UNDER THE SEA
My Submarine Adventure by William Hartel

For a thousand dollars, you can fly halfway around the world or travel across the country in luxurious first class comfort. So why did I choose to travel a mere 2000 feet in a 36 inch wide steel ball for the same thousand dollars? Because that 2000 feet was straight down into the depths of the ocean aboard the world’s only submarine-for-hire. While the seats are not comfy leather and there is no personal entertainment system, the submarine trip was worth every penny.

Idabel is the brain child of Karl Stanley, a 30 year old American who conceived, designed, and financed the three-man submarine named for the Oklahoma town where it was built in 1993. Like Karl, the Idabel now resides in Roatan, an island shaped like a toenail-clipping 33 miles off the coast of Honduras Central America.

Although it weighs more than four tons, Idabel floats on the surface until twin ballast tanks are flooded, after which it is just 15 pounds negatively buoyant. It is constructed of three ½ inch thick steel spheres, two of which are 48” in diameter and a passenger compartment which is 36” across. (Imagine a seated snowman with the bottom ball protruding from the middle ball – you know, where the buttons go…) The connection between the passenger compartment and the cockpit is a tight 18” in diameter. I made the mistake of entering it head first which required incredible contortions to get into a seated position. There is 30 inch diameter inch think curved plastic viewing bubble just a foot from my face. The steel bench is just wide enough for me and my daughter Julia to squeeze between the spare air cylinders, but neither of us can sit straight due to the cramped quarters. “In the U.S., passenger vessels are prohibited from depths below a hundred feet. Down here,” says Captain Karl, “anything goes.”

Karl assures us that his craft is extremely safe, and that this will be his 291st dive in it, but to reassure us, he explains that we have three days of survival gear aboard. I try to imagine remaining in the tiny sphere for more than the scheduled 4 ½ hours. I can’t do it.

Powered by a pair of electric motors, Idabel bobs on the surface, threading through a cut in the reef . With a whoosh and a gurgle, the view from the globe changes from the painfully bright tropical sky to the subdued azure blue of the ocean. The temperature in the passenger ball tops 85 degrees and sweat runs down my forehead and into my eyes. I jokingly ask Karl to switch on the AC. “Give me 5 minutes and you’ll be asking for the heater,” he responds.

Our drop along the wall is slower than a stroll, and the vertical wall scrolls upward. Colorful tropical fish dart in and out of cervices, hiding amongst layers of coral. Karl was serious. The temperature in the ball at a hundred feet has dropped to 75 and the view has changed almost as dramatically - the color out the window has deepened to a serious dark blue. Although the sub is sealed at one atmosphere pressure, at 500 feet my ears pop gently.

The water pressure of 250 lbs per square inch squeezes the steel ball compressing the air within. I notice condensation collecting of our sphere. The thermometer outside registers the water temperature of 65 degrees. At 600 feet it is too dark to take notes without a flashlight, although “up” is still slightly lighter than “down.”

We drop at 60 feet per minute, and six silent minutes later we level off at a thousand feet. Karl turns off the lights, and the darkness is profound. By flashing the sub spot lights on for fraction of a second, thousands of glowing creatures respond by generating pin points of light. The sight is breathtakingly similar to the night sky, but these “stars” are swirling, spinning, and undulating in the inky black. A 5 inch finger-shaped creature resembling a lit Christmas tree spirals before us. With the fans and motors off, time stands still. Delicate phosphorescent shapes cartwheel in silence. Although the pressure outside is 500 pounds per square inch, these minute invertebrates cavort without concern Karl yells down to us that the ball we are sitting is was scrap helium container from a commercial diving bell, a fact that, somehow, is less than comforting.

After several minutes of silence, Karl powers up Idabel. Nine spot lights the vertical wall and the crabs and sponges clinging to the volcanic basalt. With another gurgle, water displaces air in the aft ballast chamber and we tilt backwards, our window pointing upwards. There is no evidence of light whatsoever, and the idea that we are dropping backwards is disconcerting. I call back to Karl who does not hear me. An uncomfortable thought crosses my mind. I have no idea how to drop the emergency weights, or fill the ballast tanks, or anything else which could possibly be done to return the craft to the surface. I call again, louder this time and he answers, explaining something about the current. I am relieved, but plan try to keep up a running dialogue to ensure he is still breathing.

The temperature in the ball drops to that of the surrounding ocean, 50 chilly degrees, as we pass 1700 feet. Pancake sized jelly fish pirouette before us, and sea lilies resembling miniature palm trees protrude from the wall, waving in an invisible breeze .

Two thousand feet - 150 feet deeper than “crush depth” of U.S. nuclear subs. The pressure is more than 900 pounds per square inch. A rough calculation concludes that this is about the same as balancing my SUV on a coffee cup. My daughter asked me how long it would take to swim to the surface – if it could be done. Another rough calculation. 20 minutes at top speed. I shiver – is it the cold, or is it the realization that I am in a military surplus metal ball in a home-made submarine piloted by a man I have barely spoken to half a mile beneath the ocean surface?

We glide silently across sandy bottom that resembles nothing so much as the surface of the moon except for the lobsters and crabs we encounter, who scurry away from our intrusion. Karl steers the sub toward a hole in the sand when we bump into something. Not hard, but noticeable. I ask if that happens often. He responds “I’ve never seen that before…” What? WHAT?

“That white crab, about 14 inches across. Never this deep.” I am greatly relieved by this. We’ve been cramped inside this ball for almost 3 hours and the idea of being in this alien world is starting to creep me out

Red sea fans the size of a truck tire cling to the vertical wall, gently waving in the current generated by our motors. A foot-long fish glides by the window, studying us. As he turns to depart, we see he has two walnut sized parasites clinging to his other side. We glide just inches off the bottom. Before us shrimp mounds erupt puffs of sand now and then resembling nothing so much as miniature volcanoes.

We’ve been submerged for almost three hours – the view is otherworldly, but I can no longer feel my legs (thanks to the cramped position) and Julia and I are both shivering (thanks to the cold). With a “whoosh,” Karl adds air to the ballast tanks and we begin our slow ascent. The Idabel rotates and our view changes from the life and color of the vertical wall to the inky black void of the open ocean. Our floodlights illuminate just a few feet of the vast emptiness and I am struck with a feeling of incredible insignificance.

Our submarine voyage reminded me of just how ignorant we who live on the land are of the life in the sea. Billions of creatures live and die beneath the waves without so much as a passing thought by humans. We are not so special or unique that we can ignore the world around us – at least not for long.

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