Submarine Sculptor Is in His Element

Anyone who has seen the film “The Hunt for Red October” may remember the scene in which the submarine--called the Dallas in the movie but known to the Navy as the Houston--blasted through the waves, nearly half its hull rising from the water.

It is a scene Ventura sculptor Paul Wegner knows well.

And when the Navy notified him in August 1998 that he’d been commissioned to sculpt a memorial commemorating 100 years of submarine warfare, Wegner had that image in his head.

The scene became the inspiration for the 10-foot sculpture that, once it is is cast in bronze, will be placed at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Md. Officials plan to dedicate the sculpture at a ceremony this fall.

This month, Wegner is shaping the giant piece in his barn. It depicts a nuclear submarine, its nose bursting from the water as waves flow over its bow and churn in a furious tempest.

“It’s an interesting way to portray the submarine, especially since submarines normally can’t be seen,” said retired Capt. Dave Cooper, a former submarine commander who sits on the committee that chose Wegner. “I think it’s a graceful and impressive way to portray the submarine to the rest of the country.”

And the maneuver the sub is performing is one Wegner experienced firsthand.

A few months after receiving his commission, Wegner, 49, found himself cruising the Pacific, fathoms below the ocean surface, in the Houston.

For a few minutes, the Navy even handed over the helm of the submarine, one of its most lethal weapons, to a guy who spends hours in his barn shaping clay for a living.

“I started sweating bullets,” said Wegner, whose cracked and stubby hands could be those of a dockworker or mechanic.

For a few minutes, those hands drove the Houston, banking it, changing depth, while an experienced sub driver looked on, ready to take over should anything go wrong.

And during the few days Wegner spent on the Houston, the crew performed the emergency maneuver depicted in the film. He stood in the ship’s nose, feeling weightless as it splashed through the waves and slammed onto the ocean’s surface.

But Wegner’s visit aboard the Houston wasn’t about a fast ride. He wanted the experience of being aboard a sub, to learn its technical aspects for his sculpture. He also wanted to know about the men aboard.

What he saw is reflected in his work, which has taken on a decidedly reverent tone.

“I do this because they do what they do,” Wegner said. “They’re part of the reason we have the freedom to be creative. We should all be real damn glad they’re out there.”

In Wegner’s piece, below the roaring sub are the faces of sailors--representing those who have died aboard U.S. submarines. The men stare out from the waves, determined, as though scanning the horizon for land.

The sculpture, he said, is for those men.

Wegner’s childhood has prepared him well for this sculpture. His father, Bill, 73, served as deputy to the late Adm. Hyman Rickover, known as the father of the nuclear Navy.

The work sent the Wegner family to naval bases across the country, while Bill Wegner, who had earned a nuclear engineering degree from MIT, worked hard to bring nuclear power to the seas.

“The Cold War was quite hot at that particular time, so there was a mad race to make sure we had the capability to handle the Soviet submarine threat,” Bill Wegner said.

As a result, the Wegner kids grew up in shipyards and naval bases.

“When you were working for Adm. Rickover, you really didn’t have much of a home life,” Bill Wegner recalled. “You worked seven days a week. And, of course, Paul was the No. 3 son of five sons and a daughter. So they didn’t see too much of their old man. They always knew I was working on nuclear subs. . . . They encountered it wherever we went.”

As an adult, Paul Wegner paid tribute to the man who helped shape his childhood: He sculpted a bust of Adm. Rickover for the same academy where his submarine memorial will stand.

The bust’s nose has become shiny, Bill Wegner said. Midshipmen rub it for good luck on their exams.

Paul Wegner loves to drive his red, white and blue forklift. He uses it to lift the clay submarine from the floor of his barn and carry it outside to warm in the sun. He painted the forklift in the colors of the American flag as a sign of patriotism, and he likes to show it off like a kid with a new toy.

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But Wegner is happiest, he said, when he’s perched on a ladder, forming clay with his strong fingers. That’s where he envisioned himself years ago when he was an apprentice. If he could someday find himself standing on a ladder, his work below him, he’d know he’d made a career for himself.

On a crisp afternoon recently, Wegner was slapping clay into the waves below his submarine.

The work is nearly half completed--one side perfectly formed, the other only ghostly shapes.

Around Wegner are submarine drawings, a model of a nuclear sub and stacks of related books.

The walls of his barn are covered with photos from previous work: a statue for classic rocker Carlos Santana, another for Gladys Knight. There are also photos of him with B.B. King from the days when Wegner designed a statuette for a lifetime achievement award won by the blues legend. He’s currently working on a sculpture of late jazz drummer Buddy Rich. Pop singer Phil Collins commissioned that piece.

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When Wegner sculpts musicians, he listens to their music on a little beat-up stereo. For the submarine work, he’s listening to classical music. The music is “memorial,” he says.

Wegner considers the submarine sculpture his career’s crowning achievement. He spent months drawing ideas and meeting with members of the committee that would choose an artist to render the final product.

In the end, Wegner was chosen not only for his history with the academy and the Navy, but for his eagerness to take on the project, according to retired Capt. Cooper, a member of the National Commemorative Committee for the Centennial of the U.S. Navy Submarine Force.

“What Paul brought was overwhelming enthusiasm, a knowledge of what he was doing through his father’s experiences,” Cooper said.

The pressure is on Wegner, especially in light of what the memorial means to the Navy and the families of sailors lost aboard submarines. During World War II, the U.S. lost 52 of its 288 submarines, according to the Navy. Three-thousand five-hundred men perished.

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Wegner obviously feels the weight of his responsibilities. He’s devoting days at a time to shaping the sculpture in his barn, sending photos to the committee for review and adding to his thick file as he continually researches the role of the submarine in maritime history and national security.

He asks himself, does the sculpture tell a story? Will that story be relevant years from now?

“It’s things like this that give me purpose--not only to sculpt, but to exist. It’s part of the human spirit, and I’m part of that,” he said. “This is my thanks for that freedom.”