From the introduction to Joe MacInnis' new book
Saving the Oceans

By Dr. Joseph MacInnis

There are three of us inside the submersible. Which is as hot as an airtight stove. We have just left the sun-washed deck of our mother ship and are being slowly lifted over the side and into the ocean. Anatoly Sagalevitch, our Russian pilot, is stripped to the waist, his hands reaching out to the control panels, his mind running over the final pre-dive checklist: life-support systems, sub-to-surface communications, obstacle-avoidance sonar and battery power. As he works, preparing for the 13,000-foot (4,000m) descent. I glance out my viewport at the deep blue sea coming up at us.

The moving skin of the ocean is riffled and taut, like pulverized lapis. We are in mid-launch, 18 tons of submersible, swinging on the end of a colossal, articulating crane. As we are lowered, we begin to relinquish the rhythm of the ship and acquire the rhythm of the sea. An indigo wave, larger than the rest, rolls under us, almost touching the viewport. Quivering on its crest is an iridescent slick-hydraulic oil has leaked from the ship.

The slick is a reminder, telling me that the ocean I love is under attack, and even we who claim to be its closest friends are sometimes part of the problem.

The suffocation and death of the great waters-and the animals and plants that live within them-is taking place, around the world, every day. There are times when the mortality is so shocking it explodes into headlines. The grounding of the Exxon Valdez. The wilful destruction of the Persian gulf by an Iraqi psychopath. Sadly, however, most of the damage is done on a much smaller scale by nice, unthinking people trying to sustain their version of economic growth.

Somewhere, in the long historical migration from Homo habilis kneeling at the river's edge in Africa, we lost our place within Nature. We divorced ourselves, linking our future to forms of religious and technical thinking that placed us outside the nurture of cosmic rhythms.

Inside the submersible it is suddenly dark, as if the sun had been pinched from the sky. We are under the surface, in the rolling shadow of the mother ship. A blue light streams in through the three small viewports, throwing Anatoly's face into shadow.

Of all the acts that confirm our unconscious need to reconsider Nature, few are as symbolic as descending into the ocean. As scuba divers or inside roving submersibles, we step off the land, leaving behind our urban alliance with concrete and asphalt. Underwater, our survival hinges on containers of portable air. Inside this strange inner space, we become weightless, drifting toward our aquatic origins.

As trespassers in this other world, we are more susceptible to shifts in thinking and emotion. Our eyes are captured by unfamiliar colors and patterns of light and shadow. The pressurized air sliding in and out of our lungs reminds us of our mortality. And from this, it is not a large intuitive leap to consider the mortality of the planet.

The deep ocean is one of the last untouched places on Earth. With three miles (five km) of water overhead, the twenty-first century seems like a rumor. Rich with scientific opportunities, the deep ocean is a place that suggests there are dimensions beyond reason. If we begin to think about what we are doing in the ocean-and the real implications of our actions-we will create a new philosophy of Nature.

We are now 330 feet (100 m) under the Atlantic. The Azores are over the horizon to the south. Directly below us is a slice in the crust of the Earth deeper than the Grand Canyon. From its bottom, under 16,000 feet (5,000 m) of water, we will climb the northern wall gathering rock samples that will help us understand the history and future of this part of the Atlantic. Outside, the ocean is becoming colder and darker. Inside, looking around at the submersible's blinking lights and panel switches, I feel as vulnerable as an astronaut inside his mechanical planet.

It is Anatoly, my Russian pilot, who gives me confidence. A former Cold War enemy, he is a symbol of the change that is reshaping our lives. Our earlier dives together have taught us that the future can be navigated successfully only by those who are willing to share.

We need a soul-deep understanding of the place and history of the sea in human affairs. Knowing the ocean's relationship to art and literature, to the evolution of human personality, is vital. And, learning to love the sea for its own sake-without trying to measure its economic utility-is equally vital.

Patron and friend of diving, Dr. MacInnis is an accomplished author, adventurer and researcher in the field of oceanic and marine science, history and discovery. His expeditions to the arctic and the bottom of the oceans in many parts of the world have been well documented and published in works such as Underwater Man, The Land that Devours Ships and Titanica. His work on the Titanic has been recorded on film and shown to audiences worldwide on Imax.