Hello Mother. Hello Father. I am writing, underwater

So, a wall is a bulkhead?
A theme that should quickly become apparent is that we sailors use very specific language. Maybe you’ve heard a servicemember joke that there is a manual for everything. It really is true. There are actual procedures mounted to the bulkhead behind the toilets explaining for you how to properly empty the commode after you have done your business. So, it should come as no surprise that the Navy has a small publication called the Interior Communications (IC) Manual that governs announcements, talking on sound powered phones, and face-to-face conversations.
We take things a bit further and add in some slang or terms of “endearment” for just about everything in our world.
A simple thing like sea time has to have specific terms to keep everything clear. No less than three different terms are applied to taking the boat out of port.
The most basic is simply “underway.” Whether it be for training or inspections in your local operating area or cruising down the coast to the Caribbean or up to Alaska for sound trials; going underway is referred to as just that.
A variation of that is the “funderway.” Generally our least favorite type of underway, these are less than a week long and thus do not give a sailor enough time to fully acclimate to the underway sleep schedule. A funderway is long enough to almost get you there and make it so you can’t sleep normally for the first couple of days back in port.
The big one; the sea time that all others are preparation for in their own way, is Deployment. Usually a deployment is six months long, though an extension to seven or eight months is increasingly common. This is when a submarine crew truly does their job. The boat is assigned to a Commander of a Task Force (CTF) and can be called on to perform whatever mission is needed. Port visits are few and brief and the missions are long and often tedious.
A submarine on a mission is usually only allowed to conduct critical communications with the CTF in order to minimize the chance of being located. It is during these periods that the modern Submarine Force earns the other half of our historic nickname of the “Silent Service.” Even our closest loved ones will not hear from us for periods that can stretch from weeks into months. Missions lasting well over 100 days are spoken of with a mixture of reverence and foreboding. You never know if your next mission might be one of those.
Often referred to as “the Hunger Games” after the popular movie franchise, the crew having eaten enough of their food that rationing is required. Vegetables and fruits that didn’t come in a can are long gone and before too long, rice and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (PB&Js, of course) are the mainstay of the crew’s diet.
All during this time the crew are likely staring at the community laptops thinking about writing home in preparation of restored comms. Even if we do start to write, we often end up deleting the whole thing and going to bed after realizing, once again, that we have written three or four paragraphs and haven’t said a thing. In preparing spouses and families for a deployment, ship and squadron leadership will say many times of their sailors, that no one will ever miss you so much and write so little.
Even if we can send out our emails, there isn’t much we have to talk about. The mission is classified and tedious anyway. One watch seems the same as the last. Our petty arguments and silly watch conversations require far too much explanation to be worth the while, and the weather sure doesn’t change. Sixty-eight degrees and florescent, we always say.
The nature of a submarine is silence. It is her greatest asset and her first line of defense. In the right environment, a wayward wrench dropped to the deck or into a bilge can be detected thousands of yards away. “Sound Silencing!” is a watchword and a command. Woe be unto the newly reported sailor that is slow in learning how to keep quiet.
So, silence becomes a part of you, disappearing a weekly occurrence. My ship has a Hawaiian nickname, puka ele ele (pooka ellay ellay). It means “black hole.” Even in her mid-thirties, “Miss Oly” continues to earn the moniker. She can keep as quiet as the best of them.
I suspect that the silence is the toughest part for our loved ones. It must be difficult to acclimate to the “no news is good news” mantra that applies so well to a submarine sailor gone to sea. Communication is vital to any relationship, family or otherwise. Even with our manual telling us how, we do so very little with those we love the most.

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)