Tragedy Under the Sea

It was scheduled to be a routine mission, a dive of about an hour's duration in only a few hundred feet of water off Key West, Fla. The 23-ft.-long submersible, designed by famed Inventor-Oceanographer Edwin A. Link--whose son, E. Clayton Link, 31, was one of the four men on board--seemed more than equal to the task. Since it began operating as an oceanographic research vessel for the Smithsonian Institution two years ago, Sea-Link* had easily plunged to depths of 1,000 ft. Last week, as the minisub maneuvered in swift currents of the Gulf Stream, routine turned abruptly into tragedy.

Sea-Link was checking and collecting fish traps near the wreckage of an old Navy destroyer, the Fred T. Berry. The ship had been scuttled last year to create a man-made reef that would encourage marine growth, and Sea-Link was trying to determine how successful the project had been. Suddenly, Sea-Link's crew heard the harsh, rasping sound of metal rubbing against metal. Apparently pushed off course by an unexpectedly strong current, the sub had become ensnarled in cables and other debris around the sunken warship. "I'm hung up," radioed Sea-Link's pilot Archibald ("Jock") Menzies, 30, who tried futilely to work the sub free with its six little electric propulsion motors.

Big Junkyard. As a flotilla of rescue ships hurried to the scene, 15 miles southeast of Key West, Sea-Link's crewmen were told to exert themselves as little as possible in order to conserve oxygen. The crew could do little else. At the pressure that exists at a depth of 360 ft. (162 lbs. per sq. in.), a free swim to the surface was considered far too risky. Trapped along with Menzies in Sea-Link's forward observation compartment--a helicopter-like bubble made of plastic--was Marine Biologist Robert Meek, 27. The younger Link and Veteran Diver Albert Stover, 51, were sealed off separately in the aluminum aft compartment.

The first effort to reach Sea-Link was made by Navy "hard hat" divers lowered on a platform from the submarine rescue vessel Tringa. The divers got close enough to see that the sub was entangled in "one big junkyard down there." In a second try, encouraged by radioed shouts from Sea-Link ("Move south, move south!"), one got within ten feet of the sub. "Keep coming, keep coming!" Sea-Link implored, but he could not penetrate the debris.

On board the submersible's mother ship, Sea Diver, the senior Link, 68 (long known for his World War II pilot training machines), realized that time was rapidly running out. The 9 1/2-ton sub had only limited life-support chemicals. That was not the only problem. While the forward compartment's acrylic bubble acted as an insulator against the chilly (40DEG F.) sea, the rear compartment--where Link and Stover sat in light sports shirts and shorts--was quickly cooling off. The chill reduced the effectiveness of the chemical "scrubber," a sodium carbonate compound called Baralyme, which is used to remove exhaled carbon dioxide. To keep the chemical effective, the crew increased the air pressure inside the compartment.

By the time the third attempt was made to reach the sub--using a diving bell flown in from San Diego, Calif.--the men had been under water 26 hours. The bell also snagged in debris. One of the divers then tried to swim to the sub, but he could not make headway against the 2 1/2-knot current. Hindered by debris and problems with its sonar gear, a little submersible called a Cubmarine had no better luck. Just as the situation seemed hopeless, the research ship A.B. Wood arrived, equipped with a remote-controlled underwater television camera. Using the camera to guide a grappling hook, the Wood managed to snare Sea-Link; a single tug freed the sub, which rose immediately to the surface.

It was a bittersweet success. Menzies and Meek emerged unharmed from their 31-hour ordeal in the forward compartment, where the atmosphere had remained at about sea-level pressure. But rescuers had to leave Link and Stover (whose motionless bodies could be seen through portholes) inside the aft compartment while it was slowly depressurized; if the men were still alive, suddenly opening the hatch at sea level would have caused a possibly fatal case of bends. When the hatch was opened, the fears were confirmed: both Link and Stover had died of carbon dioxide poisoning. Heartbroken by the loss, the elder Link nonetheless vowed to continue his oceanographic work. "We're not going to stop," he said. "This [tragedy] shows the magnitude of the problem and the challenge."

* Named after its donors, New Jersey Drug Magnate J. Seward Johnson and Designer Link.

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