We were the only vessel in Mare Island Strait. I took us down the channel, past the dikes with their end lights marking the entrance to the channel. We turned starboard generally west by southwest, skirting the Naval Anchorage Area 21 and the disposal area just past Pier 35. After about a mile we picked up the Pinole Shoal Channel heading about 260° and then on 240° down into San Pablo Bay. From there we eased to port down through one-and-a-half mile-wide San Pablo Strait, and around the east side of Angel Island into San Francisco Bay.
The Skipper's standing orders required him to be on the bridge when we transited the Golden Gate, so I called him on the analog Centrex, a simple but very reliable dial phone system with appropriate executive overrides located wherever they might be needed.
"We're entering the Golden Gate," I informed him.
"Thanks… be up in a minute."
A few minutes later the Skipper arrived at the bridge hatch and passed up a steaming coffee mug, and then a second and a third, handed up to him by someone in Control. "Blond and sweet, right?" he asked me, winking broadly. I nodded and grinned back. "Skidmore said you liked yours B n' B," he said to Faust.
"Gee, thanks, Cap'n," he said, apparently surprised that the Old Man would actually bring a lowly Seaman coffee.
"Need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed up here," the Skipper told him, and settled back to scan the horizon, transected by the orange filigree of the Golden Gate Bridge about three and a half miles ahead.
"Take a good look, Mac — you're not going to see this for quite a while."
I didn't respond. No need to acknowledge the obvious.
As we sailed beneath the main span of the Golden Gate Bridge, I tilted my head back to watch it pass some 720 feet above me, allowing twenty-six feet for my distance above the water, give or take. From somewhere in the recesses of my memory some figures bubbled up. "One and three-quarter miles from tower to tower," I remarked as the bridge slipped behind us. I turned around to look at it again. "Built in 1937 for $35 million — a lot of money back then," I added to no one in particular.
As we passed Point Bonita to the north and Lands End to the south, Control recommended course 250° as we headed out the main channel. I glanced around at the incoming commercial traffic off our port side and the outgoing traffic both ahead and aft of us. We seemed very small when compared to these giant ships, some longer than a thousand feet, and nearly as wide as we were long.
The seas were picking up, long rolling waves coming right at us out of the Pacific. They'd had several thousand miles to get that way, and we could definitely tell when they hit. Our stubby bow rose high to the incoming wave, and dropped into the wave as it passed, slamming against the leading edge of the sail, and covering us with drenching spray. I slowed our forward speed to let us settle better into the waves' rhythm, keeping a wary eye out for the approaching tanker behind us. From the stern we presented a small silhouette, both visually and on radar.
"You want to dive the boat, Mac?" the Skipper asked, water dripping from his peaked cap.
"Absolutely! Glad you asked," I answered, and sent the lookout below. On the bridge box I ordered, "Lookouts man periscopes one and two." I wanted to be sure we kept abreast of the traffic around us. "Watch that big tanker about four miles astern," I cautioned. "I don't think he can see us in these swells." I looked back. She seemed to be gaining on us.
"I think we should try to raise her on horn," I told the Skipper.
He nodded, so I called Com on the Centrex, and instructed them to raise the tanker behind us. I gave them the name I saw on the bow: Choja Maru. She was riding low in the water, obviously with a full load.
Control called me back. "She displaces a hundred twenty-three thousand tons — that's one big sucker!"
The Choja Maru was about three miles behind us. I glanced at the Skipper. "See if San Francisco Traffic Control can raise her," I told Control. "And give me her speed."
The Choja Maru was doing fifteen knots to our twelve, so she was closing at three knots. "How long 'til we can dive safely?" I asked Control.
"One hour, Sir."
"She'll be on us in an hour," I told the Skipper, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't know we're here."
Our problem was that we were in a traffic-controlled shipping lane. There was some pretty shallow water to the north of us, and incoming traffic, a lot of it, kept us from turning south — plus, turning broadside to the swell was not a good idea. They were pretty big.
"Bridge, Control. Traffic gets no response from Choja Maru." Control paused. "Looks like they increased their speed to sixteen — maybe a bit more."
"When the Choja Maru closes to a mile, Mac, dive the boat! I'm going to Control."
Now it was just me and Choja Maru — at least it felt that way. Time to get ready.
"Rig the ship for dive, Control," I ordered.
"Control Aye." And on the 1MC system: "Now hear this, now hear this. Rig ship for dive! Rig ship for dive!"
I carefully checked the bridge for anything that could rattle. I sent the Centrex and sound-powered phones below. Just me, the bridge box, and the 123,000 ton Choja Maru coming up my rear.
"Bridge, Control. One and a half miles, Sir. No way she sees us!"
The bow lifted, and I was drenched by another big one. If I hadn't been clipped to the rail, I might have gone overboard.
"I'm coming below," I told Control. "Put number one scope on Choja Maru." I checked ahead for another swell. "Soon as the next swell passes," I added, and then braced as the bow lifted again.
This one was bigger, but we rode it better, and I only got a little more wet. But soaked is soaked. "Comin' down," I announced, and unplugged the bridge box.
A pair of hands reached up through the deck hatch. I gave them the bridge box, and scrambled through the hatch, slamming it shut above me, and torquing it down with the hand-wheel. I dropped to the deck, and someone clambered up to close the second hatch. The Skipper was on number one scope.
"Where is she, Skipper?"
"Dead astern, about a mile."
"Chief of the Watch — dive status?"
"Green board, Sir."
"Diving Officer," I said to Chris Barth, who had the watch. "Dive the ship! Make your depth two-hundred feet!" I glanced around the Control Room. "Make it snappy, Chris," I added.
The klaxon sounded throughout the sub as the 1MC blared: "Dive! Dive! Dive!"
"Flood all main ballast," Chris ordered. "Full dive on the bow planes, ten degree down bubble. Make your depth two-hundred feet."
Skidmore, on the bow planes, pushed his wheel yoke full forward. Chief Wilbert Kettlewell, on the Ballast Control Panel (BCP), quickly threw switches and the boat was immediately filled with the loud sound of air rushing through the open ballast control valves at the top of each saddle-shaped ballast tank. The boat settled a bit, and then suddenly, the bow lifted high into the coming swell. As it passed, it sucked the stern right back up to the surface, where we wallowed uncertainly between the swells.
"Distance to Choja Maru?" I demanded.
"'Bout three-quarter mile," the Skipper said.
"Check," from the Nav table.
Another wave — up went the bow, followed by the stern, and a useless fifteen degree down-bubble.
With an incredible sense of déjà vu, I said to the Skipper, "I've been here before on the boomer.[3] I can get us down quick! Please take the Conn, and I'll take the Dive!" And to Chris, "Sorry Chris, no time — no insult intended."