Upside-Down in the Water

I looked across the cockpit at the door beyond the empty co-pilot’s seat, and that door’s lever became the center of my world. Within seconds my aircraft was going to strike the water, and all would be turmoil as the cockpit flooded and the aircraft rolled inverted. The door on my side was jammed and impossible to open, and after unfastening my shoulder harness I would need to cross over the cockpit to open the far door and swim to safety. Although this sounds like a simple maneuver, I knew that upside-down, with my sense of direction completely scrambled by the inversion and my body’s buoyancy, my vision 80% impaired, and nose filled with water, I would need to use the instrument panel as a physical reference to guide me across those four feet to my objective on the other side.

Then, suddenly my concentration was broken by a loud voice announcing “Ditching! Ditching! Ditching!” and I knew, just like the riders of a roller-coaster that has started moving, that there was no way to avoid what was rapidly coming toward me. The cabin plunged into the water and immediately began to fill. As the water reached my chest, I sucked in my last breath, and the whole world became a dismaying, gurgling chaos. I waited until the motion stopped, unbuckled my harness, and grabbed the instrument panel and slid my hands along it to the right, maintaining my body in a constant attitude. When I got to the other side, I groped for where I knew the handle was. For a few panicked seconds I couldn’t find it, but using the instrument panel again as a physical reference, I located the latch, pulled it back, and pushed the door open. Only then did I open my eyes as the light from the surface guided me out and up, and my sense of direction was restored.

I broke the surface of the water and took a gasp of sweet air. From the time of impact, maybe 15 seconds had passed. Instead of sunshine and seagulls, I was greeted by the overhead lights and pool-side ladder of the University of Louisiana’s Lafayette Marine Survival Training Center where I was undergoing a day of “Underwater Egress Training.” The cockpit-crossover drill had been my fourth underwater exit (and third inverted) from the simulated aircraft cabin dubbed “The Unit” by the university team. The voice announcing the impending “Ditching” had been that of our instructor who remained perched just behind the mockup of the instrument panel to make sure I followed their technique and exited safely. Furthermore, divers had remained poised just outside the Unit to aid any of the other passengers (it holds a dozen at a time) that might encounter problems getting out.

I climbed the ladder with a big smile. “Final exam over” I thought. The other trainees were preparing to go to the locker room to change out of their wet coveralls. The instructor then looked at me and said, “Did you want to try it with the life raft?” My mind froze for a second as I contemplated taking a pass. After all, four times in one afternoon seemed like enough for me. My sinuses burned from the chlorine, and I more than anything wanted to call it a day. But I remembered that earlier I had asked them if they tailored their normal helicopter course for fixed-wing pilots like me who would be needing to grab the bundled four-man raft and take it out of the cockpit with them. Apparently they took me seriously. They had located a bundled raft, and devised a way to strap it to the floor behind the pilots’ seats, much like we will when we take the Kodiak across to Papua New Guinea. I realized I was trapped by my prior inquiry, and in fact really “wanted” to do this final underwater egress.

I re-entered the now-hoisted Unit, alone this time, except for the instructor who strapped the raft to the floor. I rehearsed the exact location of the strap’s buckle, and how to pinch it open. We then drilled the recommended sequence: 1) Open the door and push it away, 2) Reach back and unlatch the raft from its restraint, 3) Pull the raft forward into the cockpit, 4) Only THEN, unbuckle my harness and exit with the raft through the already-opened door. Locating, unfastening, and pulling the raft added a complicating and troublesome task to something that had already taxed my underwater tolerance. But I knew that training and preparation were essential to minimizing the risks of taking a single-engine wheel plane across the Pacific. I needed to take advantage of this training opportunity. “If you don’t find it in time,” the instructor said, “just leave it behind and get out. That’s the main objective.”

“Ditching, Ditching, Ditching!” Once again upside-down, with churning water burning my sinuses, I found myself groping for the new objective. And once again, it eluded my first reach. In the upset, the raft had probably shifted just enough to move it from the exact location I had reviewed. I felt around more and located it. Now I had a decision to make – did I have enough air and tolerance to try to release the raft, or should I just call it quits? One final effort, and I found the latch and released the raft. One sweep of my arm, and the near-weightless bundle swung around into my lap. My lungs were telling me that this was taking longer than any of the previous drills, but I still needed to get my harness undone. My hand found the now-familiar buckle, and I was free, heading out the door and back to the surface.