The Talk

                                                                                                                     

THE TALK

I paced around my home office, unsettled, fidgety as I tried to figure what the hell just happened. My wife, soon to be ex-wife had obtained a restraining order against me. I had no idea why, nor did she when I asked her. “My lawyer told me to do it,” she said, tears streaming from her eyes.
“My God”, I thought. “What has happened?” “What the hell IS happening?”
I needed someone to blame for my life spinning out of control. It can’t be my fault. It just can’t be. If it is not my fault, then whose could it be? In what seemed to be a moment of desperation, I came up with the idea that it was my parents, mostly my father’s, fault. All their parenting mistakes were coming to back to haunt me.
I had to think.
It was funny. I used to talk with my father quite often. Each time I headed out on a trip, I would call him. "Hay Pop, what’s up?" I would ask. "Hi son. Where to today?" he queried. "The usual places, Dad", I replied, casually. I had business in the Orient quite often and each time I knew I was headed that way I would tell him and he would take the opportunity to revisit his days as a young sailor in the Pacific during WWII. He loved that I would go to Saipan or Taiwan, places he’d been stationed.
Fact is, my dad didn't talk much about WWII or about his days in the Navy until he was in his seventies. As he aged he seemed to gain a greater appreciation for what he had done and the things he had seen. When he talked about his days on board his Navy destroyer he spoke as if he were standing there, on the ship, carrying out the duties of a young sailor. You could tell these were days he loved to remember. The phone call would usually end with, “I love you, Pops,” and I would be on my way.
Today, I needed a much more serious talk with my dad. And I was determined that it be now!
I called him around eight AM on a Sunday morning. “Dad, can I come up?”, I asked. “Of course, you can. Your mother and I are just hanging around the house, he replied. I think he could tell there was an urgency in my voice that was not normally there.
Good. I was going to go to my dad and say what i had wanted to say for years. But first, to get to their house I had to deal with some of the worst traffic in the country. I figured I had about a four and half-hour window with which to get to his house, have “The Talk”, with him and return before I find myself stuck in traffic for hours. “The Talk”, would have to be short and to the point. I had to get going.
In my car, sitting in the very traffic I was trying so hard to avoid, I crawled along at a snail’s pace. My thoughts went to what I was going to say. My dad had always been a kind and generous man but he could be formidable. Confronting him, as I intended to do today, was not going to be easy. What, exactly was I going to say? As traffic picked up speed, I started to consider where I was going with all of this.
I was in the middle of a divorce. No, it was not the nasty, mean divorce we all read about. It was painful, but not mean. There were children. I struggled mightily with how I could possibly have come to this point and I was angry, unable to come to grips with the idea that I might be the one responsible for the mess I was in. “Hell”, I thought, “I am a good man, a good father. This cannot be my fault. It has to be the handicaps I have been forced to live with, the result of parent’s mistakes made many years ago”.
As I drove along, my responses to the cars around me was purely instinctive. I was buried in thought. I was driving safely, but just barely. Traffic was almost at a standstill.
Why was I going to see him? Was it to get answers? To a degree, I suppose. Why was I really going? To blame he and my mother for the train wreck that had become my life. That was the real story here. “There, I said it”, I thought. “It’s their goddamn fault”.
“Now”, I thought, “this was going to be easy”. My parents had made any number of mistakes in our upbringing that were easily identifiable, giving me the fodder I needed to make my point. I could blame my entire, screwed up life on their drinking, the fights between them when we were kids and the dumb shit stuff they would do while under the influence of alcohol. This talk was getting easier to imagine. Even the traffic was improving.
When I arrived, I checked my watch. “Jeezus”, I thought, I was way behind, traffic wise. I had a half-hour to get this talk behind me before traffic, again, became my number one priority. “God, I hate driving in this city”, I thought as I got out of my car.
Suddenly, my stomach ached. I was scared shitless.
As I entered their luxurious double wide mobile home, my parents were sitting in two overstuffed, leather recliners watching a rerun of “Jeopardy” on television. “What is Metaphysics!”, my dad half shouted at the TV in answer to a question I didn’t hear. He was always good at that game. My mother smiled.
“Hi, son”, he said as I walked over to each of them, hugging.
I had to get to the point. Traffic.
“Dad, could you shut the TV off for a few minutes”, I asked. He grabbed the remote, aimed it at the television and in less than a minute the room was quiet.
I sat down on a sofa that was across from them, not leaning back but sitting on the edge. The fact that I did this was not lost on my dad. He and my mother could tell something was wrong.
"Dad, I have to ask you some questions about things that went on while we were young. Do you mind”? “Shoot, son,” he responded, wondering what was going on. I thought, “Here goes nothing”.
“Why did you and mom drink so much and why did you fight so often?", I started. "Why did we move every year and never have any money and why did you make my oldest brother go to the Catholic seminary when he was 14?". I had a lot of questions, so many I could hardly get them out in a coherent fashion. I stopped there to give them time to answer. This was not easy. In fact, it was a lot harder than I imagined. My parents, taken aback for a moment, recovered nicely. My dad spoke, quietly, gently. "Son, your Mother and I did the best we could while raising you kids. No, we didn't get it right all the time but things were different back then. Harder in many ways.”
As he spoke, distracted for a moment, I took quick glance at the small round wall clock in the kitchen. Traffic. Always in my head.
He went on. “When we moved, we moved with the notion that it would be an improvement to our lives. It didn’t always work out that way. As far as the drinking was concerned, we did let that get out of control from time to time. You may see that as a gross understatement and I would probably agree with you if I were looking at it from where you are. We admit, we messed up on that score. For now, let’s leave it at that.
As far as your brother going to the Seminary is concerned, it may be hard for you to remember but we scraped and saved and borrowed against our home to send him to that seminary. All the other kids sacrificed to send him there, you just didn't know it. Your Grandmother was a big factor in sending him off at such a young age as well. We allowed ourselves to go along with her desires to have a priest in the family. I can’t say we regret it but I can say it was not our best decision”.
My mother fidgeted in her chair as my dad explained. My father was not getting angry at all as he answered my questions. He was calm and talked with love and understanding. This is not at all what I expected.
He continued. "Don't you remember all the time you and I spent together when you were little. I would always take you with me on Saturdays to do our construction jobs. Remember all the time with just you and I, you helping me by line up all the parts that I would use as I worked. Why, you knew what I needed before I knew what I needed? I loved having you with me".
Another quick look at the time. Traffic. Shit!
As my dad spoke, I started to see that I had been mistaken about a lot of things. He went on to say, "Son, we did the best we could with all six of you kids. If your life is a mess it is not my fault". My dad wasn't angry. He said it with love. But then…
It struck like a bolt of lightning.
“What did you say?”, I yelled.
“What did you say?” I yelled again, standing. Both parents were startled, my mother reaching over to hold my father’s hand.
“It is not YOUR fault MY life had spun out of control? The hell it isn’t. The drinking, the fights, the changing schools. It messed me up. It messed us all up”. I shouted. “How can you say that its not your fault, dad? Look at my life. It’s a train wreck”. My dad remained calm, although he was holding my mother’s hand tightly.
I took one more look at the clock on the wall. “The hell with traffic!”, I thought. I was pissed. After a minute or so I sat, head down, thinking.
Then the second bolt of lightning hit.
My God, he’s right!
It wasn't his fault! It was I who managed to screw things up so badly. Not my parents nor anyone else. Me.
My dad didn’t need to put into words what I know he was thinking. That I was a grown man. Act like it. Stand up, take responsibility. In fact, my dad did not need to say another word.
"If your life is a mess it is not my fault". It was that simple.
The conversation ended with hugs and “I love you”. I drove away, deep in thought as my parents went back to their Jeopardy game.
"It was not my fault,” my father had said. As traffic built, creating a backup for miles, I sat behind the wheel, thinking. He was right. My life has been mine to control, or not control for many years. I was a grown man and I was defined by the choices I made. Not by my parent’s choices.
That was a remarkable day in my life. I had confronted my dad and mother with a blast furnace of issues bent on having them explain to me just how they could have screwed my life up so badly. They met the onslaught with calm and empathy. That surprised me. And it allowed me to consider the world in much more simple terms. Terms that now made perfect sense to me.
We are the choices we make. Blaming our parents for the lives we have is only good for so long. We take the tools that they give us, some good, some not so good and we build on them. What we build, well, that is up to us.
I learned a lot that day. It changed my life.
It truly changed my life.
I learned another important lesson that day. Allowing my world to be controlled by the ebb and flow of a bunch of cars on a freeway is about the dumbest damn thing I have ever heard of.

The choice.

 In the mid 70’s, I was a young Naval Officer, stationed on the island of Sicily. On one particular weekend I decided to go to Rota, Spain to see a friend. Air transport was a Navy DC-6 aircraft.

Stopping en route in Palma De Mallorca, a small island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, we boarded five passengers. A woman with two children, both looked to be under four and two young enlisted men. I was the sixth passenger.

As we were waiting to go, I felt that the aircraft had been sitting on the ramp longer than normal. Something wasn’t right. I was curious.

 I headed for the door at back of the plane. When there, I noticed a dark haired man on the tarmac below running towards me, waving his arms. He pointed to the left wing of the aircraft. The wing was on fire.

 Knowing the fuel stored in that wing was extremely flammable, I instinctively started down the ladder. I stopped my descent.

There were five people still on board who most likely had no idea what was happening. I had to make a choice. I headed back up the ladder. Reentering the cabin I walked quickly to the front of the passenger compartment. Getting the attention of the two enlisted men, I said, “There is a fire onboard. Time to go, Gents”.  They did not hesitate.

 “We have to go now”, I said to the mother. A quick look outside showed the fire was growing in intensity. The plane could literally blow up any minute. I watched as the mother struggled to gather up her children. I stepped in, grabbed both children, moved the mother in front of me  and started for the door. When we got there, the man who had been waving his arms was standing directly below. I sent the mother down first. “Your children are right behind you”, I said gently .

 “Now, the children”, I shouted. I held the first child out, arms fully extended, the “waving arms” man was waiting twenty feet below. I let go. I did the same with the second child.

The “waving arms” man gently caught them both.

 All of the passengers were out. The flight crew was coming down the aisle, blood covering the forehead of the captain where he struck his head leaving the flight deck. Fear was replacing whatever had been driving me to that point. It was time for me to go. I headed down the ladder. At the bottom, I ran.

 On the tarmac, a safe distance from the plane, I found myself standing next to the “waving arms” man who had done so much. We shook hands. He left. The flight crew scrambled from the plane as I watched the mother and two children being shuffled away. The two enlisted men were long gone.

 It was over. We were safe. We were all safe.

Remembering a fine teacher,

HI Folks,
My brother sent the news of Lon Davidson's passing this morning via text and I have to admit, I am truly saddened by Lon's passing. My brother hit the nail on the head when he mentioned in his post that Lon "was the coolest". Indeed, he was. I can recall we, (the kids in the classroom) all loved to see him walk in to the classroom. He was always dressed in starched, button-down collar shirts, often blue in color, sharply creased khaki "chinos" and penny loafers with leather heals that clicked along with each step he took. And the way he walked had "cool" written all over it.
His laugh was infectious and it seemed he (and we) laughed a lot in class. There was the time Mark Dehn had to recite "The Charge of the Light Brigade", a difficult task at best. Mark tried with all his might but for some reason "Brigade" always came out "Brigrade". I recall Lon holding it back as long as he could then burst out laughing. The best part, he was not laughing at Mark and Mark and the rest of us knew that. Not at all. He was laughing because he absolutely loved the heroic effort by Mark to stop saying "Brigrade". When Mark was finished he walked over to Mark, put his hands on his shoulders and thanked him for his work while making sure we all understood that this was a tough assignment and, like Mark, we all needed to give it our very best shot. The "teaching moment" was born.
In another instance, he was literally bent over laughing behind the curtains of the stage at Morgan JH as I completely forgot my lines in a play we were doing for the entire school. I thought he would pass out as he dropped the cue card and held on to a nearby post. The play went on. My acting career came to a rather ignominious ending.
I recollect when Lon made the entire class recite "The Jabberwocky". There was not a kid in the class who did not almost fall out of their chair laughing as each and every one of us just hammered the recitation.
I recall Lon modeled for Seattle First National Bank, if I am getting that right. He was on a billboard that was standing to the right of I-5, somewhere between Northgate and downtown. I remember thinking that was about the coolest thing ever. And he had a houseboat on Lake Union. And he let some of us call him "Lon" when not at school. So cool!
Although I remember the "cool" part of Lon Davidson, that was not the best part. He was an excellent teacher who engaged each and every one of his students in the act of learning. He seemed to love teaching and made going to English class an absolute joy.
Lon, you will be missed. You did what all great teachers do. You left an indelible impression and, for what it is worth you left me with some very powerful memories.
Thank you.
Rest in peace.
M.I.T.

Helping a friend

My friend,
Thank  you for  the kind words. It worked out very well, didn't it my friend? For those who may have no idea what Doug  and I are talking about here is "rest of the story".
My friend bought a beautiful 1997 BMW 840CI some time ago and drove it up to the Seattle area. In short order he found himself unable to drive the car due to unforeseen circumstances. For any number of reasons the car was relegated to sitting, unprotected in the back yard of a Bothell mechanic's home for about five years. That is when I asked my friend if he would like to put "Plan T.I.M." into action. After some time my friend agreed to let me give it a go and I was off and running.
Step one was to procure the car. That took a little doing because the mechanic was a schmuck. To accomplish this I rented a UHaul trailer and headed north to Bothell to snag the car from the clutches of the aforementioned evil mechanic. Meeting with him was more than a little awkward, I must say. He was not a nice man. Be that as it may, a friend helped me load the car on to the trailer and off we went. Upon our arrival in Gig Harbor we put the car in the storage facility and I returned the UHaul.
Next came the clean up. Apparently, over the five years the car was outside the engine compartment became home to a fair number of bees. The hives were seemingly everywhere. I even found a few underneath the gas cap access door. Go figure! To counter this, I pressure washed the entire car. Yuch!
It became obvious that the longer I waited to sell this car the more opportunities there would be for problems to arise. Sitting outside for five years was not kind to this vehicle (a gross understatement!). I endeavored to persevere.
After some preliminary mechanical work on the car I parked the car in the storage area and began my pursuit of a title. It took over three months to get my hands on a valid California title but I did get it. Believe it or not three months was much quicker than normal thanks to a special operations unit attached the the California DMV.
Title in hand, I listed the car on Craigslist. I had two suitors right away. The first buyer was a fast talker who wanted to take the car for a test drive. We headed out. He knew the car was powerful so he stepped on the gas, not once but twice. Remarkably, the car responded beautifully. Then it happened.
A radiator hose blew and water was streaming from the engine compartment to the windshield with smoke following closely behind. "On a test drive?" I thought. "Are you freekin' kidding me?"!  We nursed the car back to our departure point where a mechanic took a look at it. Turns out the entire radiator was gone. I had no idea what to say to this guy except, "Thanks for coming". He still wanted the car so we set a price, much lower than I hoped. With a transaction meeting set for the next day I arrived on time. He failed to show. Undeterred, I promptly raised the price of the car and called the second suitor. It worked. The car was sold that day at the higher price.
The agreement I reached with my friend was the following: I would take care of the car and absorb all expenses associated with getting the car ready to sell then recoup my costs upon sale. That was all I wanted. The rest of the money, about 3/4 of the sales price, went to my friend. That was it.
From start to finish the "T.I.M. Plan" for the BMW took about 4 months. It really did work out well.
The primary goal was 1. Not to allow the "schmuck" mechanic in Bothell to let a fine car rust into oblivion and, 2. To get some money into my friend's pocket prior to the holidays. I accomplished both.
Altruistic? My boy, don't give me so much credit. I really wanted to see if I could meet those two objectives and I truly enjoyed doing this for a life long friend.
In closing I must say I learned two very important lessons from this little adventure:
1. Helping folks can be a great, rewarding adventure.
2. I am forever and eternally A TOYOTA/LEXUS MAN!
Happy New Year to all of the 69'ers.
Tim 

Friends,
I have returned! It seems I have been on an extended albeit self imposed sabbatical from writing but I have returned and I look forward to passing along more airline stories to anyone who wishes to read them. Today, though I am to a degree handicapped because  I am typing with my right hand alone having recently undergone corrective surgery on the left This entry will be short.
Be that as it may, my brain has not stopped working and I am excited to pass along more stories of my adventures as a pilot of 42 years,
Also, I am going to start a new segment called "Could this really happen?". It will include stories about things that may or may not have occurred to myself and others while in the performance of their duties as flight crew. You will be the judge as to whether or not you think "This could really happen".

Stories like:
"Has there ever been a fist fight between two pilots while flying?"
"What do pilots actually do on while in the air on international or domestic flights?".
"Did "Sully" get it right?".
"Do pilots ever let politics get in the way of safely completing flights?"
Those stories and others are coming your way.

That is it for now. The right hand grows weary of typing.
Thank you.

My Visit to a Mighty Ship

Foreword

It’s in their eyes. That is where you can see the strength and grace of today’s United States Naval and Marine Corps aviators.The high level of confidence that borders on cockiness can be easily seen if one takes a moment to look. Thinking back to when I was a young naval aviator I recall that we all had a feeling of indestructibility, an unconscious certainty that we would live forever. Today, as I observe these young pilots i can readily see that that feeling still exists. You can see it in their eyes.

How does the Navy and Marine Corps continue to attract men and women of this caliber? Many of these young folks could be on their way to lucrative careers elsewhere. Flying on and off aircraft carriers is one of the most dangerous and challenging occupations on earth. So why do they do it? Before I try to answer that question please let me tell you of a trip that I recently made aboard the USS John Stennis, one of the Navy’s newest nuclear aircraft carriers. The trip took place during the last few days of a very long eight and a half month deployment. Friends and family were invited to live aboard the carrier for the last few says of the deployment, going from Honolulu to San Diego. They call it a “Tiger Cruise.” I was a “Tiger.” My daughter, a Naval aviator stationed on board the Stennis, invited me to join her and I jumped at the chance. It was an experience I shall never forget.

The following story is a compendium of thoughts and opinions based on the somewhat disconnected diary I kept during that six day period. Before I get to the story of the trip let me offer a little back round. I am a former US Naval Aviator. All three of my children have chosen similar paths, two in the Marine Corps and one in the Navy. All three as pilots. I lost my first born in a tragic accident while he was in Navy flight training. Since that time my daughter and my youngest son have both completed Navy and Marine Corps flight training and obtained their “Wings of Gold.” My son has just completed transition training for Marine Corps H-53 helicopters and my daughter is finishing her second at-sea deployment as a Navy helicopter pilot. She has been on deployment for seventeen of the last twenty-two months. Now for the story.

The Story

At this moment I am sitting in a Delta Airlines aircraft bound for Honolulu. In a day or so I’ll be transiting the Pacific Ocean aboard the USS Stennis, the quintessence of incomprehensible military power. I know very little about the ship from a statistical standpoint. My intention is to go on this journey to learn, observe and to remember. I have had some experience with ships of this ilk but this particular ship is a whole different animal. The USS Stennis is the “now” version of the aircraft carriers I landed on so many years ago.

This will be a running diary, laced with opinions and thoughts of my time sailing the mighty Pacific as “crew” (term used very lightly) on board one of the world’s most exceptional warships. It all begins tonight with this flight from Seattle to Honolulu. I will stay in a downtown hotel for three nights, meeting with my daughter tomorrow. The time of that meeting will be subject to the schedule of the USS Stennis. I hope they are on time. Tomorrow I shall be see my daughter for the first time in a very long time. Although we have talked through computers and communicated by email, seeing her will be a very big treat.

About my daughter: over the last few years she has graduated from the University of Colorado, become a United States Naval officer, pinned on “Wings of Gold” as a Naval aviator and completed two exceptionally long deployments to Southeast Asia and the Middle East. It is easy to see that I am more than a little proud of her. My daughter is in Honolulu now and we have had a great afternoon/evening. She was obviously tired and yet she lit up each time she spoke of the friends she has made and the things she has seen and done on this deployment. There were moments when she seemed not to hear me as her mind raced about, trying to grasp the idea that it was almost over. Understandable. Eight months at sea were about to end. This is her second long deployment in three years, spending more than half of her first squadron assignment away from home. She is tired and yet she looked as if she had just walked out of a tenth grade classroom. Stunning.

On board the “Stennis” now. My state room is large and comfortable. I have the bottom bunk. My roommates are a twelve year old boy and a young gentleman named Mark from Portland, both guests of another pilot in my daughter’s squadron. I am quite lucky in the selection. I have already met some of my daughter’s friends and shipmates. These are men and women that she respects and likes. Some of the young people are tall with handlebar mustaches and some short with strong arms. Each of them has the look of intelligence endemic to young naval aviators. Firm handshakes and smiles abound. I am instantly impressed. These young pilots and crew members rely on quick wit, lightening reflexes and a fundamental belief that they will, indeed live forever. They are good at what they do and they know it.

We spent the first night in port but are now underway. I have seen a lot already and it is only noon on the first day at sea. The ship passed slowly, reverently by the Arizona Memorial, paying homage to the sailors entombed there. A solemn moment. I slept well last night (still in port). Having had a fair amount of space in which to rest. Sleep came easy. It was quiet. Tonight may be a different story. Ships this size have inherent sounds. These sounds defy description as well as one’s ability to locate the origin of the racket. Some of the sounds have names like “The Chain Monster.” There are scraping and banging sounds. There are flushing and draining and dragging and hammer-on-steel sounds. Some sounds are very similar to marbles rolling around on a steel floor. Some are horrendous roars, aircraft afterburners fully alight. The are bells ringing in perpetuity, most often signaling the passing of another hour.

The ship rolls slowly from side to side as it cuts through the blue Pacific waters. My stomach’s response is unbecoming. I have taken some sea sickness pills and may have to take more. I have not been to sea on a nuclear carrier in many years and it shows. I feel a little queasy. UGH! The ship’s Captain has addressed the crew and the “Tigers” a number of times today. He is obviously quite aware of the “foreigners” (my words not his) on board his boat. For the last five days of this arduous eight and a half month deployment he and his crew of thousands will be completing “end of deployment” tasks, working hard while trying to satisfy the needs and wants of an additional twelve hundred or so “civilians”, many whom have never seen a boat this size let alone been aboard one. From my perspective, the crew has handled all of this with a marvelous sense of humor. It cannot be easy trying to hustle up and down ladders to jobs throughout the ship when there are men, women and children clumsily ascending and descending the same ladders at a snails pace. Yet the crew dealt with it all beautifully. Incidental note on ships “ladders.” One’s grip is vital. Hold on tight to both sides of the handrails as you ascend or descend. Go slowly and remember to duck. Ouch!

Running shoes, T-shirts, white socks and shorts is the clothing of choice among “Tigers.” It was quite warm when we left Honolulu so that apparel was appropriate. As we continue on our journey to the coast of the contiguous United Sates I suspect it will get cooler. I brought clothing for all occasions so I don’t fear inclement weather. I believe the Captain stated a little earlier in the day that we may run into some worsening weather along the way. I am prepared.

My daughter will join me soon for lunch. She has been trying hard to sleep and has met with little success. Lucky for her I need little if any supervision. I am in “hog heaven” right now. This trip will be an endless source of fascination. She can rest as much as she likes. I don’t blame her. I wonder how I might find the C-2 pilots. That is the plane I flew in my first squadron and I would love to talk with the young folks flying C.O.D (Carrier Onboard Delivery).

Waiting for my daughter to go to lunch. We had a fine air show this morning featuring the fighters as well as a variety of other aircraft. They were all awesome. The C-2 was prominently displayed flying some very close formation with the E-2. Yesterday the practice version of the air show featured something I never imagined I would witness. The C-2 was leading two fighters in close formation. You have to have been in the Navy back in the day to appreciate the irony of that situation. Let me explain. In Naval aviation, fighters reign supreme. They are exotic, fast and they do cool things to the bad guys. There are other planes in the arsenal that can do damage but few do it in a sexier way than a fighter. At the risk of making a gross understatement let me add that fighter pilots are a very proud group. Then there is the C-2 Greyhound. Fat and flat nosed, wide in the middle and slower than “molasses in January” the C.O.D. has one job: hauling “trash.” “Trash” is a Navy euphemism for people, boxes, parts, tools, medicine, food and important papers. No bombs, no guns, no fiery jet engines and sadly, no glamour. It was with immense satisfaction that I witnessed a C-2 in flight, leading in close formation not one but two F/A-18 Hornets. A tight formation it was indeed and one where the cargo door on the C-2 was opened wide, fighters tucked in astern. The fighter pilots were obviously working hard to force their jet planes to go as slow as the C-2. Gear down, flaps down, hook down. It was really something to see. Great flying and a sight I will never forget.

Day three under way. Still looking for the C-2 guys. We have had two air shows in two days, one preliminary and one with all the bells and whistles. Bombs were dropped, bullets were fired, deafening “sound barrier” breaking was going on and it was fantastic. The helicopters finished the air show with my daughter’s Commanding Officer flying his aircraft close to the port side of the ship with an American flag hanging directly below the aircraft. What a fine way to end this magnificent display of air power.

The food has been good and the accommodations have been more than adequate. My daughter is packing as I write. I think I will head for the hangar bay. There are lot tons of logo T-shirts, hats and keychains to buy. Off I go.

Day three at sea (continued). Breakfast was mediocre this morning but we, the “Tigers” had a chat about days gone by, our children and their accomplishments. I am in the “Raptor” (my daughter’s squadron) ready room as I type while squadron members are dismantling all that identifies this as the “Raptor” ready room. Soon it will be like all other of the other ready rooms on board this magnificent ship, stripped of all identifying items such as large squadron logos and the like. All will be gone and the room, devoid of the “Raptor” identity will be made ready for the next squadron, the next deployment. Someone mentions “Two days left.” The crews are thinking of little else. The cleared-out ready room is just one of many signs that this deployment is ending. That end cannot come soon enough for those that have been out here for such a very long time.

My daughter continues to try to sleep. Meanwhile, we “Tigers” are having a ball. There have been some bumps and bruises but despite a few incidents of banged shins and scraped foreheads, each of us is having a great time. I think I will look for the C-2 guys. Man, they are hard to find. I watched the sun go down from “Vulture’s Row” (about 30 feet above the flight deck) last evening. There is beauty, even from the decks of one of the world’s greatest fighting ships.

Today will not be a busy one. I have chosen not to ask much of my daughter as I go about my way. She needs the rest and I have little to do of any real importance. There are still things to discover and to learn but I temper my activities with the idea that I have been on ships like this before. As interesting as they are it is not the reactor nor the planes that I care to learn about. It is the people. From the senior officers down to the youngest enlisted man or woman the people of this ship are of far more interest to me than the metal and steel. That is where the real story is to be found.

We are getting close to home port and the ship’s personnel are aware that they are very nearly home. We are within hours of arrival and I can see people hustling down the ladders to the hangar deck, loaded to the hilt with seabags that are stuffed with eight months of “at sea” life. At lunch my daughter wanted to visit with her friends rather than sit and listen to the reflections of a few old folks. I sat tight, content to let her go while we, the old folks, exchanged a few more laughs. She visited with friends and it was obvious she was aware that their time together was limited. There were about eight of these young folks and they sat together, talking, laughing and remembering. This very long cruise has taken it’s toll on the young officers and yet they still laugh. It is obvious that some of them have had enough of ship board life by the choices they have made for their next set of orders. ROTC, Naval Academy and Post Graduate School are all choices that do not have anything to do with underway deployments. They are done. At least for now. I still have not found the C-2 pilots but I am getting closer each day. I think I spotted one on the hangar deck earlier. These guys are illusive.

 I met the CO of the ship today. Gregarious and friendly to a fault this man has complete command of this ship. He gave a couple of orders to subordinates and there was absolutely no question who was boss on the bridge. He was not mean at all but was direct and to the point. I can readily see that this man loves naval aviation. I finally caught up with a C-2 pilot today. Tall, confident and fully aware that he has the most desirable job a pilot can have on board an aircraft carrier. He was humble and respectful and well aware of the fact that his job is a very special one. I really like this young man. I finally got some time in the seat of a C-2. The young man I spoke with loved to talk C-2’s. The C-2 pilots are beloved and envied on board a carrier. They have the task of leaving the boat any time the ship comes close to a port then remain on dry land, living in a hotel while running people and packages back and forth to the ship. They are envied (in a good way) because they collect per diem while they are doing all of this and spend the vast majority of any deployment on the beach. It is a very good deal, indeed. The C-2 looks just like it did many years ago save for a few minor electronic improvements. Sitting in the cockpit was great. It was suddenly 37 years ago and I was 25. I loved it. It was the one of the highlights of my “Tiger” cruise.

 The jets are gone. I watched as the last one was directed by the “yellow shirts” onto the catapult followed quickly by engines going to full afterburner. A crisp salute was given and they were off. The deck is now clear of all but the helos. They line the outer edges of the flight deck as if they are the iconic “circled wagons” of the old west. Tomorrow the crews of the two helicopter squadrons will rise early, stumble sleepily into the wardroom, eat what they can then head to the ready room for a cup of stale coffee and a quick morning brief by the CO. It will be the last such ship board brief on this deployment. The anticipation is palpable. Tomorrow the young aviators will don their flight gear to make ready to depart, twisting and turning as they work to get their heavy flight gear into place. They are ready to go home. Life will be significantly different in just a few hours.

I have spoken with a number of the pilots during my visit. In our talks, the word “family” is ever present. The US Navy tries to hard to mitigate the time away from home but it generally misses that very illusive mark. How do you compensate for so much time away? For example, my daughter and a handful of her squadron mates has been at sea 17 out of the last 22 months. Two complete deployments. It is easy to see that if the US economy were doing well it would be extremely difficult to retain young people of this caliber given the time away and the dangers involved. Make no mistake, this is tough duty.

 “Doc, Babba Ganoosh, Sly, Dieter, Finch,” are call signs given to these young aviators. I can only guess at the reasons behind the names. The aviators know what the call signs mean and that is enough for them. Doc, the flight surgeon, is handsome, quick witted and obviously prepared for ship board medical eventualities. He is a good friend to my daughter. They can talk. A father of two he will return home to his family certain in his future as a doctor. Stay in the Navy or get out, Doc will have “options.” Whatever choice he makes you get the feeling this young man will do well. One observation about “Doc”: There is not a pretentious bone in his body. His “Tiger” is a friend of many years, call sign “Scooteroh” a young man with a remarkably fluid, well developed sense of humor. They obviously connect on a number of levels. They are both very funny young men. “Babba Ganoosh”(sp?). Tall with an outstanding handlebar mustache he possesses a deep voice that any radio talk show host would envy. He laughs with my daughter describing how she flew very tight formation on his helicopter. A very likable young man. “Finch” is a Victor Mature lookalike who carries the weight of being the most well educated aviator in this very well educated group. A Naval Academy graduate that followed that fine education by earning a masters degree which speaks to the fact that this young man will do well regardless of his career choice. With a winning smile and a gift for jokes he flies with my daughter. I suspect they have a tremendous amount of fun. “Dieter,” father and career Navy hopeful is easy to talk with and willing to share his plans and aspirations. Family means a lot to him and he will soon be faced with the inevitable choices that one’s “family versus Navy career” begets. The Skipper (Commanding Officer) of the squadron has a shaved head and a perpetually serious look. This fact gives one the impression that he is a man with a powerful personality. Yet, when talking with him you are left a strong sense that he truly loves leading this small band of aviators and does so by setting clear goals and limitations. He trusts his officers to get it right. Very impressive, indeed. There are others that I did not mention and I am sorry that I did not do so. Overall I was taken by the straight shooting, no “BS” approach of the officers and enlisted personnel that my daughter has worked with over these last nine months. Personally, I would have been proud to serve with any one of them.

They are all off the ship now. During the preflight of her helicopter my daughter slipped on some oil, falling to the carrier deck. She was hurt. Not surprising to anyone who knows her she had paid a short visit to the flight surgeon, took two aspirin then gamely hustled across the flight deck, hopped on board her “chopper,” waved to me one last time and was gone. As I watched with no slight amount of emotion her helo reared back powerfully and departed from the stern of the ship flying down the starboard side for all to see. I would have shed a tear but I was too busy filming this remarkable occasion. What a moment for a dad.

The cruise is over now. We are docked and crew members are departing, families waiting along side the ship. Tears are shed, lives restarted.

Parting shots: So why do they do it? I keep coming back to the eyes for that is where the soul of today’s young naval aviator lives. The clarity, purpose, determination and self confidence of these young officers speaks to a higher purpose. They know that they make a difference. From the most junior enlisted to the admirals of the fleet there is a tremendous amount of pride in what they do, who they are, in their squadron and their ship. There is nothing comparable to it in the civilian world. I want to thank the people responsible for allowing an “old salt” like myself to spend six days on board this magnificent ship. I learned a lot, saw a lot and remembered.

Closing comment: The leaders of this country have the grave responsibility to use ships such as the USS Stennis and her personnel in a thoughtful, responsible manner. The last six days has made me realize that I, too, have a responsibility. That is to make certain that those leaders do not waste one ship, one life, one moment in the pursuit of meaningless endeavors. This trip was a stark reminder to me of that responsibility. I now am quite certain that I shall never forget my time on this magnificent ship, my years on active duty nor the debt that I owe to the young men and women of the United States Navy and Marine Corps.
Semper Fidelis,

A fighter pilots fervent wish:

“Lord I pray for the eyes of an eagle, the heart of a lion and the balls of a combat helicopter pilot."

50 Years of the Beatles and growing up in the '60's

HI Folks, Yesterday turned out to be the perfect day for a motorcycle ride and to take advantage of the opportunity to exchange a few stories about 27 cent cigarettes and 19 cent-a-gallon gasoline. If stories like that were not enough to remind us of our "elderliness", here is one more chance to feel a little grayer. I just read an article about the 50th anniversery of the establisment of the Beatles. 50 years?! You have got to be kidding me! The Beatles approximately 7 year run was one of the most exciting and, yes, tumultuous times in American history. Beginnning in the late '50's, Beatlemania" really took hold in the early '60's, driving what many believe was the greatest 'American Revolution" since the, well, American revolution. The Beatles were not just a band. They were an obsession. I recall Craig and I putting our money together to buy a "45" entitled "I Want to Hold our Hand." We played that song endlessly on our record player, virtually ignoring the fact that the flip, or "B" side held another great song, " I Saw Her Standing There." We knew the words to the songs of the Beatles almost as well as we knew the words to "Hail Mary, Full of Grace", the prayer that I was told to say countless times after weekly confession. (I was a bit of a bad boy as a young Catholic). The Beatles influence spawned countless copiers. Remember the "Dave Clark 5"? And who can forget the "Ed Sullivan Show" performance where those of us at home could hardly hear the "Fab Four" for the screaming girls in the audience? As the Beatles music morphed from the fresh, plucky sound first introduced in "I Want To Hold Your Hand" to the physchadelic mindbending of "The Magical Mystery Tour", a collection that helped many of us envision the meaning of life (with a little help from our friend "Mary Juana"), America was changing before our eyes. From Viet Nam to Woodstock to putting a man on the moon along with the assinations of the Kennedy's and MLK, America was rocking and rolling. Breathtaking was one way to describe this period. I am not a historian by any means but we, the '69"ers, grew up in a time when America was really jumping. We were strong, vibrant, confused and ready for anything. Most importantly, we were "alive". Things were constantly changing in our young world and we were there to witness, nay, live each and every moment. I miss those times. Reading the article about the Beatles at 5:50AM this morning triggered something in me that I had not considered in quite some time. We, the "'69ers" grew up in a most remarkable era. It was a time when things that mattered really mattered. A time when we believed that those people entrusted to lead us would, well, actually lead us. It was a time when we questioned everything. And it was a time when it felt good not to be afraid to question everything. Above all it was a time when music, in particular Beatles music, gave us all something hang on to as "Rocketship America" went speeding through space. It was a great time to grow up in America and I, for one, would not have missed it for the world. Tim M.