I can happily read about astronauts travelling in small spaceships without getting twinges of claustrophobia, but submarines are a different matter. I think I can imagine too well how I would be aware of the crushing pressure of dark water all around me. How James Cameron could bear to drop, alone, kilometres to the bottom of the ocean while looking out into the darkness I'll never know. (By the way, is there some special about that coming out? I assume it would on National Geographic, which means I won't see it, but that's no great loss because that network seems to have a strange ability to make any documentary on any subject boring.)
Anyhow, this account by a Guardian journalist of a week in a British nuclear submarine is quite interesting. Here's the bit that made me feel claustrophobic:
You can hardly move in the bunk – sitting up is impossible – and if you turn over you are likely to tip out and end up on the floor. You have to share your rack with a gas mask and various other bits of safety equipment, plus a lot of your own gear. There are small lockers, but I am never offered one, so sleep with bag, clothes and shoes in the bed. Each bunk has an air vent, which does offer some respite from the heat but also blows a blast of cold air into your right ear. "If the air stops blowing, it means something bad has happened," one of the men tells me reassuringly. One morning I am woken by a sudden thud and fear the worst. Later, I discover it was just air being released – a routine operation.
Several men mention "coffin dreams" – nightmares in which the sleeper shouts out that the control room is flooding or he is being pursued by a torpedo. I sympathise: though I have no nightmares – I don't sleep deeply enough for that – the racks do feel like coffins. A better option is to sleep in the "bomb shop", where the missiles and torpedoes are kept. It is the quietest, most spacious room on the boat and hugging an 18ft cruise missile keeps you cool.
A few men go "wibble" after years under water; they just can't stand it any more – the lack of proper sleep, the absence of privacy, the endlessly repeated conversations, the cycle of meals (it's Wednesday so it must be curry), the unspoken dangers. How do you know when someone has gone wibble? "The noisy ones go quiet, and the quiet ones suddenly become noisy," one man tells me. Chief Johnson recalls one experienced submariner who went wibble and started keeping a book of shipmates he thought had wronged him. "You're on my list as well," he told Johnson before being taken off the boat. He only agreed to leave as long as he could be designated captain of the rescue vessel.
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