As a military fleet, one of our regular duties at sea involved participating in live-fire exercises. These weren’t mere simulations—they were intense, calculated operations that demanded precision, discipline, and coordination. Among the heaviest and most powerful forms of firing we carried out were rocket charges, specifically designed for anti-submarine warfare. These rocket-propelled depth charges were launched with tremendous force, plunging deep into the ocean before detonating at pre-determined depths. Their purpose was clear: to detect, disable, and if necessary, destroy hostile submarines lurking beneath the waves.
The explosions were thunderous, even from a distance. The surface of the water would tremble and boil as the shockwaves rippled outward, invisible beneath the surface but unimaginably powerful in their impact. The goal was tactical, strategic—but the ocean felt the consequences in a much broader way. In the hours and days following a heavy firing session, the aftermath would become painfully clear. Dead fish—thousands of them—would rise silently to the surface or drift aimlessly in the deep, their delicate systems destroyed by the concussive force of the underwater blasts. It was a haunting sight, a grim reminder that even in war drills meant for readiness and defense, nature often pays a silent price.
These moments left a strange, heavy feeling in the heart. On one hand, we were fulfilling a vital role in national defense—training to protect, to anticipate, to be ready for threats unseen. On the other hand, the sea, which had become a kind of home, suffered quietly from our actions. It reminded us that war and peace both leave their marks—and sometimes, the damage lies beneath the surface, where it is hardest to see but longest to heal.
I must have been overwhelmed by the endless variety of colors and shapes of fish I encountered across the thousands of seas we sailed. Each region offered its own spectacle—vibrant schools of shimmering blues and silvers, strange creatures with translucent bodies, and others adorned with dazzling patterns that looked as if nature had painted them by hand. Some were delicate and graceful, gliding through the water like drifting petals, while others moved with sudden bursts of speed, vanishing into the deep. The sheer diversity was mesmerizing—a silent, ever-moving underwater world that seemed to whisper stories of beauty, mystery, and survival. Even amidst the harshness of military duty, those fleeting glimpses of marine life brought a sense of wonder that stayed with me long after the engines quieted and the waves settled.
