there, Mr. Spaulding. Came up a mite too fast I'd say." This was said in a low confiding voice, meant for me only, as he wiped my face with a rough rag smelling of oil and grease. "Better sit and rest a bit."
After relating my near triumph and needs for a second trial, the assembled crowd conveyed a collective sense of respectful encouragement. Only Marshall, although respectful, showed reluctance. "Take it slow going down and slower coming up," he cautioned, realizing I was determined to return to the cool green depths.
After a rest and quick recovery the gear, helmet, step-by-step descent, and drift to the bottom sequence was repeated. I executed the well-timed one or two pull signals, like a veteran sponge diver. Again on the floor of the ocean, I was surprised at not seeing the movie at my feet. My surprise turned to consternation as I scanned my periphery in vain for the sight of the slightest irregularity in the sandy carpet's expanse. The movie was nowhere to be seen. Later, I realized the ship had swung on its anchor, thus changing its orientation to the movie location.
Coming back up again-slowly this time-my disappointment was intense. "They'll take me for a fool," I thought apprehensively. I wondered why I'd ever gotten into the situation, but I had a mild surprise coming. Once on deck, disencumbered of my paraphernalia, my report was greeted with shrugs and "Oh well..."
I found myself at Lymes' side. "Sorry, Lymes, I thought I had it."
"Hey, you done great Mr. S," he said with admiration. "I couldn't a done that myself bein' afraid of the water."
"By the way, Lymes, what was the name of the movie?"
"20,000 Leagues Under the Sea," he answered innocently.
Later the Captain, ever careful to detail, made an official entry into the deck log. "Movie lost over the side this date at 1300 hours during heavy seas in violent squall. Recovery of same not embarked on due to risk to crew and specialized equipment."
© 2008 by John S. Spaulding.