How do you flush a toilet on a nuclear fast attack submarine?
One of the critical briefings I was given when I boarded USS Seahorse (SSN 669) was the proper procedure for flushing the stainless-steel toilets in the heads (bathrooms). Unlike terrestrial toilets that could rely on gravity and atmospheric pressure to do the deed, a submarine's toilets had to contend with atmospheric as well as variable water pressure depending on your current depth.
This marvel of sanitary engineering had 2 manual controls. One was a pull lever that opened and closed a ball valve at the bottom of the toilet bowl. The other was a flush valve that introduced pressurized sea water into the bowl to perform the flush.
Surprisingly, the step-by-step procedures found online are spot on. I guess flushing commodes at sea isn't a national security secret.
Step 1: Open the drain valve. Pull the lever to open the ball valve at the bottom of the toilet to empty the bowl.
Step 2: Flush the bowl. Open the flush valve. This allows high-pressure seawater to force the waste through the drain line. Keep the valve open to ensure both the bowl and the drain line are thoroughly flushed.
Step 3: Close the drain valve. Once the flush is complete, close the drain valve. This creates a water seal in the bowl to prevent odors from coming up the pipe.
Step 4: Close the flush valve. After closing the drain valve, close the flush valve to stop the flow of water.
All wastewater aboard was collected in pressurized sanitation tanks or "Sans" for short. Depending on the length of the patrol, with a crew complement of around 115, the Sans might fill up when the boat was still underway. The process for emptying the tanks while at sea involved pressurizing them above ambient water pressure, opening a valve to the outer hull, and blowing their contents into the ocean. The procedure is literally called "Blowing Sans".
Certain safeguards needed to be put in place during this evolution. First and foremost, all heads had to be secured. While there was no physical lockout, big red placards would be prominently displayed on the door to each stall announcing "Secured Blowing Sanitaries".
I wouldn't be telling a story about flushing toilets, even if it's on a submarine, unless it got really, really good. In case it hadn't sunk in, the reason for securing the heads was to keep the contents of the pressurized Sans tanks blowing into the ocean instead of back out the toilet bowl.
We were underway in our patrol grid when I got a nature call at 0230. Groggily, I stumbled off my rack, out my berthing quarters, and across the hall to the head. Running lights kept everything dimly lit, but I'd made the trip countless times before and could navigate the path in the dark.
Pushing the stall door open, I did my business and reached for the lever controlling the ball valve. The usual hsssss sound as water flowed out the bowl was markedly different. I'm looking into the bowl trying to discern what's happening when I was roused from my stupor with an exciting moment of clarity.
"Ah, shi..." My apropos expletive was cutoff by a torrent of incredible foulness proceeding from the bowl with immense force and velocity.
Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to close the valve quickly before I flooded the compartment. Unfortunately I was drenched in some pretty profane filth. I've heard this experience described as the world's worst bidet. I can assure you it's worse by several orders of magnitude.
To verify the biohazard incident I'd just experienced, I opened the stall door and there, mocking me as much as an inanimate object could, was the big, red placard announcing, "Secured Blowing Sanitaries".
By this time, some sailors popped their heads in to see what the ruckus was. Their eyes went from the ceiling, to the bulkheads, to the deck, and finally to the very sullen, dripping Midshipman with an almost catatonic look on his face. Most shook their head with an unspoken, "Man, sorry dude," before slipping away. One of the guys I'd gotten close with wanted to make it a teachable moment for his shipmate in distress. "Damn, Cap! Hey, you know that's shit, right?"
I spent the rest of the night cleaning and disinfecting the head to make sure it was usable before the next watch turnover.
The most annoying thing about this incident was remembering when I first came aboard. The crew was telling me about a Midshipman on a previous cruise who was standing on the non-skid, the top surface of the hull, when he managed to lose his footing and went overboard. Not even knowing the guy, I denounced him, "Pfft. What a swab!" My shipmates agreed at the time.
"Yeah, Cap's different. He wouldn't pull something that stupid." Post incident, at least one petty officer took to calling me "Shithead."
Ah, well, at least that experience wasn't wasted. It taught me humility goes a long way, and I really needed to work on my situational awareness. Most importantly, I learned it's a really good idea to pay attention to big, red, obnoxious warning placards.
No comments:
Post a Comment