A STORY WORTH TELLING
BY LEON ALDRIDGE
“Life is simple … either you’re qualified, or you’re not.
— Navy submariner saying
Matt is an ITSC with the United States Strategic Command. I know a little bit about the United States Strategic Command. Their mission is peacekeeping.
But I can only imagine what the job description for an ITSC looks like.
It is obviously a top security-level position.
Google doesn’t even know what an ITSC does. Even Matt doesn’t talk much about his work. From listening to family reunion chatter, however, I’m pretty sure that Matt is a nuclear submarine commander.
I also get confused about family relationships vernacular to describe the son of a first cousin. I think it’s first cousin, once removed. But other than ‘Cuz,’ I just call him by his name.
While I don’t know exactly what Matt does, knowing he does it on a submarine means he spends a lot of time underwater. In close quarters. Often months at a time, according to his grandfather. My mother’s baby brother.
I’ve never spent months or even days underwater in close quarters. And as my mother used to say, there’s a second verse to that song. I’m not going to if I can help it.
But I did spend an hour in a submarine. Once.
Well, almost an hour. A tiny sightseeing submarine in the Bahamas. In the 1980s. And that was long enough.
A “Flashback to the 50s” cruise aboard the S.S. Norway got me to the Bahamas. To enjoy entertainers like Fabian, Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Coasters, the Duprees and other singers. Music appreciated mainly by those who listened to AM radio car radios and bought 45 r.p.m. records at White’s Auto store in downtown Mount Pleasant in the early 1960s.
It was a lapse of good judgment, however, that got me on the submarine. And my friendship with one of the entertainers. Gordon Stoker was a member of the Jordanaires who sang backup for Elvis Presley for 14 years, plus a host of other pop and country singers for decades.
Stoker’s role on the cruise was to promote Elvis Presley Enterprises and Graceland. He and I had become friends on a previous sailing of the same cruise.
“A sightseeing submarine,” Stoker said, looking at the shore excursion list for the afternoon. “You ever been on a submarine?”
Following lunch, we looked around town and headed to the designated pier address. “Submarine Sight Seeing,” the sign proclaimed. But the only thing tied to the dock was one tired old Evinrudepowered ski boat.
“Submarine,” a village local asked with a smile, waving toward us. Stoker and I looked at each other. “What do you think,” I asked. We watched others boarding the boat, shrugged our shoulders, and boarded with them.
A quarter of a mile or so out in crystal blue Bahama waters, the overloaded ski rig met a vessel floating just below the water line. It closely resembled a submarine.
Only smaller. After tying up to the tiny sub, the same smiling islanderturned- worn-out ski boat driver pointed to the hatch. “Enter. Please.
Watch step.”
I looked longingly back at the city’s shoreline.
“Come on,” said Stoker. “It will be fun.”
Squeezed inside, we met our newest close friends. Literally, sitting in two rows, back-toback and shoulder-toshoulder on one center bench. Noses glued to a row of windows offering a panoramic view into the underwater world of marine life.
“We’re packed in here like sardines,” I said, seeking some humor for comfort. No one laughed.
Strains of soft music and floral fragrance begin to fill the air. “We’re going down,” I told Stoker as the miniature sub started moving.
“Poor choice of words,” he retorted. “Can we agree on something like ‘we’re submerging?’” The “captain’s” welcome and assurance that in an “unlikely” loss of power, the sardine can was designed to automatically float to the surface did little to make me feel at ease.
Then something strange and suspicious began to happen. Was it the elevator music? Maybe the magnificent sights of the ocean’s depths? Could it have been that funny fragrance infused into the oxygen supply?
Whatever it was, tensions disappeared. Fears subsided. I didn’t care that a baker’s dozen of us were descending into the deep, packed in a so-called submarine the size of a Volkswagen microbus.
“Oohs and aahs,” abounded. “Man,” I said, surveying the underwater world. “Would you look at that?”
Then, it was over.
Short of an hour later, we surfaced. Right next to the waiting used car lot boat with the local islander.
Still smiling and waving.
The platoon of new submariners, now best friends, was hugging.
Exchanging business cards and mailing addresses.
Vowing to write.
Strolling back to the ship, the euphoric feeling from the underwater utopia began to wear off.
“Well, that was different,” offered Stoker. “You think that perfumy stuff they pumped into the air was legal?”
“I’m wondering if they sell it,” I chuckled.
“Would you do it again?”
“Not in a million years,” I said. “If I want another look at fishes from the deep, I’ll buy an aquarium.”
It was decisively decided that day long ago, that I was not qualified for the life of a submariner.
Remembering the experience, however, I thank God for people like Cuz’ Matt. Doing whatever it is that an ITSC does every day. So that Americans can do what I do best every night.
Sleep soundly and safely.
