Preventative Measures... Or not

Ever wondered how and why a massive beyond-its-own-eyeline submarine (debatable) would be sent down to the Mariana Trench? No, me neither. And yet, here I find myself – useless engineering ability and all – stuffed like poorly air-dried sardines inside what can only be referred to as ‘The SS Falmouth’ with a stifled chuckle or sob held at bay (pun definitely not intended).

As you – self-proclaimed beginners of the sea – would hopefully have taken it upon yourselves to find out, most deep-diving submersibles (if that’s not too much a mouthful) are going to essentially be harbingers of death for anyone on board if you’re loading your suicide mission (or following the orders of your humble and worthy superior of all James Cameron) with more than two people. So, imagine your surprise (horror) when you’re personally invited to do ‘maintenance’ (inevitable death prevention) on what is apparently simultaneously a deep-diving submersible and a cruise ship for the science obsessed. To those of you reading, nothing wrong with being a researcher, but struggling to find the correlation between gathering new information and spontaneously combusting prior to surfacing. Could be just me though, let me know in the comments.

(An imploded submersible)

Rationally, I was so inclined to decline, that it was only natural for me to receive multiple threats – from no named or existing private company with zero ties to the government of what I can imagine is only every region in whicI might tolerate my plain existence. And so, on to the SS Suicide Mission I have come. Which, now to think of it, is going to allow probably the worst and most excruciating death that land would not. Either that, or the most excruciating week with a bunch of make-a-wish researchers. The first person I spoke to on this ‘vessel’ is obsessively taxidermizing at all times, and they are the only person I can perceive as so at peace with the idea of dying that it doesn’t make me want to laugh to be around them. I’ve exchanged a variety of passing greetings with some of the others, but nothing that makes me believe that any of them aren’t living off of some strange delusion-based adrenaline (not the food, which of course is bland and endlessly unsatisfying).

(An imploded submersible as a result of almost no caution, preventative measures or advice taken)

As a write this, I am ‘eating’ some kind of grain slop which could as easily be a descendent of porridge as it could be of rice. I do not enjoy rice pudding. And as I close off this introductory entry, no doubt leaving you desperately hanging on to read my pre-emptive eulogy (somehow being published with Wi-Fi – I have given up on applying any scientific logic here), I find myself sitting next to a biologist who seems to care more about the nature of the rice pudding slop than whatever boring fish one might look to observe on the SS Falmouth. Impossibly, I am finding myself hoping that this misguided passion leads to some better meals, rather than the life-changing discoveries never to change the life of a living person.

I’ll try not to keep you waiting, but if I post nothing more, you can use your imagination. See below for a diagram depicting my gruesome end.