The Call of the Sea

In the summer of 1983, Surinder Dhir sat on the rooftop of his family home in Chandigarh, staring at the hazy outline of the Shivalik hills. His B.Tech degree in Aeronautical Engineering from PEC lay fresh on the table downstairs, a hard-won prize after four years of late-night studies, failed experiments in the wind tunnel lab, and endless chai-fueled debates with classmates about thrust vectors and lift coefficients.

“Surinder beta, job letters are coming,” his mother called from below. “Tata, HAL… even that private firm in Bombay. Why chase the Navy? The sea is unpredictable.”

He smiled to himself. Unpredictable? That was exactly why. Planes he understood—metal birds defying gravity. But ships? Oceans? The vast blue unknown? It called to something deeper, something restless in him since childhood when he’d watch fighter jets streak across Punjab skies and wonder what lay beyond the horizon.

The letter arrived a week later: shortlisted for the Indian Navy’s Short Service Commission in the Technical Branch (Engineering). SSB interview in Allahabad. Medicals in Mumbai. If he cleared, he’d report to the Indian Naval Academy at Ezhimala, Kerala.

The family gathered around the dining table that evening. His father, a quiet government clerk, spoke first.
“Son, the Navy is discipline. No shortcuts. You sure?”

Surinder met his eyes. “Papa ji, I’ve fixed engines in the college workshop at 2 a.m. I’ve run laps till my lungs burned. I can handle discipline. I want to build something bigger—keep our fleet flying and sailing.”

His younger sister teased, “Bhaiya, you’ll come back tanned like a fisherman and smelling of diesel!”

He laughed. “Better than smelling of engine oil in a factory forever.”

Months later, after grueling SSB tests—group discussions where he argued calmly about India’s defense needs, psychological interviews probing his fears, obstacle courses that left him bruised but grinning—he stood on the platform at Kannur railway station, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. A Navy bus waited, white-uniformed sailors directing the new batch of cadets.

Ezhimala welcomed them with salt air and the roar of waves crashing against the Arabian Sea coastline. The academy sprawled across lush green hills—barracks named after legendary ships, parade grounds that seemed to stretch to infinity, and the iconic INA dolphin emblem everywhere.

On day one, the Chief Instructor, a stern Lieutenant Commander with a clipped mustache, addressed the fresh batch in the auditorium.
“Look to your left. Look to your right. One of you will not make it to commissioning. The Navy doesn’t need dreamers. It needs officers who can lead under fire, fix a failing engine at midnight in a storm, and keep calm when lives depend on it. Welcome to hell—and heaven.”

Surinder’s division—Albatross Squadron—was a mix: mechanical engineers from Roorkee, electrical whiz-kids from IITs, a quiet aeronautical guy from PEC like him, and a few direct-entry hopefuls. His roommate, Lt. Cadet Vikram from Delhi, flopped onto the bunk opposite.
“Yaar, they say the first month breaks you. PT at 0530, classes till 1800, then drills. You ready?”

Surinder unpacked his ironed whites. “Born ready. Just don’t snore.”

Training was brutal and beautiful. Mornings began with a 5-km run along the beach, sand sucking at their boots, sea spray stinging their eyes. Surinder’s legs screamed, but he pushed, remembering PEC’s grueling lab sessions.

“Move it, Dhir! You’re not flying a plane—you’re running for your ship!” the PT instructor bellowed.

Afternoons were academics: marine engineering, naval architecture, thermodynamics applied to propulsion systems. Surinder excelled here—his aeronautical knowledge translated well to jet engines on Sea Harriers and marine gas turbines. But leadership classes humbled him.

One evening, during squadron games, his team lost a tug-of-war. The Divisional Officer pulled him aside.
“Dhir, you were pulling hard, but not leading. Leadership isn’t just strength. It’s making the man next to you believe he can pull harder.”

Surinder nodded, throat tight. “Sir, I’ll do better.”

Nights brought mess hall banter. Over dal-chawal and endless cups of tea, stories flowed. Vikram confessed his fear of swimming in open sea. Surinder admitted he missed his mother’s aloo parathas. They laughed, teased, and quietly vowed to see each other through.

The toughest was the sea training stint—days aboard a training ship, learning seamanship, boat handling, and watch-keeping. A sudden squall hit one afternoon. Waves slammed the deck; rain blinded them.

“Secure the lines, Dhir!” the instructor shouted over the wind.

Surinder’s hands bled from ropes, but he tied off, then helped a seasick cadet below. Later, soaked and shivering, the instructor clapped his shoulder.
“Good head on you, lad. That’s what the Navy wants.”

Months blurred—parade drills under the scorching Kerala sun, leadership exercises in the Western Ghats, weapons training, and finally, the Passing Out Parade. In crisp whites, Surinder marched past the reviewing officer, chest swelling with pride.

His parents watched from the stands, his mother wiping tears, his father standing ramrod straight.

After the ceremony, as newly commissioned Sub Lieutenant Surinder Dhir saluted, Vikram punched his arm.
“From PEC nerd to Navy officer. Not bad, eh?”

Surinder grinned, looking out at the endless sea. “Not bad at all. The real journey starts now.”

And so it did—for 22 years, he served: maintaining Sea King helicopters, troubleshooting marine engines on frigates, rising to Commander in the Aviation & Marine Engineering Branch. The boy who once dreamed under Punjab skies had found his place between sky and sea.

Years later, in civilian life, he’d still smile remembering that first salty breath at Ezhimala—the place where discipline met dreams, and a young engineer became a naval officer.