The
actual horn that we called a whistle was located on the
forward edge of the sail, perhaps a foot above the deck.
The
handle for operating it was on the bridge, convenient for the use
of the Officer of the Deck. The whistle was an air horn, far
louder than any trucker's monster horn. The sound of our
whistle
was much like that of the foghorns around the edge and mouth of
today's harbors.
We used the whistle just as
any surface boat did, signaling
our intentions (Inland Rules) or our actions (International
Rules). Short blasts, long blasts, prolonged blasts
(depending
whether Inland or International) all had meanings, when cleverly
grouped together as specified in the Rules of the Road.
Proper
use of whistle signals is an important topic in cases at
Court
(The
set of rules for piloting and navigation on inland waters.
Fortunately, International Rules are the same in
(And the
Rules and the Western Rivers Rules. And the Western Rivers
rules
apply as far east as
On consecutive years I was
the duty officer on New Year's
Eve, and I was asked each year for permission to blow the boat's
whistle at
Each year I assented. Then I returned to the ritual of
writing
the smooth deck log in meter and rhyme, as is traditionally done
for the watch during which the year changes.
But the soul-stirring use of
the boat's whistle happened when
we were in the fog. We slowed to seven knots, a speed chosen
solely based on decisions in the Admiralty Courts over the years.
The speed limit in fog is not specified in the Rules of the Road.
We could achieve seven knots easily with one engine, so the other
Diesels were all shut down, making the evening quieter for many of
the crew. And we sounded the boat's whistle.
The rule calls for a short
blast every minute. Good practice
calls for staggering the intervals slightly, in case another ship
nearby is signalling in unison with your own whistle. The
process
was tedious, reflexive, hypnotizing.
Fog at sea is almost always
accompanied by still air and
still water. The entrance to
moving fog. In any other fog, the gentle slapping of the
waves
against the outer hull is much quieter than usual, almost as if we
were in port. The lone engine is lightly loaded, therefore
quieter than usual. There is no wind noise. An
occasional sea
bird squawks, inviting the question of how they navigate at such
times.
Then, at night, our
navigation lights glow against the fog.
There is a question of whether the lookouts should use binoculars
or not. The loudspeaker on the bridge, over which the
general
announcements below are overheard by the isolated occupants of the
bridge, seems obscenely loud at a time like this. The
lookouts
don't need to yell to be heard. In fact, they can almost
whisper
to the Officer of the Deck about the lack of visibility.
But the whistle dominates the
process.
The whistle is painfully
loud to the watchstanders on the
bridge. The contrast of the whistle's loudness with the
otherwise
mesmerizing quiet is almost paralyzing.
The whistle is loud enough
to interfere with conversations
below, in the control room and in the wardroom. The rhythm
of the
whistle becomes the rhythm of the boat, even of the people who are
sleeping. As the crew watches the movie, the whistle
sometimes
interferes with proper understanding of the dialogue. At
first,
the whistle interferes with the ability to fall asleep.
Then, the
whistle becomes a part of sleep, a part of life's rhythm.
Once, as we were approaching
and transiting the
were in the fog for three days. The whistle sounded
incessantly.
We used a lot of compressed air to feed the whistle. We got
so
far behind at that speed that we rescheduled our rendezvous with
the surface forces, and we established our arrival time in
all the way.
Then one morning at about
2:30, (0230 hours, five bells of
the midwatch, even though we never rang the bells on the
submarine
except for some extremely rare ceremonial occasions), with no
warning, the fog lifted. Or rather, we chugged our way out
of the
edge of the fog. There were stars. The world was
different.
I picked up the sound-powered
telephone, and I told the
quartermaster of the watch to enter in his notebook the time at
which the fog lifted. And I stopped blowing the
whistle. One of
the lookouts, a Seaman Apprentice who had just recently been
promoted from mess cook to lookout, commented that he was looking
forward to sleeping without that damned whistle going off every
minute.
The first call came perhaps
three minutes later. The
executive officer wanted to know what was wrong. I told him
that
we were out of the fog, so I was no longer whistling our presence.
Seconds later the skipper called, demanding to know what the
problem was, and why was I discussing it with the exec instead of
the skipper, who was supposed to be the first to know everything.
I reminded him that it was not yet time for his wake-up call, and
that neither his standing night orders nor the specific orders for
that night required me to wake him to announce the absence of fog.
A few minutes later I got
the third call over the sound-
powered telephone, this one from the chief of the watch. Our
hospital corpsman happened to be the chief on that particular
watch. He was bemused that he was calling me for this
particular
reason. One of his responsibilities was to notify me of any
unusual occurrences below decks during my watch.
Everybody
aboard was awake, up and about. They could no
longer sleep without the fog whistle.
© F. G. Charlton III