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Sub technician Alan Fuller keeps a watchful eye on the life-support guages in the aft observation compartment of the JSL.
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As the sub ascends into the sunlit reaches of the ocean, bubbles from the ballast rise past the porthole.
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Surfacing just off the coast of Bonaire, the JSL moves into position to be picked up by the HBOI vessel R/V EDWIN LINK.
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After several minutes enveloped in absolute darkness, Libatore powered up the sub's halogen lamps. Our light radiated for a short distance through the water, creating a tiny sphere of visual perspective amid the lightless expanse.
In the aft compartment of the sub, technician Alan Fuller shot a glance at the JSL's carbon dioxide gauge. "We're re-breathing our own air," Fuller said to me while tapping the gauge. "We want to keep this reading relatively low."
He sat up (as much as one can sit up in the tight confines of the sub) and began tweaking a few valves. "I'm going to switch off the air scrubber for a minute," Fuller continued. He switched it off and smiled reassuringly. I smiled back, nervously.
Within minutes, increasing carbon dioxide levels sent the needle moving upwards (although it was still well within the safe zone). Satisfied with his adjustments, Fuller switched the scrubber back on and watched the needle creep back towards its original position. I smiled again, but this time it was a smile of relief.
After the half-hour descent to 3000 feet, the sub came to rest on a ledge of black rock and sand. Below, the abyss sank to some unknown depth. Above, an alien landscape sloped gradually into the distance. Against every square inch of the submersible, seawater pressed inwards with 1400 pounds of of pressure.
The ice-cold water quickly caused the temperature in the submersible to drop into the mid-50s. Water vapor condensed on the metal hull and the acrylic portholes. I wiped my hand across the porthole to better see the wondrous creatures moving in and out of the sub's lights, and feelings of disbelief washed over me again and again. Sitting safely amid conditions that I am not designed to survive, I was seeing things that my terrestrial brain was really not designed to comprehend.
As I watched a small shrimp feel its way across the ocean bottom, it hit me -- the sense of scale that had eluded me throughout the dive. In the context of the deep sea -- the vast, lightless zone that makes up most of the living space on Earth -- there was very little difference between the size of the shrimp and the size of our sub. There we were...one tiny speck watching another tiny speck at the bottom of the ocean. |
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