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IT WAS JUST AFTER 8AM WHEN MY PHONE RANG. I was still a bit bleary. "Hello?" I heard my son's voice: "Hi, dad, ring Gary now. They've got a problem." The line went dead, but I knew he must be on his way to work and using his mobile. I wondered what Gary's problem was, and what it had to do with me. Gary was my son's brother-in-law and lived in Ashford in Kent. I saw him only about once a year. "Gary, it's Len." The problem turned out to be on a Russian submarine, moored in the Medway. A small driveshaft, about to be taken ashore for refurbishment, had slipped from someone's hands and plunged into the murky depths. The thought of trying to replace the lost shaft was horrendous, so they had wondered if I could do them a favour. Gary is one of a small syndicate which owns WW2 Foxtrot-class submarine the U475. She is 300ft long and, in (worn) working order, now rejoices in the name the Black Widow. The sub had been moored alongside the pier at Folkestone as a tourist attraction but, with the pier up for sale, had found a temporary home in Strood on the Medway while awaiting confirmation of a permanent berth in Dublin. The crew had taken the opportunity to do a few small repairs, but this work had turned into a nightmare when one of them had lost the shaft. I checked my tank and found that I had more than 100 bar - plenty for a river dive. I got my equipment together, and an hour later was climbing into my drysuit on the large pontoon near the submarine mooring. I had been shown roughly where the shaft was supposed to have entered the water, but knew from experience that I couldn't bank on it being there. One of the crew, Peter, was ex-Royal Navy, and I put him in charge of the safety line. I went through a few rope signals with him, explaining that, as the tide started to flow, I would have a problem staying in the right area. As we talked we heard a loud groaning noise. It turned out to be the pontoon starting to rise with the tide, so time was running short. I climbed down the ladder and put my fins on in the water. The last thing I saw, as the brown water closed over my head, was Peter paying out the safety line. The soft brown light gradually faded until, at about 10m, I touched bottom in darkness. Having dived the river many times, I knew that taking a lamp down would be a waste of time. The beam would only show up all the muck in the water. Also, as the flow had started, soft sediment and mud was moving, and a lamp would be just another piece of equipment to hinder my search. I inched along the bottom, lying as flat as I could and head-on, as far as I could judge, to the direction of the moving water. With my right arm I felt about in front of me, sweeping from left to right. I could visualise the shape I was looking for. The shaft weighed about 4.5kg and was about 60cm long, Gary had said. It was about as thick as a man's calf and had a universal joint on each end. If I came into contact with it, I would recognise it - no problem. If you have ever dived in zero visibility, you'll know what I mean when I say that your imagination can start working overtime. I had a mental picture of the surface with the sun shining, and sailing boats tacking to and fro. In reality it was cloudy and raining, but in total blackness you do dream up some strange thoughts. Time can also seem unimportant. How long had I been down? I asked myself. It could have been five minutes or 35. Suddenly there was a tug on the safety line. It was Peter asking if I was OK. I gave a tug back and slithered forward, realising that I couldn't have been down that long. I was now on what appeared to be a scrapheap. I could feel pieces of metal of all shapes and sizes. One felt like what I was looking for, but as I ran my gloved hand over it, I could feel a jagged end. Another piece raised my hopes, but it turned out to be a pipe. Then something nudged my right arm. I started to feel this big, softish mass wrapped in plastic. It felt like a pillow tied with wire, but why would anyone dump something like that in the river? My hair started to stand on end, so I pushed it away and moved on slowly, heart thumping. Who knew what could be down there? My progress was obstructed by a large object. I ran my hand over it and it felt like a box or chest. It was made of wood or metal, and on one side in the middle was what felt like a padlock. I was interested in this locked box, and wondered what was inside. But time was running out and I couldn't linger. Another tug came on the line, and I returned the signal. Then my outstretched hand touched something. I felt the outline and it fitted the picture in my head. I was sure I had found the driveshaft! To be certain, I picked it up. My mind went back to the 1960s, and what it had felt like to pick up a 10lb weightbelt from the bottom of the swimming pool. Training had always seemed to involve a 10lb weightbelt, whatever you were doing. The thing I had in my hand now felt about right and I felt good about it. Knowing that the locked chest was just to my left, I decided to have another feel. But just as I started to turn, my air grew tight. It was about to run out. Grabbing the shaft close to my body, I gave four tugs on the line and started my ascent. It was hard work finning up with the extra weight, but keeping some air in my suit helped. As the blackness changed to brown, I inflated my BC and let that take the strain for the last few feet. My head broke the surface and I could see Peter coiling the rope, and five worried faces. Then I held the shaft aloft and there were smiles all round, and cheering. As I was getting changed, my thoughts returned to the darkness. I was feeling that chest again and wondering why it was locked. What was inside? I was curious. I knew roughly where it was lying, and I think I might take another dive in that area soon.  |
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