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By Cherie Winner
The Washington State University biologist, who retired in 2001
after decades of studying marine worms, was shorebound when the
stubby little submarine called Alvin first carried humans to
the bottom of the sea.
Schroeder remembers the excitement in his lab when scientists
aboard Alvin discovered vents in the ocean floor, where
three-foot-long tube worms and other weird-looking animals lived on
the mineral exhalations of the earth’s interior.
“I had a graduate student working on worms then,” he recalls,
“and it was in Time magazine, these guys with these giant
worms, and [my student] came running into my office and said, ‘What
the hell are these things?’”
That was in the late 1970s. Since then Schroeder has avidly
followed the discoveries of researchers fortunate enough to see the
vents and their strange life forms in person. He never expected to
make the trip himself.
Then last summer, WSU biologist Ray Lee invited Schroeder and
three WSU colleagues on the cruise of a lifetime. Lee was chief
scientist on Alvin’s mother ship, the research vessel
Atlantis. Part of his job was choosing who would get dive
time. In addition to his grad student Ray Andrell and post-doc
Christian Rinke, who are studying deep-sea creatures, Lee offered
slots to about 20 scientists from other institutions, to Schroeder,
and to John Rutherford, a master craftsman in WSU’s technical
services department who has designed and made high-pressure
chambers for Lee’s lab. Of the WSU divers, only Andrell had been to
the bottom of the sea before. He joined Lee on a 2006 cruise when
he was an undergrad at Whitman College.
So in late August, the Atlantis sailed out of Astoria,
Oregon, bound for waters about 200 miles west of Vancouver Island.
Once there, the Alvin would make a dozen trips to
hydrothermal vents along the Juan de Fuca Ridge on the seabed more
than a mile below the surface.
Alvin made its deep-sea debut in 1964 and is still going
strong, thanks to frequent upgrades. Only the seal around the hatch
is original equipment, says Rutherford. Everything else has been
replaced at least once. The sub’s shape is due to a fiberglass
shell that provides stability and houses hydraulic and electrical
lines, sampling tools, and five small motors, three aft and one on
each side. Under the fiberglass is a thick layer of syntactic foam,
which provides buoyancy and cushions the craft against bumps and
dings.
“They’ve got rocks down there,” says Andrell.
“There are currents down there, too,” says Schroeder. “If you’re
not aware of which way the wind is blowing, so to speak, you can
get blown right into something.”
Inside the fiberglass-and-foam shell lies the spherical cabin.
Made of inch-and-a-half-thick titanium, the cabin looks much like
the original diving “bells” of the late 1800s. It has an interior
diameter of about six feet; with a pilot and two other people
aboard, the cabin is, shall we say, cozy. Schroeder, who stands
about five-foot-four, says it’s no problem for him. Rinke, at
six-foot-five, has a bit harder time.
“You have to sit like this,” he laughs, drawing his knees up near
his chin. “It’s very crowded, but it works.”
Divers wear casual clothes (nothing acrylic, which would release
toxic fumes if it caught fire); many bring gloves and a stocking
cap. Surrounded by near-freezing water, Alvin cools quickly.
Heat from the people on board keeps the cabin at about 50° F, which
is a bit chilly when you’re sitting in one place for up to eight
hours.
Then there’s the issue that arises on any all-day trip: what do
you do about bathroom business? Let’s just say the overly shy or
fastidious need not apply. If you do go, you take a capped
container along—Schroeder calls his a “thunder mug”—and when the
time comes, you simply use it. With luck, you won’t have to use it
often. “It’s better if you don’t drink too much,” advises
Schroeder.
Weighted with 800 pounds of iron plates, Alvin takes
about an hour and a half to drop to the sea floor. After the first
few hundred feet, the craft descends in a profound darkness
punctuated only by flashes of bioluminescence from jellyfish and
other denizens of the middle depths. Most creatures there light up
when they’re disturbed, says Schroeder, and as Alvin brushes
past them on its way down, they spark briefly and wink out again
before you can get a good look at them.
“In some ways it’s unreal,” says Lee. “You do sense the distance
you’ve traveled. You definitely feel like you’re separated from
every-thing else.”
During its dive, Alvin is on its own. The crew is in
phone contact with the mother ship, but the sub is not tethered to
the Atlantis. On-board tanks hold enough oxygen to keep the divers
alive for 72 hours if the sub gets stuck somewhere. Everyone does
safety drills for emergencies on the big ship, but if an accident
happens on the Alvin, there aren’t many options.
“There’s one lever in the bottom of the Alvin that releases it
from everything,” says Rutherford. “When you turn this handle, all
the cowling and everything comes away, and all there is, is the
sphere—and up it goes.”
“But that’s the last thing you should do!” laughs Rinke. He says
the cabin would probably spin as it rose, tossing its occupants
around and making them royally sick. So far, no one has ever had to
pull the lever.
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