How Many People Are On A Submarine Crew

So, you’re curious about how many people cram themselves into a metal tube that shoots underwater for months at a time? It’s a fair question, because the answer isn’t just a number—it’s a lesson in logistics, sanity, and the art of not elbowing your bunkmate in the face. Let’s dive in, shall we?

The Quick Answer (Before I Get Technical)

A typical submarine crew size ranges from 130 to 150 people. That’s about the population of a small, very damp apartment building.

But here’s the thing: it depends entirely on the type of sub. A nuclear-powered attack sub, like the U.S. Navy’s Virginia-class, carries around 135 souls. A nuclear ballistic missile sub, the kind that carries the big boom, needs about 155 crew members because they have two separate crews—more on that weirdness in a second.

Whale, whale, whale… what have we here? A diesel-electric sub, like the ones used by smaller navies, might operate with just 30 to 50 crew. It’s like comparing a studio apartment to a mansion—both are underwater, but one smells more like diesel fuel and desperation.

Why So Many? It’s Not Just for Company

You might think, “Why not just bring 20 people and a really good playlist?” But subs are complicated. They’re essentially floating nuclear power plants, combat centers, and hotels rolled into one pressurized can.

You need a navigator to avoid hitting an underwater mountain. You need a cook to turn powdered eggs into something resembling breakfast. And you need half a dozen engineers just to keep the toilet from explosively decompressing. (Yes, that’s a real risk.)

The math is brutish: each crew member works a six-hour watch, then has six hours of maintenance, then six hours of sleep—on a good day. That means you need three shifts for almost every job, plus backup for the guy who gets seasick at 500 feet.

The Two-Crew Circus

Here’s a twist that sounds like a sitcom premise: ballistic missile subs (the “boomers”) have two full crews. They’re called Blue Crew and Gold Crew. They never meet.

27 Incredible Photos Of Life On A US Navy Submarine - Americas Military

One crew takes the boat out for a 70-day patrol, then they hand it over to the other crew like a damp, expensive baton. This way, the sub is at sea 70% of the time, but no single sailor spends more than three months straight in the tube.

Fun fact: the crews are so isolated from each other that a Blue Crew sailor might only meet a Gold Crew sailor at a divorce court hearing. I made that joke up, but it’s not far off—the schedule is brutal on relationships.

Sleeping Like Sardines (But With More Snoring)

Now, about the living space. On a U.S. Los Angeles-class sub, you get a bunk that is about 6 feet long, 2 feet wide, and 18 inches tall. That’s less headroom than a coffin, but with slightly better air.

Some sailors sleep in racks stacked three high, right next to a torpedo tube. The torpedo has more personal space than you do. The strategy is simple: you don’t sit up fast. You learn to roll out of your bunk like a roly-poly bug.

And the snoring? Oh, it’s a symphony. One guy sounds like a walrus with a sinus infection, and another clicks like a dolphin having a nightmare. You learn to sleep through it or you become the cook.

Submarine Force | Royal Australian Navy

The Navy’s Secret: Tight Quarters = Tight Friends

Despite the claustrophobia, crew survival depends on trust. You can’t fake it when you’re 400 feet under the ocean and the nearest bathroom is a curtain next to the reactor. Petty grievances die fast because you will see that guy at breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next 90 days.

Surprising fact: subs operate with one toilet for every 25 people, and it’s a complex, multi-lever device that requires a manual to flush. If you mess it up, the contents launch backward. I am not joking. The Navy calls this a “sanitary tank backup” and it’s the fastest way to make enemies.

The real magic trick? Every crew member is also trained in firefighting, damage control, and first aid. The cook might have to save your life with a bandage and a fire extinguisher. They’re not just “the cook”; they’re a certified underwater miracle worker.

So, Do They Go Crazy?

Not usually, but they get weird. After month two, conversations turn philosophical. You’ll hear debates like “Which is better: a warm soda or a cold hot dog?” The crew develops a shared sense of humor that sounds insane to outsiders.

Pyschologists call it “submarine psychosis,” but the sailors call it Friday. They have a tradition called “steel beach picnics,” where they grill fake hamburgers on a fake grill made of duct tape. They’re not crazy—they’re just extremely creative with boredom.

The bottom line? A submarine crew is the perfect amount of people: enough to run a nuclear warship, but few enough that everybody knows who left the hatch open. It’s a small, strange family. And they all share one bathroom.