Edward Beach - Around the World Submerged

From my exposed position on our “flying bridge”—on the very top of the sail and unprotected by bulwarks—I had a clear view in all directions. In the wrong kind of weather this could be an unpleasant watch-keeping station, but today, with the north wind at our backs, I was not uncomfortable by the standards to which seamen are accustomed. Little, if any thought, however, was being wasted by anyone on personal comfort or discomfort. Taking a ship to sea, even through a familiar and uncomplicated channel, requires unremitting attention. I was the only person on the bridge who could be said to have any free time at all, and between checks on our navigation in the channel, I focused my binoculars on a prominent boulder at the eastern mouth of the river.

There she stood as she had said she would, alone on a granite ledge where the Thames River meets Long Island Sound. The chill February wind whipped the red scarf about her head. Feet thrust into wool-lined galoshes, one hand holding her coat tightly around her, she waved a mittened hand at me. Well I knew that the distance was too great for Ingrid to distinguish me with the naked eye. But I waved my white uniform cap in answer.

This was the same blue-eyed girl who had married me during the flaming years of World War II, when both of us feared so desperately that life would pass us by. Many times during the war, and many more times since, she had watched my ship dip below the horizon. For sixteen years she had minded the home and the children when I was at sea, and whenever there was a mail bag from home, a letter from her was always there.

As I waved at that rapidly receding figure—she had now taken off the scarf and was holding it as a banner, the better to be seen—it suddenly came to me: “She knows! She must know!” After nearly sixteen years facing the unpredictable vicissitudes of Navy life together, sixteen years during which our mutual dependence had steadily deepened, the more I thought the more certain I became. I had also learned to appreciate the strength of character and depth of loyalty my Ingrid had inherited from her Swedish forebears, and I knew that if she had indeed guessed, the Navy need have no fear of her speaking out of turn.

I couldn’t wave my cap continuously, for there were many demanding duties. Every time I turned my binoculars back toward the point of land, however, the red scarf was still streaming. Several more times I waved my cap through a wide arc, in hopes she could still see it. Finally a point of land came between us, the spot of red drew out of sight, and my last tie with land was broken. In a few hours, as soon as the water was deep enough to dive Triton ’s huge bulk, we would submerge for almost three long months.

Despite all the arguments in favor of doing it earlier, there were sound technical reasons why a submerged circumnavigation of the world was not attempted until Triton was built, and the most important of these, stated simply, was the factor of dependability. Our two main power plants were completely separate and independent. No conceivable casualty in one could affect the other. Thus, while the dependability record of Triton ’s single-reactor predecessors was unsurpassed in our Navy, a ship with two reactors would be able to complete the voyage safely even if one of them were to break down.

Another factor was adequate provisions for a long voyage. Triton ’s size gave her a tremendous amount of room for storage. And, of course, it was her great carrying capacity which made our ship the ideal vehicle for the scientific aspects of our mission.

As we passed New London Ledge Light—a square, solid structure marking the mouth of the Thames River—we increased to standard speed, about fifteen knots, and angled our course slightly to the left to head for Race Rock, the wave-lashed lighthouse at the western tip of Fishers Island which marks the division point between Long Island Sound and Block Island Sound.

In a few minutes, Triton described a large curving sweep around it, as we squared her away on a nearly easterly course for the run down Block Island Sound toward the open sea. Once set on the new course, we increased speed to “full,” clipping our way through the small chop in Block Island Sound in a manner more akin to a destroyer than a submarine. Triton rode easily, with hardly a quiver in her big hull—the well-ordered activity below decks barely evident from the small noises by which well-attuned persons keep informed of what is going on.

Doubtless, I felt, some of the crew were experiencing the emotions which were also crowding upon me. Approximately one-third of them were on watch and therefore occupied, but others were preparing themselves for a lengthy cruise, settling into the routine which would be ours until we returned to port. With the exception of the officers and Chief Quartermaster Marshall, no one knew where we were really going, but I wondered whether some of the men, observing the unusual activity in getting ready and the secrecy with which Will Adams and Marshall had gone about their plotting chores, might not have surmised that something special was in the offing. They were to find out soon enough, I thought to myself, but I could not tell them until we were well on our way.

According to our log, it was at 1543, approximately an hour and a half after our departure, when Triton swept across the bar at Montauk Point, turned due south, and, free of the shore, increased speed to flank.

Lieutenant James Hay came on the bridge to relieve Brodie as Officer of the Deck about fifteen minutes before the hour, in accordance with custom. At the same time, Quartermaster First Class Beacham would be taking over the watch from Quartermaster Second Class Honeysette in the conning tower; one after the other, the oncoming lookouts bawled for permission to come on the bridge to relieve their opposite numbers. With the extra people, it was becoming a little crowded.

“Bob,” I said to Brodie, “I’m going below for a while. The course is south. I’ll let you know when it’s time to dive.”

Bob interrupted his turnover to Hay, nodded gravely at me. “Aye, aye,” he said, a surprisingly deep voice booming out of his slender physique. Bob was the tallest officer on board and ate like a horse, but it seemed to have done little to fill him out. Perhaps a few more years of service would put enough pounds on him to go with that voice.

Triton was beginning to feel the sea. There was a longer period to her impatient motion as she pierced the ocean rollers, a slight tremor from the increased power as she drove through them. She rolled gently from side to side, but the whistle of wind coming over the bridge cockpit, the spume of angry spray flung back from her razor-sharp prow, and the white foam racing down her dark sides testified to the power and urgency with which she drove southward. Astern and to starboard the looming mass of Long Island reflected the rays of the southwesterly sun. Montauk Point Lighthouse and the nearby radar towers jutted prominently into the sky. At their foot, extending for some distance to the west and at right angles to the frothing wake we were leaving straight behind, could be seen a white, almost steady line where the small Atlantic surf met the white sand beaches of the land.

Ahead was the sea, the horizon, and the cold blue sky. I swung onto the ladder leading below, climbed down to the lower bridge level and through the watertight hatch into the conning tower.

“—that’s about it, Beach,” I heard Honeysette saying. Beacham and Honeysette looked just the slightest bit startled as I appeared.

“Quartermaster of the watch properly relieved, Captain,” Honeysette quickly said. “Beacham has the watch.”

“Aye,” I acknowledged, and then mocked severity: “How many times do I have to tell you that while I’m captain of this ship, Beacham’s nickname is abolished!”