There's not a show ride on earth that can compare, seriously. 18 years old, the prime of my youth, 60ft above the decking, roped and harnessed into the bridge. The harness, a belt, secured around my waist, two D clips, a rope from each clipped, or was it tied, I can't quite remember, to the hull.
It was spectacular, 2 am in the morning, no torrent of rain, just high seas. The boat? An Oberon class submarine, 295ft long, the hull measuring 17ft in diameter. That, though, is not what you see from the outside.
From the outside, it's like a pregnant goldfish, its port and starboard covered by ballast and fuel tanks like the bloated sides of Goldie the goldfish. 20 feet below is the keel, weighted to keep the thing upright, that and the 273-plus 2-tonne battery cells in the bottom half of the hull. I'm saying all of this from memory, so any old mates out there who want to challenge me on the numbers, feel free.
The topside, a boxed casing, has a purpose in itself. First, a level deck to walk upon when on the surface or alongside. Second, a shield, a streamlining purpose to stop water coalescing around the HP air tanks and pipes that run externally atop the hull, to stop a rivulet of water making one ounce of noise that would give this black pipe of stealth away when submerged.
Then there's the fin, the thing I was standing atop of along with the officer of the watch, swung widely in the waves. Its purpose is not dissimilar to the casing. This thing, though, encased seven masts, for want of a better word. From forward to aft, they were: the Attack periscope, Search, Warner (used to be radar), radio, Snort, specialist and exhaust.
This, though, my friend, is not the weather story. This fin, for all its functionality, and where I now stood, was 30ft high. It was dark, cold, and the seas were high. This submarine, in reality, was only a little more stable than a cork floating in a bathtub, its ballast and batteries the only thing keeping it upright.
It would have been 2 am in the morning if it were midnight, or otherwise, I can't remember. It was dark, cold and exhilarating. Waves breaking overhead, and again I was 30 feet up, so for waves to be breaking overhead, they were big. So big in fact that where I was standing, inside the fin, the top coming in at chest height, it was too rough to sit atop, so I stood within.
We made a sport of it, watching for the waves, where they were coming from. Not every wave broke over us, maybe every 8th or 10th, maybe even less frequently. The sport: not telling the officer of the watch. Where I stood was tight, a three-foot square, a space I had to crawl across to when I came on watch. My opposite number's position, where they were standing, would determine where I popped my head up.
The officer of the watch stood forward of us, a bit more palatial. Palatial, that is, unless you were in high seas. His space, seat, sextant and all were several feet across in all directions, a 5-foot cut hugging the forward curve of the fin.
As lookout, I was scanning the horizon constantly, the officer on watch doing the same, tended to focus forward more than I did, scanning the horizon, what I could see of it in the dark, cold high seas around us. It was a sport; we were saturated. He'd be here for three hours, and I only had an hour rotation. It was great.
A wave from whichever quarter would come in — from aft was best, he'd not be looking that way — and crash over us. I'd duck down into the fin, hiding as some poured in. He, unwarned, would cop the brunt of it. For the ranking class, I'm not sure. I am sure they did, if they worked it out, or did they just accept this is what happened on the bridge in high seas, as every sailor before me had done the same, and they knew no better.
That, though, was only part of it. The swing on this fin, in this weather, was phenomenal. 30 feet up and at times I'd look either port or starboard and see nothing but a wall of black weather veined by the white of breaking peaks, to look skyward was to turn your head not upwards but around, as the fin teetered on the edge.
We'd try to surf. The officer of the watch would call below:
'Helm, Bridge.'
'Helm, sir.' The calm, warm tone would come back.
'Steer two seven zero.'
'Two seven zero, roger.'
'Bridge, Helm, on course two seven zero.'
'Bridge, roger.'
We'd all feel it — the helmsman, the position I'd sat in just before coming up to the bridge, and the officer of the watch and I sitting atop — this 295-foot-long cork, literally surfing down the front of a wave. I could even look astern and see the wake we were leaving. It was spectacular.
This is what I remember when someone talks about woolly weather and show rides. I, for all intents, should have been tired, cold and miserable, out at sea for months on end, tired on a 3-watch system, only blokes around, not family or fairer friends.
I wasn't, though. I remember it. It was exhilarating, and I was alive.
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