No Kidding Panic in a Drum - Part II - Prelude to a Drowning

Before his first ride in the helo dunker, the oldest member of our class (not me) suffered chest pain and got whisked off to the hospital. His misfortune caused only a slight delay in the training, but a significant emotional impact on those of us still waiting our turn. Perhaps he was the lucky one.

We entered the dunker in groups of eight, our seating positions determined by the order in which we had signed the check-in roster. I had missed out on the "gouge" that some classmates already knew: Don't ever be number 8. Never. Don't sign the roster on lines 8, 16, 24, or 32. Run to the head, experience a severe coughing fit, complain of chest pain. Do anything to get out of the queue so as to recycle for a different number. I didn't know that. I signed onto line 24. I got seat 8.

The first two positions, located forward in the drum, simulate pilot and co-pilot seats. The remaining 6 places align on each side of the faux fuselage, backs to window-like cutouts, facing each other across a large central block that represents cargo on the deck. The main exit is located forward on the starboard (right) side, directly behind a bulkhead separating this main cabin from the cockpit. Seat number 8, my seat, is on the port (left) side, all the way aft, diagonally from the main door -- the seat furthest from the main exit. For the two rides when all dunkees egress through that one exit door, the person in #8 will be last out.

Wearing full flight gear, we took our assigned places in the dunker suspended over the pool. Once we latched our five-point quick-release harnesses, the instructors reiterated the required actions for each of four upcoming rides: 1) Just before your head submerges, take a deep breath and hold it; 2) Wait until all violent motion of inrushing water stops (count to 30); 3) Release the harness; 4) Egress and float to the surface. Only two factors would constitute failure on any given ride, mandating a repeat of that ride: 1) Early harness release; 2) Diver rescue. Three repeat rides would constitute failure of the entire event and would require repeating the training from scratch, at a later date.

My heart raced and I hyperventilated as the dunker slowly rolled inverted after hitting the water on the first ride. I clutched the window opening behind me -- my reference point -- and gasped in a deep breath just as my head went under. I counted to 30, released, and egressed as directed. Ride one, passed. Hey, not so bad after all. I can do this.

For ride two, we all went out the main door. Same sequence: Hold breath, count to 30, unlatch, egress. I followed the shipmate in front of me a little too closely and caught his boot in my face. But I could still see the exit, and made it out the door with air to spare. Ride two, passed. Half-way done.

The next two rides simulated night operations. Just before the dunker was dropped into the water, we donned swim goggles with the lenses painted over -- blindfolds. For ride three, I latched onto my reference point like a terrified toddler clinging to mommy's leg. When I felt the water on my cheek, I took my deep breath, resisted the overwhelming urge to release that harness until the full 30 seconds was up, pulled myself through the window, and yanked off the blinding goggles as soon as my head popped up on the water's surface. Ride three, near-panicked, yet passed. One more to go.

During the first three rides, I did not appreciate that I was upside down under the water when performing the actions for each egress. That little bit of sensory disorientation would prove to be my undoing for the remainder of what turned into a very long day.