Coming Up For Air

Sometimes all you need is another vantage point on life.

The dimly lit corridor was like something out of a spy novel, walls adorned with mid-century electronics which were now entirely antiquated, yet still very much in use. Their gauges and dials added to the steampunk vibe of the space, the air already thick and pungent with the stench of sailors and grease.

The tattooed boatswain with the freckles and full moustache fought the resistance of the hydraulic dampeners of the rotund, steel hatch. His sinewy arms flexed and strained as he slowly began to win the battle with the door, and it closed with the pace of a three-toed sloth stoned out of its mind. I stood in the middle of a motley crowd, half-comprised of journeyman seafarers and the other half brand new seamen standing at some informal attention with crisp creases ironed into their spotless uniforms. We were all gathered underneath the only access to freedom there was to be had on this forsaken craft, basking our faces in the last few moments of the warm glow the giver of life saw fit to bestow upon us. Just as the sun appearing each morning is worshipped, its absence feels like a prison, a sentence we all endure together, but one each of us would gladly trade away for just another day to revel in watching the sun god Helios drive his fiery chariot along its path. We all stared up as the round hatch covered the opening; the light slowly cut away like the moon was feverishly sprinting through all its phases in just a few seconds. As the last sliver of light was extinguished, the whistle rushing through the crack snapped to a halt, and another sharp realization dawned upon those in the crowd that had played this game before. The air.

Fresh air. Whatever had wafted down the shaft lazily as the hatch was shut would be the last bit we would have for God knows how long. Oh, they’d tell you how many days you were scheduled to be out for, but there were always mission changes. Other boats always broke, or a dictator in a hostile country would spout platitudes of aggression on his government-run news agency and send your boat into mod-alert, extending your run indefinitely. There was simply no way to tell. Either way this was all the air we were going to get, and suddenly there was an impetus to use it wisely, waste not a breath.

That’s not to say they’d put a lid on this tin can and we’d all suffocate like a canary in a mineshaft. There would always be air, as long as no one made a mistake. “Jesus”, I’d think to myself, “I hope no one makes a mistake.” We could come up close to the surface while we were underway�"if we were lucky�"to what they call periscope depth, a scant 40 to 60 feet underwater. Then we could lift a telescoping snorkel mast above the waterline, like some mechanical variation of the Loch Ness monster, and draw in fresh air. Well, sort of fresh air. It always smelled like the ocean. Not the breezes rolling off the beach that you imagine in the Fly Jamaica commercials, the real smell of the ocean. The briny salt, the decaying sea life, the organic matter floating on the surface being warmed by the sun, rotting and curing at the same time. That smell of the ocean.

If we couldn’t make it to the surface, or if the sea was too rough, the snorkel option was jettisoned, eighty-sixed to Davy Jones’ locker. You may be thinking, “If you can’t get new air, what do you do?” We MAKE new air, and it’s pretty genius. We actually have a machine that would make oxygen out of water, and we knew where to find water. The machine slowly bleeds oxygen into the atmosphere of the ship, and you don’t asphyxiate, for now. Enter the fact that you and your fellow shipmates are constantly poisoning each other just by being alive. Even if you can get oxygen into the space, everyone is constantly exhaling carbon dioxide, a gas which, when allowed to build in concentration, has the power to kill even more quietly than the famed “silent service”; so in order to remove the CO2 from the air, they introduce an organic compound called an amine. These little guys are the ones to credit for the stale diesel exhaust stench that is ever present while submerged, and for the staining of anything that was once a clean, crisp white to a shade of yellow reminiscent of the dentures of my Grandmother Viola, a two pack a day smoker.

It’s a lot to take in as your only link to humanity is being blockaded by a 10 inch thick steel hatch. No sunlight. No fresh air. No Twilight Zone on TV, no trouble-making with Tommy, no Twinkies, no Taco Bell. No more sleeping more than four hours at a time, no more free time. No more time�"or water�"to shower every day. No more doing what you want, when you want, because now you’re busy. You’re busy on watch and studying and fixing things and cleaning things and cleaning things you just fixed and fixing things you just cleaned. Mainly, you’re busy protecting American freedoms, for your friends and family to enjoy. This was my choice to make, and this is the path I chose, but I’m sometimes saddened by what people have chosen to do with their freedom.

The experiences I had serving on a submarine make it terribly hard to be sympathetic to the first-world problems of others. When a soccer mom gets irate about her half-caff Macchiato that the new girl behind the counter made too sweet, again, or the ten-year old boy laments the amount of time the Wi-Fi requires to beam a signal into outer space, link to satellites and deliver a real-time feed of his cousin in Oklahoma or the football game that just started, I just shake my head.  I don’t understand the frustration caused by the inability to find a goose down alternative pillow that fits a preferred sleeping position. The lesson here is that the outcome of your life depends on the perspective with which you look at it. Everything is relative, just don’t sweat the small stuff. Instead, take pleasures in the little things life gives you. Do me a favor, and go outside when it’s raining. No raincoat, no umbrella. Just get wet.

Sometimes when it’s about to rain I stand outside and lift my face to the sky, stretching my arms out, palms up, not wanting to miss a single drop. The clouds appear frail and cotton-white. A gentle ruffling breeze is pushing them toward the sun. The sun. I can feel the sun on my face, feigning warmth, but the breeze forces chills down my spine, forecasting the impending shower. When it finally comes, it starts as a whisper in the sky. The rain feels like champagne bubbles on my skin, splashing on my hands and running down my face. The rain is sinless and prudent in its task. I take a deep breath in and feel the crisp air filling my lungs. Fresh air. The air is different during a rain. It seems cleaner, less polluted. Whatever humidity that was hanging in the air like a heavy coat is now gone, the rain chases it away and leaves in its wake the sweet, delicate scent of a new beginning.

So when I feel like I’m getting a raw deal, or things aren’t working out the way I’d like, I just take a walk. I feel the sun on my cheeks, the breeze through my hair, and I thank the lord I am not on a submarine. I live just in that moment, and I’m immediately thankful for everything I have. So just know that if you see me outside, and my head is tilted to the heavens, I’m just enjoying the fresh air and the sun, or the rain, or both. Please, feel free to join me.