Titanic Diary - Part 5
The Dive
Thirteen hours in a six foot diameter sphere. No way to stand up or lie down properly. Condensation running down the sides, and dripping from the top. Extremes of humidty at the surface and cold on the bottom. Two and a half hours to descend and three hours to ascend. Bladder making it's presence felt.
I would do it all over again.
I know that I probably never will.
The opportunity of a lifetime was given to me last Friday, the 11th. of August, to dive to the wreck of Titanic and place a memorial plaque on behalf of the people of Ireland on it's bridge deck. In addition, I was part of a working trip to recover artifacts to bring back to the world above us. This was no pleasure cruise.
At 0800 hrs. we attended the dive brief in the sub ops. room. Anatoly outlined the plan for the day in his low voice while we all strained to hear the final instructions. At 0945 we had a photo call in front of MIR 2, our sub for the trip. Sean stood with me in front of the sub, both of us holding the plaque. He wasn't going with me, but he would be with me in spirit. Ralph bounced up and we all posed for more photos, a few words for the cameras, and we then climbed up the ladder to the top of the sub, taking our shoes off before descending down into it. Viktor, our pilot was already making his pre-dive checks, a myriad of lights, switches, dials and gauges surrounding us in the confined space. The hatch was closed and more final checks were made. Outside, the sun was shining and the sea was calm. It looked good, considering that a hurricane was on the way in the next 24 hours! In our cocoon, the temperature started rising and soon it felt like a sauna. The perspiration was rolling off me as I struggled out of my Nomex suit and stripped down to my now soaking t shirt. At 1000 hrs the shackles were released from the sub, the crane hoisted us up and over the side of Keldysh and lowered us gently into the water. Looking through one of the three viewing ports, I watched as the water level increased until we were completely submerged. This was it.
Within a few minutes the Coresh, our tender boat had towed us twenty metres away from Keldysh, the line was unshackled, Viktor threw a few switches to fill the ballast tanks with water and our descent began. There is no sensation of dropping to the ocean floor. The pressure inside the sub remains constant. There are two indicators that tell you that you are descending. One is the digital depth gauge, and the other is the gradually fading light outside. After 200 metres though, this turns to total darkness and all you have is the gauge. The deepest I have ever dived on scuba is 60 metres. This limit was passed in matter of a few minutes. At 10.10 we had passed the 250 metre mark. The humidity and heat was still intense. At 10.15 we hit 500 metres. At 10.30 the gauge read 1000 metres. This was the appropriate moment to celebrate. I rummaged through my bag, and popped a CD into the player. Yes, Monty Python has now been played in the deep blue sea. The strains of "The Bright Side of Life" reverberated around the capsule, Viktor looking bemused, Ralph shaking his head. They were soon whistling along though, signing the special envelopes that Ralph had thoughtfully brought along to mark both special occasions - my first submersible dive and his 30th.
At 11.10 we had passed the 2000 metre mark. The hour had flown. At 11.30 Viktor reached under his seat and pulled out a bag. "Lunch" he said. Out came three boxes with chicken, cheese and salami sandwiches. I declined the tea at this stage, having rationed my breakfast intake and emptied my bladder as best I could before the dive. Ralph boasts about being 24 hours in a sub without once using the emergency bag. As we were in no hurry, we had a leisurely lunch.
Looking out of the port window, I spied the strange creatures of the deep, luminescent in the dark. The enormity of the surrounding pressure dawned upon me. At 2,000 metres the pressure on the titanium hull is 200 Bar or 3,000 PSI, and it constantly increases by 1 BAR every 10 metres. During the rest of the day this thought would cross my mind briefly, but as you wouldn't even know about it if anything went wrong, then there was no point in lingering upon the subject.
12.15 hrs. Viktor stirs into action, switching on computers, sonar, sounder, external lights. We have passed 3,700 meters and about to make bottom. He pumps out the ballast tanks to slow our descent. Ralph switches on the cameras and I lie on my stomach, face up against the port eagerly looking outside. At 3,800 metres the mud bottom comes into view and we slowly settle on the seabed at 12.25hrs., 3,875 metres registered on the depth gauge. The enormity of the depth strikes me. A large rat tail fish swims lazily past. I see starfish, some plants, a sea cucumber. The topography has a striking similarity to the bottom of Killary Harbour in Connemara, except of course this is a little deeper. I wonder if there are any scallops down here too….
At 12.45 hrs, having worked out our position, we lift off from the bottom and navigate towards the bow section. We skim along over undulating dunes, at two knots, observing rocks that have fallen from icebergs as they melted. There are tracks everywhere, the marks of previous submersibles. This indicates to me that we are near. After only ten minutes I start to see debris, wreckage from the great ship. Some plates, railings, then directly in front of us, a huge bank of mud, looking as though a digger had scooped it to one side. Viktor stops the sub, but not before we have edged into it, stirring up a cloud of silt. There is no current and we are enveloped for a few minutes. Ralph and Viktor exchange a few words, and from my own knowledge of the wreck I deduct that I am looking at the great mudbank that Titanic's bow created when she slammed into the bottom. Bits of wreckage are more prevalent now, and Viktor slowly starts to move MIR 2 away from the bank and upwards. In the gloom, form begins to take shape, rivets appear in front of me, a wall rising, a circular port, rectangular ones, more and more of them. The visibility is incredible, the great lights illuminating the wreck. We rise up fifteen metres and the outline of the ship takes shape. We are on the port bow side, on the wing bridge area. I am looking down in person at images I have seen over the years in books, magazines and film. There is the fallen mast, a lifeboat davit, the hatch crane, in the distance the telemotor that turned the great rudder. It all seems like a dream. It is a dream, one that has come true for me. I have no notion of fear of the great depth that I am at, only awe at this sight.
Viktor guides MIR 2 towards the bow, sweeping over the mast, circling right and back towards the bridge. I see part of the starboard railing, a mooring bollard, then the bridge section is in front of us. We are facing the forward end of the promenade deck. On the wall we can see the oval outline of where the commissioning plaque had been fixed, MIR 2 moves delicately towards the handrail, Viktor skilfully adjusting the trim until we are tipping slightly forward. This is so that he can extend the arm further into the pile of rust that has built up at this point. We are convinced that the plaque is buried beneath it. A few days before the timber mount for the plaque had been recovered and the remains of the screws that had held it in place were still embedded in it. The mechanical arm picked up the shovel from the recovery basket, and turning it around proceeds to scoop back the rust pile. A great cloud of rust builds up, the lack of current reducing our visibility to zero. The lights make our surroundings yellow in colour. We wait fifteen minutes before we can see again. There is no sign of our target. Viktor edges forward a little, touching the fallen handrail from the deck above that is leaning precariously towards us. Rust particles fall all around us. I am so near the wreck that I can see with my own eyes that she is falling apart, the rusticles eating her away, causing more parts to collapse every year. The Titanic is dying before our eyes, and it makes our expedition all the more urgent to recover her past for our future.
Once again Viktor scoops and once more we sit in the yellow fog. Many times he does this, but his arm isn't quite long enough to reach because of the overhang. For two hours he tries, but eventually we have to give up. There is a tantalisingly pile still left immediately below the plaque fixing point. We are convinced it is under there. He backs away, trims the sub and pumps water out so that we can rise to the bridge deck. We are going to place our memorial plaque. Slowly we ascend, the telemotor coming into view. This all that remains of the wheelhouse, everything else was ripped away in the sinking. In front of the telemotor are two other plaques placed by the Explorers Club and the Canadian Titanic Historical Society. Our brass plaque is lifted out, different to the others is size and style. It is similar to a memorial that you would see in a church. The dedication stands out, clearly legible:
COMMEMORATING ALL THOSE LOST ON RMS TITANIC FROM THE PEOPLE OF COBH (QUEENSTOWN) AND IRELAND GO DTUGA DIA SUAIMHNEAS SIORAI DA NANAMACHA AUGUST 2000
The time is 15.30 hrs. The plaque is lowered into position and released from the arm, a permanent tribute to all those whose hopes and dreams were lost forever on that night on April 15th, 1912. I think of John Scott, the 94 year old gentleman from Derry who spoke to me on Foyle Radio. His father was a stoker who never came home. I feel many emotions: sadness, peacefulness, joy. This task is a great honour, not taken lightly. I hope that others see it as such. Removing from my pocket the dedication that Denis Cochrane had prepared, I read out loud: "Almighty God, we ask you to lay to rest, in these waters and at this place, the souls of your faithful departed people from the land of Ireland. They left their loved ones and friends to travel to an unknown land and a new life. Through your servant, Coleman, we ask you to bless their rest and give them peace. May all who perished aboard the great Titanic find rest eternal here, Amen." St. Coleman's Cathedral in Cobh stands tall above the port. It would have been one of the last landmarks that the passengers would have seen as they pulled away from Roches Point. I reflect for a minute, take some photographs and we turn away.
The moment had passed, and we continue with the rest of our dive. It was to be another four hours of work before we started our ascent. We did not recover many items, however we did recover one major historical piece, but that's another story.
Thirteen hours in a six foot diameter sphere. No way to stand up or lie down properly. Condensation running down the sides, and dripping from the top. Extremes of humidty at the surface and cold on the bottom. Two and a half hours to descend and three hours to ascend. Bladder making it's presence felt.
I know that I probably never will.
The opportunity of a lifetime was given to me last Friday, the 11th. of August, to dive to the wreck of Titanic and place a memorial plaque on behalf of the people of Ireland on it's bridge deck. In addition, I was part of a working trip to recover artifacts to bring back to the world above us. This was no pleasure cruise.
At 0800 hrs. we attended the dive brief in the sub ops. room. Anatoly outlined the plan for the day in his low voice while we all strained to hear the final instructions. At 0945 we had a photo call in front of MIR 2, our sub for the trip. Sean stood with me in front of the sub, both of us holding the plaque. He wasn't going with me, but he would be with me in spirit. Ralph bounced up and we all posed for more photos, a few words for the cameras, and we then climbed up the ladder to the top of the sub, taking our shoes off before descending down into it. Viktor, our pilot was already making his pre-dive checks, a myriad of lights, switches, dials and gauges surrounding us in the confined space. The hatch was closed and more final checks were made. Outside, the sun was shining and the sea was calm. It looked good, considering that a hurricane was on the way in the next 24 hours! In our cocoon, the temperature started rising and soon it felt like a sauna. The perspiration was rolling off me as I struggled out of my Nomex suit and stripped down to my now soaking t shirt. At 1000 hrs the shackles were released from the sub, the crane hoisted us up and over the side of Keldysh and lowered us gently into the water. Looking through one of the three viewing ports, I watched as the water level increased until we were completely submerged. This was it.
Within a few minutes the Coresh, our tender boat had towed us twenty metres away from Keldysh, the line was unshackled, Viktor threw a few switches to fill the ballast tanks with water and our descent began. There is no sensation of dropping to the ocean floor. The pressure inside the sub remains constant. There are two indicators that tell you that you are descending. One is the digital depth gauge, and the other is the gradually fading light outside. After 200 metres though, this turns to total darkness and all you have is the gauge. The deepest I have ever dived on scuba is 60 metres. This limit was passed in matter of a few minutes. At 10.10 we had passed the 250 metre mark. The humidity and heat was still intense. At 10.15 we hit 500 metres. At 10.30 the gauge read 1000 metres. This was the appropriate moment to celebrate. I rummaged through my bag, and popped a CD into the player. Yes, Monty Python has now been played in the deep blue sea. The strains of "The Bright Side of Life" reverberated around the capsule, Viktor looking bemused, Ralph shaking his head. They were soon whistling along though, signing the special envelopes that Ralph had thoughtfully brought along to mark both special occasions - my first submersible dive and his 30th.
At 11.10 we had passed the 2000 metre mark. The hour had flown. At 11.30 Viktor reached under his seat and pulled out a bag. "Lunch" he said. Out came three boxes with chicken, cheese and salami sandwiches. I declined the tea at this stage, having rationed my breakfast intake and emptied my bladder as best I could before the dive. Ralph boasts about being 24 hours in a sub without once using the emergency bag. As we were in no hurry, we had a leisurely lunch.
Looking out of the port window, I spied the strange creatures of the deep, luminescent in the dark. The enormity of the surrounding pressure dawned upon me. At 2,000 metres the pressure on the titanium hull is 200 Bar or 3,000 PSI, and it constantly increases by 1 BAR every 10 metres. During the rest of the day this thought would cross my mind briefly, but as you wouldn't even know about it if anything went wrong, then there was no point in lingering upon the subject.
12.15 hrs. Viktor stirs into action, switching on computers, sonar, sounder, external lights. We have passed 3,700 meters and about to make bottom. He pumps out the ballast tanks to slow our descent. Ralph switches on the cameras and I lie on my stomach, face up against the port eagerly looking outside. At 3,800 metres the mud bottom comes into view and we slowly settle on the seabed at 12.25hrs., 3,875 metres registered on the depth gauge. The enormity of the depth strikes me. A large rat tail fish swims lazily past. I see starfish, some plants, a sea cucumber. The topography has a striking similarity to the bottom of Killary Harbour in Connemara, except of course this is a little deeper. I wonder if there are any scallops down here too….
Viktor guides MIR 2 towards the bow, sweeping over the mast, circling right and back towards the bridge. I see part of the starboard railing, a mooring bollard, then the bridge section is in front of us. We are facing the forward end of the promenade deck. On the wall we can see the oval outline of where the commissioning plaque had been fixed, MIR 2 moves delicately towards the handrail, Viktor skilfully adjusting the trim until we are tipping slightly forward. This is so that he can extend the arm further into the pile of rust that has built up at this point. We are convinced that the plaque is buried beneath it. A few days before the timber mount for the plaque had been recovered and the remains of the screws that had held it in place were still embedded in it. The mechanical arm picked up the shovel from the recovery basket, and turning it around proceeds to scoop back the rust pile. A great cloud of rust builds up, the lack of current reducing our visibility to zero. The lights make our surroundings yellow in colour. We wait fifteen minutes before we can see again. There is no sign of our target. Viktor edges forward a little, touching the fallen handrail from the deck above that is leaning precariously towards us. Rust particles fall all around us. I am so near the wreck that I can see with my own eyes that she is falling apart, the rusticles eating her away, causing more parts to collapse every year. The Titanic is dying before our eyes, and it makes our expedition all the more urgent to recover her past for our future.
Once again Viktor scoops and once more we sit in the yellow fog. Many times he does this, but his arm isn't quite long enough to reach because of the overhang. For two hours he tries, but eventually we have to give up. There is a tantalisingly pile still left immediately below the plaque fixing point. We are convinced it is under there. He backs away, trims the sub and pumps water out so that we can rise to the bridge deck. We are going to place our memorial plaque. Slowly we ascend, the telemotor coming into view. This all that remains of the wheelhouse, everything else was ripped away in the sinking. In front of the telemotor are two other plaques placed by the Explorers Club and the Canadian Titanic Historical Society. Our brass plaque is lifted out, different to the others is size and style. It is similar to a memorial that you would see in a church. The dedication stands out, clearly legible:
The time is 15.30 hrs. The plaque is lowered into position and released from the arm, a permanent tribute to all those whose hopes and dreams were lost forever on that night on April 15th, 1912. I think of John Scott, the 94 year old gentleman from Derry who spoke to me on Foyle Radio. His father was a stoker who never came home. I feel many emotions: sadness, peacefulness, joy. This task is a great honour, not taken lightly. I hope that others see it as such. Removing from my pocket the dedication that Denis Cochrane had prepared, I read out loud: "Almighty God, we ask you to lay to rest, in these waters and at this place, the souls of your faithful departed people from the land of Ireland. They left their loved ones and friends to travel to an unknown land and a new life. Through your servant, Coleman, we ask you to bless their rest and give them peace. May all who perished aboard the great Titanic find rest eternal here, Amen." St. Coleman's Cathedral in Cobh stands tall above the port. It would have been one of the last landmarks that the passengers would have seen as they pulled away from Roches Point. I reflect for a minute, take some photographs and we turn away.
The moment had passed, and we continue with the rest of our dive. It was to be another four hours of work before we started our ascent. We did not recover many items, however we did recover one major historical piece, but that's another story.
