Underwater and upside down

The one thing to do when you're holding your breath

It was a requirement for a mission we were to fly: qualifying in Dunker Heeds.

The mission was an Apache helicopter gunnery— training in live firing the Hellfire missiles that could be hung from the wings of the aircraft. We’d be firing at hunks of metal just off the coast in North Carolina, and our firing position required us to hover over the ocean. Overwater flight in a helicopter requires qualifications in a water egress; if something goes wrong in the helicopter, and we crash landed into the water, we had to be able to get out. There is no ejection seat option, for obvious reasons.

The Apache is a tandem seat aircraft: two pilots, one seated behind the other. Our aircraft doors open up and out like a Lamborghini. As with any door, they wont be able to open underwater against the pressure. We were meant to jettison the glass of our cockpit, and if that didn’t work, we had a heavy duty knife on our survival vest that was supposed to do the trick.

The problem, of course, is that we’d be underwater.

Early one morning, we left Simmons Army Airfield at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina to drive north to Norfolk, Virginia, site of Dunker Heeds. There were two parts to the training, which I, at least, was dreading, though I had the feeling of a persistent and growing fear throughout the van, moving among and inside of each and all of us and increasing in a kind of thickness, a density, as we approached the Navy base.

The Navy, being all about ships and boats and water, undoubtedly trains in this regularly, but it was new for our group of Army aviators. We had to wear our flight suits and the heavily laden survival vests we would wear any time we flew to best simulate the potential experience. And then we started training.

The Dunker training came first, by far the worst, the most feared, although nobody around me admitted to fear, because that is not what Apache pilots did— I could feel it in the mix of unusual reticence or unusual humor mixing awkwardly, the rhythm of banter just a little off. We listened to instructions standing around the Dunker in the pool area, the lights bright, the smell of chlorine heavy in the air. The Dunker is a metal tube intended to simulate an aircraft fuselage, in which are two forward facing seats and a number of seats along the length of the tube, as we might have been seated in a helicopter or airplane as pilots and passengers. Openings meant to simulate windows and doors were cut into the sides of the tube. It was hung suspended above a deep swimming pool, and once we buckled our seat belts, it would be dropped into the water. The instructors demonstrated. The metal tube dropped with a heavy splash into the pool, and then it began to roll. We watched with— for me at least— complete concentration, an attempt to vanquish my dread. It rolled slowly, sunk, slowly, as the roll continued, until it was completely upside down. Once the rolling stopped, only then could the people inside unbuckle their seat belts and swim out of any opening.

The challenge was that there were fewer openings than people, and so there would be flailing and kicking. One frogman, there for safety in case anyone panicked, recommended counting to five slowly in our head before unbuckling so the when we swam out we wouldn’t be kicked in the face.

We would undergo four iterations of the Dunker. The first was relatively straightforward, if still terrifying. The second drop would be similar to the first— except all of us had to egress through the same opening. The third iteration started to get tricky: we would be blindfolded. And the fourth? Blindfolded— and all required to egress from the same opening.

There was nothing but terror in climbing into that tube and strapping in to the seat. And the only thing to do in the face of that terror was to focus utterly and completely on the steps to come, on what we’d been trained to do. I remembered the frogman’s recommendation.

Buckled into the seat, it was oddly sterile, oddly… controlled. And even when we dropped at first, the thick thud of hitting the water, the brief stall against the surface tension… manageable. And then the tube began to roll.

We’d learned in flight school about proprioceptive receptors, the “seat of your pants” feeling on which we all rely so much, and against which we have to fight at times while flying instruments. Here there was no fighting, but only surrender to the forces of physics. As the metal tube rolled, slowly, inexorably, the water rose to our ankles, our knees, our waist, but then sideways, and then, sideways, the water was at my ear, my face, I took an enormous breath and willed myself to remain calm. Focus on the next thing. One thing. Then the next. Feel myself upside down. Hold it….make a slow count to five. Unbuckle. I had to think— upside down— which way was the window that was closest? And then, calmly, refusing to let terror jeopardize the precious oxygen in my lungs, hand over hand pull myself in that direction. Boots were ahead of me, but waiting to release from my seat had proved useful. I followed the boots out of the window, pushed against the metal tube, and surfaced.

Doing hard things makes you better at doing hard things. We were building new neural connections. But the fourth drop did not feel more comfortable. We weren’t doing the same hard thing. We were doing harder things. Now I was blindfolded. We dropped. The slow roll. The ascent of the water, merciless, and now dark. And now— we had only one opening through which to exit. Escape had to be focused, controlled. The frogmen were swimming around us, I knew, to save us from drowning— probably. But everything was dark, and I could not breathe in the water, and I had to find my way— hand over hand— in the dark— underwater—focus.

Focus. Concentrate on the few things that lead to the exit. Focus. Concentrate on what will save your life.

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This is how things can feel right now— we’re upside down and underwater. Things aren’t the way they are supposed to be. We are practicing for an emergency procedure, we’re in the midst of an emergency. Reality is shifting.

Here’s the thing. You will make it through. You will make it through by finding those core things that matter the most and focusing on those things. Focusing on the things that are the most important, more important than anything else.

How do you know what those things are? You know. And if you want an exercise to bring you there, turn to the back of Chapter 2 in The Grit Factor.

I believe in you. You’ve got the grit factor. You just have to claim it.

Focus on what matters the most. Get yourself to the surface. And then you can take the next step toward offering your best self to the world.

Shannon

PS: Have you heard the latest from The Grit Factor podcast? Last week, Dave Whorton shared what it means to be an Evergreen Company— you wont want to miss what he has done with The Tugboat Institute. And listen in on my conversation with one of my personal heroes, Killian Noe, who shares formative stories of her childhood, what matters for organizational leadership, and the journey of Recovery Cafe (while you’re at it, would you subscribe, rate and share?):

Apple Podcast: https://podcasts.apple.com/.../the-grit-factor/id1611668766
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