Hello Mother. Hello Father. I am writing underwater.

Bloody knuckles, broken hearts
The average oxygen content of Earth’s atmosphere is 20 percent. In the closed atmosphere of a submarine that percentage begins to drop the moment that we close the hatches and prepare to dive. In a matter of hours or days, depending on how many personnel are onboard and how much running about we do during drills, O2 gets down to 17 percent fairly consistently. This will have effects on several facets of life below the waves.
When smoking was still allowed on submarines, which it has not been since 2010, the sailor’s favorite lighter underway was the ever-present Bic childproof in whichever color was closest at hand at the checkout counter. In port there were and still are the purists for whom the classic Zippo is the only option. The reason the Bic won out over the Zippo was that the latter would cease to light after a short time where the former will dutifully light your smoke for the entire underway. There simply is not enough oxygen for the rich-burning Zippo to spark up.
At about 14 percent just about everyone is irritable. We do our best to avoid this level by running our O2 Generator (we call her Jenny, as we are not always the most imaginative fellows) and by burning (yes, burning) Oxygen candles.
Try as we might, there are times such as drills or Field Day during which our O2 levels do get low and it shows almost instantly. You can count on the ‘old salts’ to be grumpy most times but low oxygen is equal opportunity and puts most everyone in a foul mood.
While low O2 does make it easier to fall asleep, it is never a restful slumber and one often wakes cranky and sore as the low level does not allow the body the chance to repair itself as it is want to do.
The most visible effect is that even minor cuts and scrapes seem to take forever to heal. That knuckle you busted the day we got underway will take the better part of two weeks to fully heal and will likely scar.     
Not related to the oxygen level but certainly a product of the closed environment is that it also takes far too long to heal a broken heart or calm a worried one. From the dreaded “Dear John” letter from a girlfriend of a few months to the divorce papers that await an average of two sailors at the end of each deployment, sailors know heartache as well as they know their ship. Rare is the sailor that has not felt the loneliness of an underway augmented by a recent breakup. So much so that, the common thread of heartache is often a point of commiseration amongst sailors that are getting to know each other. It almost becomes a contest as to whom can recount the story of most torturous grief caused by the most attractive of paramours.
This might seem an odd habit to the uninitiated but it is most certainly a coping mechanism. Whether it is a heathy one or not may be up for some debate, but we generally agree that it is best to talk things out amongst friends, than to keep them bottled inside to fester.
Despite all of this, a submarine sailor is almost unfailingly and eternally optimistic. Few are more excited than the submariner that has found a new beau that shows promise of staying by their sailor through all the long days and separation that a sea tour demands. Sailors that feel they have found “the one” will waste no time in introducing all their friends from the boat to get the stamp of approval.
The Old Salts will preach patience and caution while the junior sailors will advise “putting a ring on it” before we sail next. All will be excited and hopeful for their amorous compatriot and reminded of feeling the same way once.
Hope springs eternal, as they say. That hope can even spring in the quiet dark of a young sailor’s bunk as he recalls that final, magical night in the last port with a lovely companion.
This column is not endorsed by the US Navy and any opinions herein are my own.
STS1(SS) Aaron B. Skellenger, USN
USS OLYMPIA (SSN 717)