A few days later to navigate the California coast, USS Palau he was going home. The carrier, enough to carry 25 helicopters, was traveling slowly to San Diego Harbor recently. Inside the bike rack – located on the sea bridge, two steps from the pedestal – was a mess. The crew descended soon and enjoyed the beach. The conversation turned to where they were going to eat that night. Then, suddenly, the internet started with the voice of a ship’s engineer.
“Bridge, Main Control,” he exclaimed. “I’m losing my drum beat. No reason. I close the twists. ”
The superintendent, a supervisor under the supervision of the pilot, quickly moved to the intercom connection and spoke, acknowledging, “Closing the brakes, aye.” The pilot himself turned to the pilot, sitting on the edge of the pilothouse’s harbor. “Captain, the engineer is throwing steam on the burner for no reason,” he repeated.
Everyone present knew the urgency of the message. Loss of steam means the loss of power throughout the ship. The results of an unexpected development soon became known. About 40 seconds after the engineers said something, the drum was completely gone, and all steam engine stopped. A loud bang sounded for a few minutes; then the bridge collapsed miraculously, as electric motors in radars and other equipment spun around and stopped.
But the loss of electrical power was not at all an abrupt possibility. The shortage of steam meant that crews were unable to reduce the speed of the ship. The ship was moving too fast to drop anchor. The only way to reduce its speed would be to change the propulsion system – steam-powered vessels. On top of that, the loss of steam made the ship’s pilots able to steer the boat, some of which soon became tragic. Looking closely at the front of the train, the pilot told the pilot to turn the steering wheel to the correct ten degrees. The driver drove the wheel, but it did not help.
“Sir, I have no leader,” he shouted.
The stewards had a way of storing notes: two men sweated out of the stern of the boat, trying hard to move the steering wheel by not even an inch. The pilot, still looking at the bow, whispered, “Come, get out!” But the 17,000-ton ship departed – heading for a crowded San Diego Port, and now heading away from its original route.
Seeing all this happen the same day in 1984 was Edwin Hutchins. Hutchins was a psychologist employed by the Naval Personnel Research and Development Center in San Diego. He climbed Palau as an observer studying research on navigation skills, writing essays and recorded interviews. Now the ship was hit by an accident – “injured,” according to authorities – and Hutchins was on board.
From his corner of the pilothouse, Hutchins looked at the crew leader. The pilot, however, said he acted calmly, as if it were strange. Instead, Hutchins knows, “it was not uncommon”: “The disturbing words, the curse, the removal of the jacket that reveals the sweatpants of this cold afternoon, explained the facts: Palau were not well supervised, and jobs, and perhaps lives, were at stake. ”
Hutchins was on board the ship to learn the wonder he they call it “shared awareness,” or the way people think and feel about others. Mu book which was based on his experience at Palau, Wild Income, he wrote that his goal was to “move the boundaries of knowledge beyond the skin of the individual and see the movement movement as knowledge and arithmetic.” Such machines, Hutchins added, “could be interested in their own products.” In the face of difficulties that no single mind can solve, the awareness that is shared in the group of PalauWorkers were about to be tested.
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