As American as...

Mom and Apple Pie. And Baseball!


Props to Major League Baseball for using their power to focus America on welcoming back our veterans with open arms and helping hands.

Wish I could be at a game tonight...

[One caveat: I suspect it speaks volumes that they have decided to focus on returning veterans at this point (I'm thinking of sociology/culture rather than poltiics).]

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Coolest Thing Ever...

Well, maybe not ever... but definitely the coolest thing I've been involved in since Valour-IT.

Check this out! Right now it's a kind of "placeholder," but by the 4th of July, it will go "live." Today, the only video is Tommy Lasorda's, but videos of famous and everyday people are being uploaded at this very moment.

I'd apologize to all the Padres fans for having a Dodger up there, but as a die-hard fan myself, I have to say that I have a newfound love for Tommy. Go see what he says, and you'll understand how a Dodger could bring a Padres fan to tears off the field.

When the site goes live tomorrow, other famous people will be featured, and anybody will be able to upload non-political/non-partisan videos, pictures and words of gratitude and support for America's wonderful military men and women. To help get the word about MomentofThanks.com out to those men and women, Soldiers' Angels (who has been giving guidance and providing contacts on this project) has been given thousands of postcards advertising the site. They are already being included in care packages so that our military men and women will know about this wonderful project. And Soldiers' Angels will also be passing out Moment of Thanks flyers and recording Thank You messages at events around the country all summer and fall.

On the weekend we celebrate our initial independence, could there be a better time for us to thank the people who keep us free? As you celebrate our heritage and freedom, grab your camera and get some videos of people you know thanking our wonderful troops at the parades and fireworks and picnics! It doesn't have to be complicated or flashy--just turn on the camera and say "Thank you for your courageous service. We're proud of you!" Then, after you recover from the hot dogs, potato salad, BBQ and beer, sit down this weekend and upload it to MomentOfThanks.com.

Then, spread the word to the civilians and military folk you know! It's the Political Silly Season, and our military is being used and abused by the political types, pushed and pulled in every direction... let's remind them that America's heart is still in the right place and we've got their backs.

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Breathtaking

A thousands words would barely scratch the surface. Just go.

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DV Embark III: Jets!

We have only a few minutes to rest in that lovely refuge--the XO tells us a bit about the ship's current activities and points us to the pictures lining the walls (they are images associated with the Senate, since STENNIS's namesake is Senator John C. Stennis), then the Public Affairs staff hands out our stateroom keys, and we're off again. I'm disappointed to hear that the air wing has left the day before, but fortunately there will still be flight operations while members of the Fleet Reserve Squadron attempt to complete their carrier qualifications.

Feeling a bit more human, we file out and are almost immediately introduced to something that will become very familiar in the hours ahead: ladder after ladder. However, these ladders are a bit fancier than most on the ship--decked out with wood handrails and what looks like blue and gold painted ropes wound around the posts. Fortunately only a few short climbs are required before we pop out into the admiral's observation deck, with a full view of the flight deck in mid-operations below us.

Ahead, an F-18 Hornet is already in tension, waiting to be flung off the bow of the ship. Everyone rushes to the forward window, cameras in hand. Even standing on tiptoe I can't see over their shoulders. So making the best of the situation, I turn and look aft (off the back of the ship), straining for the sight of a jet that might be landing soon. Behind me I hear the gasps of shock and the distant roar as the Hornet is launched. Turning toward the sound and looking to see if another is launching, I miss the chance to see a jet come roaring up behind us for a landing.

Seconds later a Hornet comes screaming by and is plucked out of the sky by the three wire just to the left of me, which spools out far enough to almost reach the catapult to the right before bring the jet to a sudden stop.

I have imagined this experience so many times--standing on the Bridge or Pri-Fly at the Midway Museum, or hanging over the railing of Vulture's Row on a pier-side NIMITZ last November. I've tried to integrate the words I've read and the videos I've seen, tried to make it come alive. Now it takes me a moment to convince myself that those are real planes out there, that the window frames are not the edge of a movie screen.

Another jet is already in tension, but our delayed arrival has compressed the schedule. We reluctantly leave the observation deck and play our now-familiar game of Follow the Leader.

Being my typical fuzzy-headed self and rather distracted by all I'm seeing, I haven't paid attention to mention of where we're going, but I gamely follow our little flock down the ladders and through the passageways. Everything looks the same: an endless maze of corridors, knee knockers, and gray-painted walls. Hurrying along and watching the floor to protect my shins, I can only spare quick glances to the side. In general it's just a blur, but some doors in the maze stand out—emblazoned with names and words such as "CAG," or adorned with squadron patches (ready rooms?).

We pause for a lecture on checking for pocket FOD (foreign object debris), using straps on cameras, etc. Earplugs and headphones are passed around, and up ahead somebody is opening a door. A few stairs remain to be mounted--startling in their normalcy--and suddenly we're on Vulture’s Row.

Nothing seems to be about to land, and the catapults in use are too far forward to be seen in their entirety, though I note a blast shield is up. Absent anything else to keep my attention, my eyes light on the LSO platform on the opposite side of the ship. It's packed with LSOs and trainees. My instant reaction is "Intense!"--it can be felt even from that distance. They face the stern of the ship in sturdy poses with the the loose legs of their flight suits flapping in the 25+ knots of wind at the edge of the platform, sunglasses on, no cumbersome helmets or ear/eye protection. I can't see anything in the somewhat hazy sky, but their body language and focus tell me a plane is on the way.

A roar from the bow announces the Hornet's departure; by the time I turn to look, it’s in the air and a blast of noxious heat reaches us even at our distance from the jet and height above the deck.

I can’t see the arriving plane yet, but soon a speck coalesces in the sky behind the ship. A wide turn takes it beyond the electronic structures on the back end of the Island, and (forgetting that the "landing strip" is angled off the far side of the ship) I think it's not going to land. But a glance at the LSOs tells me otherwise. Soon it reappears from behind the antennas and dishes, wings wobbling a bit, but mostly stable. It lands just in front of the three wire, which dances as it spools out before bringing the jet to a sudden stop with engines roaring.

After a moment, the roar is reduced to a growl and the nearest Green Shirt makes a straight-arm, downward motion as the jet rocks back slightly. The tailhook drops in obvious echo of the Shirt’s motion, and another Shirt steps up and waves his hands overhead, directing the Hornet toward the now-empty catapult. It's starting all over again.

I look back down the deck to find two Hornets in the middle of a hard turn behind the ship. The first one lines up on approach and my mind instinctively whispers: too fast! The wings wobble, the jet slides to its left; It seems high, too! But it keeps coming. It swoops down rather abruptly, engines roaring: 1st wire... 2nd wire... 3rd wire... 4th. Oh! A touch and go. It roars off the port side of the bow in afterburner, its wingman following only a few seconds behind.

Finally remembering I have a camera in my hand, I put it to use, but there are only a couple more traps to enjoy before we're on our way again. Back to the passageway, headphones dropped in a bag as we pass, another ladder or two, and now we’re meeting the captain of the ship.

Captain Johanson takes the time to shake each hand and talks a little bit about the ship, but I'm wishing I could walk around the bridge and look at each station. Like the flight deck, it's packed with trainees; most stations have two people standing in front of them. The kid closest to us is obviously steering the ship, and the intense focus as he watches the display screen in front of him is palpable. Unfortunately, I don't think to take a picture until a few minutes later.


The Captain draws my attention back as he apologizes for the effects of the weather problems that had delayed us. At the edge of the clear and sunny bay on their departure that morning, the fog had risen up in a thick wall, "like a science fiction movie," he says. They couldn’t even see the bow from the bridge, could barely make out the beginning of the catapults. The Coast Guard escort had been turned back early for fear of the carrier bumping them, and CPT Johanson tells us that knowing that the fishing boats around them would hear but be unable to see the carrier, STENNIS had broadcast to all they encountered, "We are an aircraft carrier and we see you on our radar [accurate to five feet]. Don’t worry."

Later, one of the Public Affairs petty officers accompanying us reported that he had been standing outside and toward the stern of the ship as she entered the fog. Sections of the ship disappeared from view ahead of him and the wind turned on a dime. It had taken them 1.5 hours to move through it all, collective breath held and eyes glued to instruments for fear of crunching blinded fishing vessels. Hearing about this was one of those moments that highlighted another paradox of the ship for me--so powerful and yet pulled up short by Mother Nature.

Captain Johanson bids us each goodbye with the gift of a ship's ballcap, complete with gold braid signifying an officer, and we follow our guides back through passages that seem vaguely familiar. Pausing, we dutifully don the safety vests we're handed and receive a quick briefing about how to use them. The fact that they're equipped with radio transmitters reassures me, though I have no plans of falling overboard. The PAO has rejoined us, and she points to the cutouts on the back of each vest nestled between our shoulder blades. It's a handle! We're told not to take offense if we are pushed and prodded, or if someone grabs us by the cutout and yanks us off our feet. "They're watching out for you and they probably see something you don't."

Once again it's time to play follow the leader, and once again I haven't been paying attention to where we're going; I blame it on the overwhelming sensory input of a new environment. Eyes on the cutout in the back of the vest in front of me, I resume duckling behavior as we return to the passageways, down the ladders, and out the way we came. Our guide pauses for one final instruction while we don our ear protection: "Watch me and do everything I do!"

The door opens ahead, and soon we’re on the flight deck again.

[click for more]

I expect we're just going to stand along the Island, but I try to keep my eyes on the person in front of me, so our ultimate destination is unclear. It’s just as hot and noisy and smelly as before, though not quite so confusing now. A guy waving his hands over his head on the right is moving a Prowler into position next to the island, and I sense the motion of planes elsewhere on the deck. We pause to crouch as a Hornet adds a little power to line up on the catapult, and a blast of hot wind washes over us.

Up again, and we're moving toward the bow. I stifle the urge to do a 360 to orient myself and take it all in, acutely aware that I'm bringing up the rear and afraid I'll lose sight of my group or do something stupid. So much to see!

The line stops. Our guide's movements direct our attention to words painted on the deck next to our feet: Foul line. Do not cross. We ducklings nod as his gestures emphasize the point and he looks at eachof us for confirmation. At the end of the line, I'm still watching him, waiting for the implied signal that it's okay to look around. Meanwhile, my brain is shouting, "Foul line = right next to the catapult!!!"

Finally he looks at me and I nod my understanding. Freed from paying attention to anything else, I look beyond the foul line to an empty space, then aft. I was right! A Prowler inches forward from my right. This time I'm quicker to the camera. The jet pauses, rolls a bit in response to signals as the pilot watches a Yellow Shirt waving his hands while a green shirt stares intently at the landing gear. A couple more inches, traveling in fits and starts, and the lever finally drops into the shuttle that will carry the plane through the catapult sequence.

The jet is now just to our right. Hand signals change. Something moves on the shuttle and locks down. Two White Shirts squatting near the rear of the jet dash up under the frame, then return to their positions alongside and further to the rear, crouching down sideways with one hand each on the deck.

I look to my left and see a geometric set of windows thrusting up out of the deck, the home of the Catapult Officer. I must’ve missed the signs, but I hear the engines go to full power. Before I can glance back to the rear of the aircraft, it’s moving. The hot air and the true roar hit us as it passes in a split second.

"Hit" is the right word. It's physical--the feeling is indescribable. I'm instantly reminded of something I'd once read about a jet's engines in tension being “felt rather than heard.” It’s true. The vibrations had begun in my ribcage and reverberated into my extremities, overwhelming any input from my other senses.

By the time I think to look to my left, the jet is already airborne and turning. An involuntary exclamation escapes my lips, and I have to move. I stomp my feet and turn in a circle... trying to release the energy racing around my insides. Like a silly teenager at a rock concert I think to myself as I touch hand to heart, expecting to feel my ribs still vibrating: “OMG, OMG, I can’t believe what just happened. Right in front me!"

My actions catch the attention of a White Shirt behind us as I turn, and he smiles at the wide-eyed excitement on full display. I feel momentarily self-conscious until he puts his own hand to his chest, parodying the vibrations we had just experienced. "Wow," I mouth as I nod. He just grins, then steps forward and yells in the temporary lull—“That’s the loudest jet we have.” I believe it. I'm almost disappointed when a single seat Hornet pulls up to the catapult next. I want another Prowler!

Only one trap behind us and one more launch in front before I see the ducklings filing back in front of me. I look astern past the line of people angling back toward the island to discover another Hornet moving headed to the catapult. But a hand pushes gently on my back, then points in the right direction when I look over my shoulder, and I reluctantly respond to the implied directive.

We're on the move again, then momentarily hunkering down as the Hornet with swept wings passes in a warm, eye-watering blast of exhaust. I am so disappointed to be returning to the Island. Only the sure knowledge that a wrong move would end up with me “confined to quarters under guard” (if not in the medical ward, first) keeps me putting one foot in front of the other rather than escaping in a mad dash to spend a few more moments on the deck.

Removing our gear, we barely have time to exclaim our amazement over what we've just experienced before it's off to our rooms to prepare for dinner with the XO. Following the PAO to the ladies' staterooms, I hope we're not going to be expected to find them again on our own; it's all just another maze of endless passageways, knee knockers, and haze gray. Deposited in my room, I wash the grime off my arms and face, then check my clothes: Phew! So this is what they mean about the smell of JP-5…

I change my shirt, throw on some makeup, and try to look presentable. Before dashing back out of the room to the waiting PAO who had moments before so sternly said we had four minutes to freshen up, I check the time. We’ve been here only two hours.

It felt like 15 minutes.

[Update: edited a bit for quality]

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To Tide You Over...

There has been a request for more pics. I've been extremely busy, but I'll do you one better and give you a video!

And here's one pic--a view from the fantail [click to enlarge]...

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Happy-Happy Joy-Joy!!!

Care to guess when/where this picture was taken and by whom?


Wednesday night at 10:00 my cell phone rings and it's a local number. Weird. I don't know anyone locally that would call me at this hour...

"Hi, ma'am. This is Petty Officer Matthew from VRC--"

"You found it!!!!!" He must've had to hold the phone away from his ear. I would've hugged him, were he within reach.

Nearest we can figure, here's how it went down:

1. In preparation for the departing cat shot, the other about-to-be-victim of a camera disappearance and I place our items in a white trashbag the Chief is holding. Unbeknownst to us, Chief later reinforces the white bag with a brown trashbag.
2. To the C-2 crew unloading our gear when we return, brown apparently means HAZMAT (hazardous materials) rags, so they set it aside.
3. PAO calls squadron offices as the C-2 taxis back to the hangar, tells them to find that white trashbag...now.
4. Back at the hanger, brown trashbag gets placed with HAZMAT materials and the squadron practically strips the interior of the C-2, looking for... a white trashbag. They report finding no white trashbag.
5. The entire PAO is now in a tizzy and attention turns to the carrier, which reportedly goes to "near general quarters" trying to find a white trashbag with two cameras in it.
6. Person disposing of HAZMAT later picks up brown trashbag and says to self, "This isn't HAZMAT. Someone must've just set it down. I'll just leave it here so they can find it when they come back."
7. Six days later at the end of his shift, Matthew thinks to himself, "Brown bag has been sitting there for awhile. I should check it out." He takes the time to look through every single Soldiers' Angels business card in the camera bag and finds the only one I'd written my name and phone number on.

End result? He's my hero!!! He doesn't seem the huggy type, so I resort to thanking him with a properly-presented Soldiers' Angels sailor coin.

PAO Master Chief calls it a "comedy of errors." She's obviously not familiar with typical Fuzzybear adventures.

The best part... I had been heartbroken about losing some irreplaceable things, but I thought I was still thoroughly enjoying the memories. It turns out the sadness had been more of an anchor to my thoughts than I realized. Since last night, I've found a whole new level of happiness and enthusiasm when talking about last week.

I'm doing the Happy Dance again. I must be such a pain for grumpy people to be around...

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DV Embark II: Hurry up and wait

[Update below]

From shore to ship...

I wish everyone I know could have the wonderful opportunity I did, but since that's impossible I'll try to take you along for the ride.

I was part of a small group of only 14 people (usually it's 20), ten of whom already knew each other. Though working in different fields, the ten were all CEOs from Los Angeles who belonged to a kind of club or peer business support group. The other three were a high-level manager in a tech field, another CEO from Texas, and an "expert witness" from Georgia. I think perhaps because the group was so business-heavy, the presentations and "tour stops" had a management/process focus. I was the youngest by far, but armed with Soldiers' Angels pins and business cards, I felt like I had hit the jackpot.

The first half of the day was an introduction to the classic "Hurry up and Wait" military lifestyle. It was hazy early, but by midmorning things had cleared and as we toured the the helicopter and Hornet repair facilities (which conduct repairs/maintenance too complicated for the squadron mechanics), we had every expectation we'd be on the ship by 1:00 that afternoon.

Not quite. Right on cue, the fog rolled in.

The Public Affairs Office was wonderful at keeping us occupied, changing things on the fly while receiving constant weather updates. So, we trundled over to the C-2 squadron's offices to get an up-close-and-personal tour of our transport vehicle in the cool and quiet of the hanger bay. A member of the squadron spoke proudly and in detail about how the plane operated and his role in keeping it flying. What caught my eye was the little black circles all over the C-2's rudder and stabilizer (tail fins). It took a moment of study to recognize that each circle was made by a magic marker and surrounded a small ding or paint chip that could have been only found by careful and close visual inspection. Such care seemed to confirm the pride and enthusiasm I was hearing in the squadron member's voice as he talked about his plane.

Another thing that stood out from our morning tours was how much business theory and processes have taken hold in the Navy. The helicopter repair facility had a number of charts displayed, documenting the turn-around rate and cost of their work in the last year. The charts included a lot of business jargon I didn't quite understand, but the CEOs certainly did--they marveled at the huge improvement rates the charts demonstrated, and exclaimed that the factory floor was laid out with the same design and tracking charts as their own facilities. One supervisor told us how they had created a "vending machine" system for small but expensive tools and parts that tend to get lost. They had gone from 30% loss to zero since the system was installed.

The tour of the Hornet repair facility was somehow disturbing, like visiting a morgue or Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. We saw airframes with their engines removed--you could look right through the intake and out the back end--and largely-intact planes with all their panels open to display the innards as if undergoing some kind of weird abdominal surgery. The amusing part was when I asked why certain portions of the Hornets in the gargantuan building were covered with foil, expecting to be told that they were very sensitive to dirt or highly classified. "Birds," our guide replied.

Finally, word came that the cloud cover had lifted to around 200 feet, so we hightailed it back to the loading zone... for more waiting. This time, it was the Secretary of the Navy who changed our plans. Dogs sniffed around the building and the base Commanding Officer pulled up in a golf cart with an official-looking seal on the front. Decked out in cumbersome safety gear, we gathered around the windows to watch, after being told to stay inside so as not to worry the security personnel.

I wish I had a picture to show you how ridiculous we all looked, especially as we jostled to see out the windows. It started with the "cranial," which was described to us as "one size fits none" helmet. Very true, although about three minutes before our touchdown back at the base the next day, I discovered it was somewhat adjustable, which only partially eased the sense of having my head in a vise. Attached to the cranial were scratched goggles that turned the world into one big blur. But the really funny part was the "horse collars." Although they are life vets, that's pretty much what they look like, with the added fashion statement of a little round pouch of emergency gear that dangles from the front and bounces against the upper thighs of short people like me.

Horse collars zipped, chin straps tightened, and goggles down... I couldn't decide whether we looked like low-tech aliens or kids playing pilot.

In a C-2, the passengers sit backwards. The explanation of our safety briefer was, "It's safer. The airlines let you sit forward because people don't like to fly backwards. They're in the business of selling tickets; we aren't. They don't care if you die."

Flying backwards was definitely disconcerting. Even taxiing was confusing! In order to override habitual thoughts associated with airplanes, I had to close my eyes and give all my attention to intellectual calculations in order to form a correct mental image of what was happening to the plane as we turned into the proper lanes on the flightline.

With everything that had gone wrong both in the past and present in regards to my trip, I didn't let myself start to truly believe it until we were strapped in. I sat next to a very cheerful crewman who obviously found our enthusiasm contagious. My smile refused to be subdued, and I just kept looking at him and grinning. He returned the smile and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.

[click for more]

Sitting in the first row (facing backwards), I had a full view of the back of the plane. I remembered Steeljaw Scribe's story about the guy who hadn't been strapped in on a cat shot, finally able to see what Steeljaw had described. But the crewman and I soon had a great time attempting to talk with our hands and shouting in each others' ears throughout the flight. As soon as we were airborne, he poked a little flashlight into all sorts of nooks and crannies at the back of the plane. I asked about it when he returned to his seat, and he said he was looking for problems in all the places they'd had problems before. Our safety briefer had told us not to worry if we saw fluid leaking, so I asked, "Any new leaks?" He replied with a grin that everything was leaking exactly as it should.

Since we were generally flying in a straight line, the impact of the backwards factor began to wane and I adjusted to the dim light and physical disorientation. Still, there was a fluttering in my stomach that grew as it dawned on me that soon we would be on the carrier. I found myself more and more impatient as I realized that I couldn't see enough out of the single, tiny window I'd parked myself next to to tell how close we really were. It was dark, hot and smelly in the plane but I knew the next thing I'd see was the carrier deck, and so I decided it was the most magical vehicle I'd ever been in.

I felt the plane drop, and the fluttering inside increased. The crewman looked over and gave me another grinning thumbs up. I craned my neck to look out the window again, and about climbed out my seat in excitement at the discovery of the carrier laid out parallel to us far below. It's really happening!

We kept dropping, and the suspense nearly did me in. After a little while, the crewman tapped my shoulder and pointed to the back of the plane so that I would be facing the right way. Suddenly we felt the lightest touchdown onto something solid, followed by a moderate and increasing pressure pushing us back into our seats as the "wire" played out to gradually rein us in. At that point I almost forgot it wasn't a regular landing, until what felt like taxiing at an airport was cut short with a sudden thump as the wire came to its end, and we were still.

We had been warned of the "violence" of the "trap," but as one of our group exclaimed later, "I've had worse landings at San Diego Airport." Me, too.

The plane rocked back slightly, paused, and then began to turn as the back ramp cranked open. Heat and noxious fumes rolled in. All I could see was the deck, though. There was no time for anticipation, as everything went from "Hurry Up and Wait" to "Hurry Up and Move!" Two helmeted and goggled White Shirts appeared as soon as the plane stopped, and our crewmen jumped up to hand us down the 18-inch step from the ramp to the deck.

After the disorientation of the C-2 flight, the first moments on the ship were a blur. Sudden noise, noxious smells, and glaring light made for sensory overload. Gloved hands reached out in support as I hesitantly stepped down, then turned me to the left where I spotted the back of a fellow DV. Like a line of little ducklings with eyes blinking in the harsh light, we followed one after the other into the unknown...

Cranials conspired with the roar of jets to block any meaninful communication, and the cumbersome horse collar with the hanging packet bumped against my legs as I toddled along. The warm blast of a jet maneuvering into a parking position forward of the island made my eyes water behind poorly-fitting goggles, and I tried and failed to hold my breath for more than a moment, coughing on the fumes.

Step, step, step... follow the person in front of you. Suddenly a dark oval door appears and a voice yells, "Step up!" as a seemingly disembodied hand points downward. I lift my foot over the 12-inch "knee knocker," and darkness envelops me as a small part of my brain says I must be stepping into the island, the tower attached to the deck of the ship. My eyes fail to adjust to the dim light, but I respond to an additional shout: "Right turn!" Step, step... "Over here!"

Step, step...

A blast of cool, dry air beckons, accompanied by light beaming through another oval door, but the goggles distort what lies beyond. I lift the damned things up onto my helmet as I step over another knee knocker and it snaps into focus: a beautiful and relatively spacious room with carpet, stuffed sofas and fancy chairs. Somebody in a uniform takes the cranial from me, and I feel the sweaty horse collar being lifted off my neck.

The beautiful room feels like an oasis. Cool air rushes past all the body parts that had been sweating under the equipment, and the noise and smell fade away. A tall and elegant man in a turtleneck shakes everyone's hand as we stumble past and says with gracious warmth, “Welcome to U.S.S. STENNIS.” I'm still too disoriented to respond properly, but the tall gentleman is polite enough to ignore that.

Besides, something else demands my complete attention, A row of recessed, porthole-style windows beckons from across the room and I am drawn like a magnet. Standing on tiptoe, I look out and see clear sky edged by deep blue water that appears to move along at a good clip. It takes a moment for me to comprehend it all... I’m really on an aircraft carrier at sea!

After several seconds watching in awe, I realize something is going on behind me. I turn and see a lovely table with ice-cold water, tea and coffee, cookies, pastries, and the Captain’s chef smiling shyly. I turn back and stare out the window to be sure I didn’t imagine the sea and the sky. I would climb right through the porthole if I thought I could.

Talked into a glass of ice water, I try to be a good guest and ignore the siren call of the window. As I walk across the room, the ship shifts under my feet, and my stomach does a little flip. Back at the window I stand on tiptoe again to check the angle of the waves. Yup, slight change of direction—didn’t think I’d feel it on a carrier...

It hits me again: I'm finally on an aircraft carrier at sea!!!

Part III: Jets!

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Stowaway

I may not have my camera, pictures, necklace, money, etc. But apparently I did bring something back from the ship...

A flu virus. :P

At least that explains why I was still so exhausted the day I got back. It didn't make sense that it would wear me out so much when I didn't even have sore muscles from climbing all those ladders and high-stepping over the knee knockers--neither of which are easy for someone only 5' 3" tall (yay for cycling!).

Unfortunately, it's making it hard to write well. I've got everything sketched out for the DV posts, but I've gotta put what little brain power I have today toward actual work. Hopefully I'll have something up tonight.

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DV Embark: Overview

"DV" stands for Distinguished Visitor. I'm not sure how distinguished I am, but I was definitely a visitor to an aircraft carrier at sea this week for just about 24 glorious hours. I have struggled mightily with how to write about this. I truly don't know where to start, and it seems so many others have expressed it all so much better than I. But I'll try...

Aircraft carriers are a jumble of paradoxes—postage stamp-size for a plane taking off and landing, yet gargantuan for the visitor who would have an easier time navigating a foreign country than the distance between his bed and the nearest exit; incomprehensibly complex to the outsider, but blindingly simple to the person explaining every detail of how his particular machine operates and how it affects the rest of the ship; hot, cramped, humid and miserable for the sailor manning the catapult engine 16 hours a day, while spacious and exhilarating for the "Shirt" repositioning aircraft on a quiet deck as the sun rises.

I was also struck by the contrasts between the youngest sailors given so much life-and-death responsibility, and even the best of the teenagers I currently know or observe. If the startlingly young man on his 16th hour of monitoring and maintaining the catapult engine screws up, somebody above him can be severely maimed or killed. If the eighteen year old I had breakfast with doesn't do proper maintenance of the ship's diesel backup engines/power plant, 5,000 people come to a grinding halt. If their doppelganger at McDonalds doesn't wash his hands, someone goes home and is sick for a little while. Maybe.

But it's more than that. There is a light in the eyes of young sailors given great responsibility. It is the spark of confidence in knowing both that what they do matters and that they are up to the task. Even the shy ones or those without the gift of gab will still straighten a bit more and look you in the eyes when you ask about what they do and how they feel about it. And then they'll proceed to immediately communicate that information to you in a straightforward, easily-understood manner that resonates with quiet pride.

You can see echoes of those kids in the Command Master Chief who was once one of them. And yes, he calls them kids. His kids. He described his job as helping them find that spark of pride and confidence, "Getting them to the deciding point," he calls it--the point where they have completed their first enlistment with honor, learned at least one skill/trade, and have an Associate's degree so that they have the opportunity to attempt to move forward into a successful naval career or step out with a personal and intellectual skill set that will make them successful civilians (the CMC deserves an entire post of his own, a lesson in management and leadership).

But over and over again, it was the very youngest sailors who most amazed me. Volunteering at the USO, I see the full range of young sailors coming through: the terribly nervous ones straight out of Boot Camp at Great Lakes who are going to a school to learn their "Navy trade," and the more polished but just-as-nervous sailors going to their first duty station. The ones who walk in with the world on their shoulders and a bad attitude to match, and the “squared away” ones who are somehow every inch the teen while still being polite, respectful, and quietly confident. Overwhelmingly, it was that last type I saw most often on U.S.S. STENNIS this week—and it was those in the menial jobs that impressed me the most.

Our meals included times in the general mess hall with the enlisted, but our first meal was a formal dinner set up in one of the wardrooms. We were served by a wait staff that was as polished, attentive and efficient as any fine dining could require. I enjoyed the experience, but thought nothing of it until our host commented that these sailors were not formally trained in this; they were merely doing their grunt time as brand new sailors before moving up into the positions for which they had actually enlisted.

I was floored. Their attitudes, professionalism, and way above and beyond approach to dealing with a unique situation during the meal would have done the finest restaurant more than proud. I was humbled, and honored. If how they can serve a meal is anything close to how they are going to approach their more ship-related tasks when they advance, STENNIS will be in very good hands.

The old cliché about aircraft carriers is that they are a floating city, which is absolutely true. And like any city they’re a mixed bag of humanity, though the bell curve is much thinner on the negative end than in the general population. In the case of STENNIS, it’s quite obvious—from the lowliest seaman to the senior officers and Chiefs—the good guys are generally in charge.

I’ll put it another way: I went out there thinking I’d meet some neat people, but expecting to be wowed by the technology. I had quite the opposite experience—wowed by the people.

I’ll write about it all in detail in multiple upcoming posts. And yes, they lost my camera when they took everything that wasn't attached to our clothing at the catapult safety briefing and put it in the cargo section of the plane [update 6/27/08: Found!]. It had every scrap of video and every photo I took while onboard. Even my notes were in that bag. The only proof I have that I was ever there is the ship’s photo of Captain Johanson and the DV group. The fact that I haven't cried about that is either an indicator of my continuing total exhaustion, or testament to the fact that the rest was so overwhelmingly impressive it can't be overshadowed. I suspect the latter...

Update: Okay, I cried. I remembered something else that was in the camera bag--a delicate gold and silver Harley-Davidson necklace given me by a soldier I had adopted long before I thought of Valour-IT and with whom I had lost contact until he requested a laptop due to his wounds. He gave it to me the day we met after his recovery, when he called me a real-live angel and took me out on a Harley. As much as it's a hit to my finances, I don't care about the expensive camera, the $100+ dollars in cash, or even my driver's license or the notes I took. But the pictures/video and the necklace are irreplaceable. The disappearance of the bag is just incomprehensible, based on the geography and logisitics of the situation, but these things happen. I know that from my own travails in trying to keep track of stuff. If that's the bill for the opportunity I just had, I can accept it. And I'll always have the pictures in my head, which reproduces them far better than any pixels or ink. It sucks, though. Just. sucks.

Update II: Hurry Up and Wait

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AAR

Update: Overview

I am happily exhausted.

Amazing. It was absolutely amazing.

So... What is life like on an aircraft carrier? Apparently Lex's words are nearly as good as the real thing. Almost. Still, I'll feebly stumble around attempting to describe it to you all after I've had some sleep.

As to the rest of it... It was a typical Fuzzybear adventure, of course! I charmed a 30-year Warrant Officer, frightened the youngsters, and disarmed the Captain by coining him right back before I slipped out the door. Unfortunately there was also the dark side of Fuzzybear Adventures...

"We've never had to delay a DV Embark for 3 hours due to weather (or the SECNAV) before."

Oh, and the Navy is definitely going more corporate these days. They can lose your luggage, too. On the return trip. When it includes your camera. The new one. With every last memory card you own. And we won't even mention what else was in that camera bag... [update 6/27/08: Found!]

Heh. The PAO said the ship is "at near General Quarters" and the interior of the C-2 we returned in is being literally taken apart. Oh, and that has never happened before, either.

It's one of those laugh/cry moments.

But I learned the answer to something I've always wondered about: how in the world do sailors manage to sleep in berthings directly below the 3-wire or the blast shield?!

Exhaustion. Pure exhaustion.

I never knew one could grin so big while being soooo exhausted...

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Happy Dance

Today isn't even the day, and still I was too excited to sleep past about 4:30 a.m.

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