In the event of an underseas accident in our submersible, we
were told, a small leak at the depth at which the Titanic
lies would shoot a stream so intense it would cut a person in
half. But don't worry, we were counseled. Before that could happen
the capsule would implode with such force that our bodies would
instantly incinerate before being crushed. Our fireproof jumpsuits
were merely to allow identification of our charred remains.
Two summers ago I was asked to provide medical services for
a salvage expedition to the wreck site of the RMS Titanic
in the North Atlantic. In return I would receive a two-week ringside
seat at the salvage operation, with the potential to visit the
Titanic in the deep submersible. The invitation was irresistible.
Since its discovery by noted marine geologist Robert Ballard in
1985, fewer than 100 people have viewed the Titanic shipwreck
firsthand. On August 17, 2000, I became one of that select number.
Ninety years after its sinking, on April 15, 1912, the Titanic
continues to be an object of public fascination. The 883-foot
ocean liner went down in frigid waters within three hours of colliding
with an iceberg 360 miles southeast of Saint John's, Newfoundland,
with a loss of 1,523 passengers and crew. The stern separated
from the bow as it sank, strewing debris along 600 meters of the
ocean floor two miles beneath the surface.
The base of operations for the salvage expedition was the
AM Keldysh, which at 425 feet is said to be the largest research
vessel in the world. The Russian ship served as the operating
platform for the MIR submersible vehicles used for exploration
and recovery. The Keldysh contained several laboratories
and housed 40 scientists of varying disciplines plus curators
from the United States who identified and categorized Titanic
artifacts. Two other ships were part of the operation: the SV
Explorer, a 150-foot salvage vessel out of London, and the
MV Intervention, which housed two remotely operated vehicles
used to recover artifacts identified by the manned MIR submersibles.
On the eve of my dive I attended a briefing with the MIR pilot
and co-pilot to go over responsibilities of the three-man crew
and review objectives of our 12-hour mission.
After the rather unsettling details about being crushed at such
deep levels, I was pleased to learn that Evgeny Cherniev, the
most experienced Russian sub pilot, was to be at the helm for
my descent. He spoke English well, and I learned he had three
children about the same age as my own. Knowing he had a family
that he wanted to return to relieved some of my anxiety.
Nonetheless, I slept fitfully the night before the dive. I felt
the same excited anticipation I do before performing a complicated
major surgery and followed my habit of reviewing and re-reviewing
the checklist of responsibilities. I didn't need a wake-up call
the next morning.
After breakfast my colleagues and I assembled on deck in our
jumpsuits and received last-minute instructions. As we entered
the sub's hatch, we each gave the obligatory thumbs up for the
photographers and settled into our cramped quarters. Since the
MIR is pressurized with pure oxygen, we removed our deck shoes
and passed them outside to eliminate the possibility of a flammable
or corrosive residue contaminating the sub interior.
Each of us had an 8-inch thick acrylic porthole to observe the
activity outside the sub's one-and-a-half inch reinforced titanium
hull. Inside the cramped cabin the temperature was a steamy 85
degrees. In two hours, however, at the ocean's bottom, it would
drop 50 degrees. In our jumpsuits and layers of clothing, we worked
up a sweat merely sitting in the capsule, waiting to be hoisted
from the deck into the ocean.
Sub deployment takes extensive coordination between the crane
operator and crew. A cable was attached to the top of the submersible,
which then was carefully guided from its protective berth on deck
and gently lowered into the water. The crane whined as it strained
to lift us off the deck. Whispering in the background was the
constant hiss of the oxygen equipment and the scrubbers used to
maintain exhaled carbon dioxide at a safe level. Once we were
in the roiling water, a crew member jumped onto the sub. He disconnected
the heavy top cable and attached a smaller one to the nose of
the sub, which was towed 500 meters before descent.
During the short tow from the mother ship, we rocked moderately
back and forth as the pilot tested his controls. Outside, the
sailor rode the sub like a water skier. Without warning, he jumped
off, and we were underwater. For the next two-and-one-half hours
we plunged downward in a slow spiral at a rate of 25 meters (about
27 yards) per minute. Light sources, oxygen and carbon dioxide
levels, communications and other critical functions were tested
every 500 meters.
Visibility was surprisingly good for the first 150 meters, but
we saw no aquatic life. The water was opaque below a few hundred
feet but became surprisingly clear when the lights were switched
on. From that point throughout our slow, twirling descent we saw
an amazing spectrum of marine life. Everything from tiny unidentified
creatures paddling frantically to bright red shrimp and intricate
jel1lyfish, one with a bright red internal globe like a Christmas
ornament. The large aptly named rattail fish proved to be quite
inquisitive. Several lobster species ranged in color from bright
red to opalescent. Ghostly starfish and various coelenterates
were everywhere.
At about 500 meters below the surface, the cabin temperature
cooled to a comfortable level and condensation began to form on
the hull interior. Later, as we worked on the archaeological registration
of artifacts, condensation drip would become a major annoyance.
Frequent sonar checks verified that we were on course to land
1,000 meters from the Titanic.
Finally, our lights illuminated the white sand of the ocean
floor. It was dead calm. Sporadic coral species did not waver
until the mild turbulence from the sub displaced them. As we followed
our heading toward the wreckage, we began to see Titanic
debris, including large pieces of machinery.
Suddenly, there it was: the gigantic ghostly bow of the Titanic,
looking exactly as you have seen it on documentaries and in Hollywood
films. The sight was more awesome than I had imagined. Slowly,
we cruised along the bow, passing Captain James Smith's berth
with his porcelain bathtub still intact.
We hovered over the gaping hole, prevented from entering by
a last-minute court order resulting from the then-unresolved dispute
over ownership of the artifacts. That didn't upset me, because
I knew the most likely source of technical troubles or damage
to the sub would be in those confined spaces. We inspected the
large rift in the midship area where the rupture occurred that
separated the stern from the bow. Ninety years later what appears
to be damage from the iceberg still is apparent on the hull.
After cruising above the ship we moved on to the large debris
field that surrounds the stern, which is located 600 meters from
the bow. The ocean floor here is littered with evidence of the
tragedy: dishes with the White Star Line logo, pieces of furniture,
personal items, chandeliers, portholes, candelabra. The occasional
suitcase is a treasure trove because the tanning process of the
leather preserved many otherwise perishable items. The organisms
that usually metabolize cloth, paper and other perishables do
not like the chemicals used in the tanning process.
One such suitcase we had seen topside contained the suits, shoes,
jeweler's loop, penknife and other personal items of one William
Allen, who did not survive the trip. It was poignant to see his
engraved lighter, his London omnibus tickets and the toy pistol
he had carried as a gift for his son.
Our eeriest experience was seeing a man's derby on the ocean
floor. We were able to retrieve it with the robotic arm. What
appeared to be a large cannister turned out to be a tea service.
Of the 17 artifacts we recovered during our dive, the most significant
was the telegraph that connected the engine room to the bridge.
This contained the lever that would have been pushed on the bridge
to change course and speed when the iceberg was sighted. Nowhere,
however, did we or any of the other dive missions discover human
remains, dispelling the myth that biological material is still
present on site.
No opponent of salvage could criticize the care taken in our
artifact recovery. The location of each item was carefully logged
in three dimensions at discovery, videotaped in situ,
and submitted for identification and preservation by the curator
and chief marine archaeologist upon return to the Keldysh.
Among the 853 artifacts recovered during the entire expedition
were the captain's wheel, which Captain Smith is said to have
held onto while going down with the ship, the base of the cherub
statue from the grand staircase and the watertight seal of the
door that, had it been able to be closed, would have prevented
the ship from sinking before the Carpathia came to the
rescue.
At one point Cherniev allowed me to pilot the submersible on
the ocean floor and use the robotic arms to retrieve an artifact
and place it in our recovery basket. The tactile experience reminded
me of the laproscopic surgery that I have performed.
After six hours on the ocean floor we reluctantly began the
process for ascent. As we were about to begin our journey to the
surface, Cherniev had a surprise. He produced a picnic basket
replete with sandwiches and a good champagne, which we consumed
with gusto.
I had been totally fascinated by the dive experience, but now
certain needs reasserted themselves. Portable urinals are available
on the sub, but the pilots never seem to use them. Later, I discovered
the reason: They have a standing bet whereby any pilot who succumbs
to the temptation must contribute a bottle of scotch to be consumed
by the others. Although I cannot professionally condone such a
practice, the constraints of the sub interior make me sympathetic.
Nearly three hours after beginning our ascent we were gratified
to hear the voice from the bridge of the Keldysh signaling
that we were near the surface.
As the MIR bobbed in the swells of the North Atlantic I thought
this must be how the astronauts felt as they awaited recovery
in their space capsule after splashdown. Soon we were towed back
to the mother ship and hoisted on deck. We were giddy with exaltation
as we clambered out the hatch to the cheers of the crew. Now,
when I think back, some of the exhilaration returns. And I am
grateful.
* * *
Michael Manyak is the chair of the Department of Urologic
Surgical Oncology at the George Washington University Medical
Center in Washington, D.C., a director of Adventurecare, Inc.,
which provides medical services in remote locations, and a director
of The Explorers Club, an international professional society dedicated
to the advancement of scientific exploration and field research.
