You Can Scream Underwater

2014 12 16 Tuesday

Like most mornings aboard the CGC Active, I was sitting on the mess deck, hunched over my coffee, inhaling the vapors to drive the weariness from my eyes and head. The space was crowded with people going back and forth. Discussions ranged from whatever sports event was on the night before to the tasking for the day ahead.

Eventually, everyone not sleeping off the mid-watch was mustered and waiting. Every seat was occupied, and every square foot of standing room was taken. My coffee had finally cooled enough for me to take a long pull. The upcoming patrol schedule was announced—more watertight doors to repair, training to be completed, and a survival swim.

That last item tickled something far back in the darker recesses of my brain. A few molecules of caffeine eventually made it back there, and the lights came on. I never completed my survival swim when I arrived in July. Slightly panicked, I looked out the window. The air temperature was maybe 40°F, and the water was cold enough that it wasn’t producing a fog layer.

One of the junior officers tapped me on the shoulder. I turned in my seat to face her, praying my intuition was off for once. She wanted to know if I had ever gotten around to completing my survival swim since arriving in July. My mind raced for a convincing lie—something, anything. Quick, spit it out!

I blankly stared at her for a moment. “No ma’am, I haven’t.”

Damn it! Not what I meant to say.

Ten minutes later, I was standing on the small boat pier with 20 of my shipmates. We were donning our Mustang survival suits. To keep our uniforms dry, we’d all changed into bathing suits and t-shirts. It hadn’t gotten any warmer since my coffee.

The idea behind the survival suit is to keep you warm by keeping you dry. This means you have to run the heavy-duty zipper clear up to your chin and seal the hood around your face. The suit is made of half-inch-thick neoprene and colored “international come-save-me orange.” Some have full five-finger gloves; others have mittens with only the index finger separate. Standing in a line on the pier, we all looked like Gumby’s inbred cousins at a family reunion speed-dating event.

One fellow in particular was so tall that his suit stretched grotesquely, the neck looking like it started somewhere above his ears. Another shipmate was so small the suit bunched and folded at every joint. He looked like a shaved and sunburned bulldog.

With the help of the guy next to me, I got my arms and fingers in the right holes and zipped up. Then I helped him seal his hood and find his strobe light. BM1 was doing his best not to laugh since there were two officers stumbling around with us. He wasn’t trying very hard.

“Alright, jump in!” he shouted.

We more or less stepped off together. I felt buoyancy as soon as my feet hit the water—drastically more than I anticipated. I had to quickly relax my hips and knees to prevent my momentum from tipping me forward onto my face. As I slid deeper, the heavy pressure of the water compressed the suit to my skin and drove all the air up to my head and shoulders. The seal around my face held for a moment before the pressure overcame it.

All the air trapped in the neoprene onesie found a weak spot and rushed out in a long, wet, hissing fart that flapped the edge of the orange “fabric” against my cheek. I tucked my knees to my chest and flexed my arms a little to push the rest out.

“Find your inflation hose and blow into it to inflate your pillow,” BM1 shouted.

I fumbled over my left shoulder at the ribbed rubber hose. Somehow, with the dexterity of a person on prescription muscle relaxers, I managed to get the mouthpiece around to my face. The pillow was a flat airbag that hung behind the wearer’s head to make sure they floated with their shoulders out of the water. If you weren’t paying attention—or simply had poor balance—it would also ensure you floated face down. A few moments later, the pillow was inflated, and I had to devote a fair portion of my attention to keeping upright.

“Find your strobe. Activate it and attach it to your head.”

The bulky hood prevented me from looking down, and I couldn’t really see anything below my thighs. I turned to the shipmate who had helped seal me in. He, too, was struggling to find his military-issued blinker. We struck a deal: he attached mine, and I’d get his. It was only slightly less difficult to retrieve, activate, and attach someone else’s light.

“Now, deactivate and stow your light.” We made another deal.

BM1 gave more direction from the pier. Fumbling, laughing, splashing, and cursing, we obeyed with mixed results. The suit was uncomfortably cold but surprisingly dry. Knees tucked to my chest with my hands wedged under them, I leaned back and stared at the early morning sky.

The low, heavy, brooding clouds blanketed the area in a patchwork pattern that clung close to the mountains. The hook, however, was clear. The only clouds overhead were high, feathery wisps painted gold by the sun that was just then breaking over the mountain ridge to the southeast. They were high enough that it looked as though the sun would pass in front of them instead of behind.

My silent study of the heavens was broken by a briny splash across my face. The cold shock was enough to trigger vivid memories of being pepper-sprayed, and for a moment I braced for the pain. I blinked away the salt, and nothing happened. Rolling forward, I looked for my attacker. Upon finding him, I grinned, and we shared a laugh. Without warning or mercy, I jammed a finger between his hood and face and dunked him with my free hand. The sound he made when the water rushed into his suit was supremely satisfying. You can, in fact, scream underwater.

Soon the fun was over, and we were ordered to climb out. As far as mornings went, that one had been pretty good. We took turns clumsily hauling ourselves out of the water via one of the small boats tied off to the pier and waddled our way back up the ramp to rinse off and peel out of the suits.

Remarkably, with the exception of my face, I was completely dry. We hung the suits over the upraised flight deck nets to let them dry, then headed inside to change and get to work. Thinking back, I wouldn’t have minded too much if I had to lay there in the water for an hour or two. It was surprisingly comfortable once you forgot about the cold—or went numb from the hair down.

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K.C. Aud has made a career of being lucky and has managed to find something positive in nearly every poor decision he’s ever made, even if it was only a new perspective on how not to do something.

Enlisting in the U.S. Coast Guard in 2010 he became an Operations Specialist (radio and navigation) and did his first tour in Georgia guarding submarines from drunk fishermen. In 2014, tired of the heat and the bugs he transferred to a 210-foot medium endurance cutter in Washington state. The cutter then regularly deployed to the hot and buggy west coast of Central America to hunt down drug runners. Aboard USCGC Active he traveled 94,194 miles and personally handled enough cocaine to keep a small country high for a decade. Somewhere in there, he learned to write, if not spell.  

Three years later, daunted by the prospect of spending the rest of his career in a windowless command center, he separated from active duty. After 13 different jobs ranging from beer brewer to dairy farmhand, to machinist, to Navy civilian contractor, he reenlisted in 2020 as a Coast Guard reservist, changing rates to Maritime Law Enforcement Specialist. When not helping the Navy assets in the Puget Sound troubleshoot radios, he’s on drill in Seattle doing water cop stuff and or flailing away at his keyboard. Though married and now a father, he misses the mission. 

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.