After a long hiatus, I finally feel like I have something to write you about. Recently flight school acquired a new dimension when I began our set of visual navigation flights. Visual Navigation (VNAV) is, as the name implies, navigation solely by external reference points: bridges, road intersections, prominent buildings, and the like. And it is very exciting flying.
First of all, because I am navigating visually, I get to look outside the aircraft for most of the flight. This is a remarkable difference from Instrument Navigation, where I spent most of my time in the air concentrating on the navigation instruments, my kneeboard, and my slide rule. Admittedly, that training is necessary, because it is the bread-and-butter of airborne navigation, but it was really nothing more than a glorified desk job - my desk just happened to be the rear cockpit of an airplane. Being able to (or supposed to!) look around from the air restores the glamour of Aviation: from above, you really feel godlike.
Second of all, in order to be able to clearly see references on the ground, I need to fly lower. Flying low is fun because you seem to be going faster and you feel more connected to the ground - you aren't simply all alone at 28,000 feet. Flying low is stressful, because there are towers and large buildings that can pass close beneath you, but that only heightens the experience.
Finally, in VNAVs, the maneuvers are downright exhilarating. Gone are boring 30-degree-angle-of-bank turns from Instrument Navigation. Marking on top of a navigational checkpoint involves a 3-G, nearly 90-degree-angle-of-bank steep turn and a quick acceleration to the new airspeed. If I need to check a reference underneath the plane, I can order a "wing-flash," which is when the pilot dips one wing alarmingly in order for me to get a view of the ground directly beneath us out of the side of the canopy. But what is especially exciting is the target run, when we acquire our "target" by raising the nose and rolling the plane so that it (and the rest of the ground) appear in the upper portion of the canopy so we can comfortably see it. This is flying - this is what I imagined when I embarked on an aviation career.
Of course, preparing VNAVs are equally difficult and time-consuming as preparing INAV (instrument) flights. There is a lot of paperwork: charts to draw and prepare, procedures to practice, and briefing items to memorize. So I am keeping busy. I am not too busy, however, to mark the passage of summer. I am entering the golden days of Pensacola - when the humidity and accompanying violent thunderstorms fade leaving clear and beautiful weather. The deep, choking foliage seems faded, too--enervated, perhaps, by the heavy heat and powerful sunlight of summer. It has become pleasant to run outside, the summer tourist swarm has left the beaches, and the ocean is still warm and still. It won't start getting cold for at least another two months. Until then, I will focus on waterskiing, beachgoing, and barbecues.
I count myself very lucky to be here now. It sometimes seems like an accident that I ended up in Aviation, and equally so that I live in Pensacola. As I write this, the late summer sun streams through my window, and I can't help but marvel at how good things seem at times. Pensacola may be a small town, it may be aggressively "deep south" in character, and it may be dumpy and poor, but it certainly has its own beauty. My perception of it, of course, includes the flying, the tight group of peers I fly and live with, and my experiences in the city itself--but I am happy here. Though I hope eventually to be posted to San Diego (which is famously beautiful), I can't get very excited about it when in the midst of a beautiful September afternoon in Pensacola.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
The Adventure of Dennis
It feels like a long time since I last wrote, and I miss it. Writing my experiences in this on-going journal is enjoyable and cathartic. Recently, however, I have been occupied with memorization and studying such that I had little time to reflect upon and re-write my adventures into something that sounded like an exciting life. Then Hurricane Dennis hit Pensacola. And though this kind of weather probably seems far away to most of you (it always did to me), it is a very big deal here.
I didn't really pay attention to the path of Dennis (reported in the news) as it traveled up through the Caribbean past Haiti and Jamaica. When it closed in on Cuba, the hurricane watchers here at Naval Air Station Pensacola decided to cancel activities last Friday and fly the planes out to a safer location. As our collective eyes turned toward the storm, it aimed toward us much as Ivan did last November, and we were told to evacuate. There were all hands meetings Thursday afternoon and Friday morning to officially secure the Naval Air Station and evacuate all personnel by Saturday morning at six.
I left Pensacola on Friday morning under clear, beautiful skies. I was headed to Chapel Hill, NC, to take refuge with a high school friend of mine there. I drove past long lines at the few gas stations that still had fuel. The superstores (Wal-mart, Target, etc) had posted large signs listing products they were out of (plywood, lumber, fresh water, and so on). The radio stations were broadcasting National Weather Center flood warnings, potential evacuation orders, and hurricane advisories. This all stood in stark contrast to the absolutely pristine weather throughout the Southeast United States that day. It all seemed very ironic.
For those of you under the impression that western States are big, and eastern ones are small (as I used to be), let me be the first to disabuse you. Twelve hours I drove that day, all of it on the freeways and none of it in traffic. However, my friend made me very welcome, and the evactuaion felt more like a vacation. Essentially, I spent a carefree weekend checking out the college hangouts of UNC Chapel Hill. The only dose of reality I had was my morning telephone call to my class leader, letting him know I was alive, and periodic visits to the Weather Channel. I have to admit, it looked pretty menacing for most of Saturday and Sunday. Dennis followed the same path as Ivan, and predictions continued to place Pensacola right in the middle or just to the east of the middle of his projected path. East of the eye is the most dangerous place to be in a hurricane. The earth's rotation, called the "Corialis Force," imparts a counterclockwise motion to air around a low pressure area, which means that to the east of the hurricane, the wind is blowing off the ocean and has greater force than wind coming off the land (on the western side of the eye).
We were lucky, though. Dennis moved northward and came ashore right at Pensacola Beach, to the east of the city - the best possible scenario. There was minimal damage.The Navy Base was largely unaffected. I got the call to come back on Monday morning, and by the early afternoon I was on my way. Power had largely been restored to the Pensacola area by 11 PM as I drove in (though there continues to be a gasoline shortage), and at nearly every intersection there were state troopers and workmen repairing traffic lights, signposts, and power lines.
So the adventure ended well. I am impressed by the people of Pensacola and its environs. Everybody I met was more than willing to help with evacuation and hurricane preparedness, and most were calm and proactive about getting out. I had vague ideas of mass panic and desperate shortages at the onset of a hurricane, but Pensacola had prepared well (though, to be fair, it has significant previous experience) and the repairmen have worked straight shifts since Monday afternoon to restore power, put the traffic grid back together, and direct the return of evacuees.
I have just finished putting my apartment back together - pulling televisions out of closets, replacing the valuables that I carried with me, and resetting all the clocks. I have a test soon, and the next phase of flights is imminent, but such things are far from my mind. As I write this, Tropical Storm Emily is spinning north out of the Atlantic toward the Caribbean. Here we go again...
I didn't really pay attention to the path of Dennis (reported in the news) as it traveled up through the Caribbean past Haiti and Jamaica. When it closed in on Cuba, the hurricane watchers here at Naval Air Station Pensacola decided to cancel activities last Friday and fly the planes out to a safer location. As our collective eyes turned toward the storm, it aimed toward us much as Ivan did last November, and we were told to evacuate. There were all hands meetings Thursday afternoon and Friday morning to officially secure the Naval Air Station and evacuate all personnel by Saturday morning at six.
I left Pensacola on Friday morning under clear, beautiful skies. I was headed to Chapel Hill, NC, to take refuge with a high school friend of mine there. I drove past long lines at the few gas stations that still had fuel. The superstores (Wal-mart, Target, etc) had posted large signs listing products they were out of (plywood, lumber, fresh water, and so on). The radio stations were broadcasting National Weather Center flood warnings, potential evacuation orders, and hurricane advisories. This all stood in stark contrast to the absolutely pristine weather throughout the Southeast United States that day. It all seemed very ironic.
For those of you under the impression that western States are big, and eastern ones are small (as I used to be), let me be the first to disabuse you. Twelve hours I drove that day, all of it on the freeways and none of it in traffic. However, my friend made me very welcome, and the evactuaion felt more like a vacation. Essentially, I spent a carefree weekend checking out the college hangouts of UNC Chapel Hill. The only dose of reality I had was my morning telephone call to my class leader, letting him know I was alive, and periodic visits to the Weather Channel. I have to admit, it looked pretty menacing for most of Saturday and Sunday. Dennis followed the same path as Ivan, and predictions continued to place Pensacola right in the middle or just to the east of the middle of his projected path. East of the eye is the most dangerous place to be in a hurricane. The earth's rotation, called the "Corialis Force," imparts a counterclockwise motion to air around a low pressure area, which means that to the east of the hurricane, the wind is blowing off the ocean and has greater force than wind coming off the land (on the western side of the eye).
We were lucky, though. Dennis moved northward and came ashore right at Pensacola Beach, to the east of the city - the best possible scenario. There was minimal damage.The Navy Base was largely unaffected. I got the call to come back on Monday morning, and by the early afternoon I was on my way. Power had largely been restored to the Pensacola area by 11 PM as I drove in (though there continues to be a gasoline shortage), and at nearly every intersection there were state troopers and workmen repairing traffic lights, signposts, and power lines.
So the adventure ended well. I am impressed by the people of Pensacola and its environs. Everybody I met was more than willing to help with evacuation and hurricane preparedness, and most were calm and proactive about getting out. I had vague ideas of mass panic and desperate shortages at the onset of a hurricane, but Pensacola had prepared well (though, to be fair, it has significant previous experience) and the repairmen have worked straight shifts since Monday afternoon to restore power, put the traffic grid back together, and direct the return of evacuees.
I have just finished putting my apartment back together - pulling televisions out of closets, replacing the valuables that I carried with me, and resetting all the clocks. I have a test soon, and the next phase of flights is imminent, but such things are far from my mind. As I write this, Tropical Storm Emily is spinning north out of the Atlantic toward the Caribbean. Here we go again...
Friday, June 10, 2005
First Flights and Fast Times
Well, I can say I have officially flown an airplane now. I have taken off, flown to a different airfield, conducted appropriate aerial maneuvers along the way (like spinning out the airplane), and successfully landed, many times. The great adventure is well begun indeed.
It isn't really all that glamourous, actually. Well, it is, but that glamour is coupled with long hours of work before, during, and after my time at the cockpit. Each flight is a specific event on the syllabus here, and requires that the student be familiar with and demonstrate specific material. In this regard each flight is like a test. The "material" consists of sets of procedures for flying the aircraft, Emergency Procedures in case something goes wrong, and general knowledge of aircraft systems. This knowledge is what the student is graded on, not the actual flying of the aircraft. This is different, of course, than pilot training - there the student is graded very much on how he or she flies the aircraft. But for us backseater types, planning and knowledge are priorities.
So these past several weeks I have been studying hard, memorizing procedures step by step. It is stressful work - before each flight the instructor spends about an hour and a half with the student, examining him or her to see if they know what they are supposed to know for that flight. Instructors can grill a student on anything specific to that particular flight, or any material they choose covered in previous flights. It is much like having an oral examination, actually (though I'm embarrassed to say that I have to study harder in flight school than I ever did in college) - except when you fail, you receive a "pink sheet," which is a disciplinary file that usually leads to the student being reviewed by a board of instructors, and more often than not kicked out of the program. But - and not to sound cliche or anything - it is all worth it to be in the air.
I won't bore you with too many reflections or details on flying. It is remarkably peaceful in the air, and since we wear two sets of hearing protection the aircraft itself is quiet. When you are not desperately struggling with the controls to the (often) obscenity-filled exhortations of your instructors, the view is wonderful. The small windows of commercial airliners just don't do it justice. Underneath the professionalism and discipline of the aviation community lies a genuine joy of flying - something I have to remind myself of during difficult briefs. And the ride quickly becomes exciting (though in a good way) when you put the aircraft into a spin or flip upside down. Unlike some of my peers, I have had no problem so far with airsickness - I dare say I am having more fun with it than they are.
I have completed my flights fairly quickly. I had two on Tuesday, one on Thursday, and I was supposed to have my last today, but the approaching Tropical Storm sent enough clouds that we couldn't complete our event (which required good visibility). Cancellations are nothing new: it is warm and moist enough around here that we often contend with afternoon thunderstorms. We (the students) joke often, in fact, that much of the glamour of flying is actually sitting in a ready room waiting for a break in the weather. That is what I did Monday and Wednesday.
In retrospect, I guess flight school is different than I expected. I don't think I had many expectations in the first place, but I am both surprised at the extent to which I enjoy flying and the interminable waiting and studying that goes in to it. That's why, I guess, flight school is regarded as difficult - in fact, that's the only thing that isn't surprising. But I'd rather be doing something interesting and hard than boring and easy, so I guess I can't complain.
It isn't really all that glamourous, actually. Well, it is, but that glamour is coupled with long hours of work before, during, and after my time at the cockpit. Each flight is a specific event on the syllabus here, and requires that the student be familiar with and demonstrate specific material. In this regard each flight is like a test. The "material" consists of sets of procedures for flying the aircraft, Emergency Procedures in case something goes wrong, and general knowledge of aircraft systems. This knowledge is what the student is graded on, not the actual flying of the aircraft. This is different, of course, than pilot training - there the student is graded very much on how he or she flies the aircraft. But for us backseater types, planning and knowledge are priorities.
So these past several weeks I have been studying hard, memorizing procedures step by step. It is stressful work - before each flight the instructor spends about an hour and a half with the student, examining him or her to see if they know what they are supposed to know for that flight. Instructors can grill a student on anything specific to that particular flight, or any material they choose covered in previous flights. It is much like having an oral examination, actually (though I'm embarrassed to say that I have to study harder in flight school than I ever did in college) - except when you fail, you receive a "pink sheet," which is a disciplinary file that usually leads to the student being reviewed by a board of instructors, and more often than not kicked out of the program. But - and not to sound cliche or anything - it is all worth it to be in the air.
I won't bore you with too many reflections or details on flying. It is remarkably peaceful in the air, and since we wear two sets of hearing protection the aircraft itself is quiet. When you are not desperately struggling with the controls to the (often) obscenity-filled exhortations of your instructors, the view is wonderful. The small windows of commercial airliners just don't do it justice. Underneath the professionalism and discipline of the aviation community lies a genuine joy of flying - something I have to remind myself of during difficult briefs. And the ride quickly becomes exciting (though in a good way) when you put the aircraft into a spin or flip upside down. Unlike some of my peers, I have had no problem so far with airsickness - I dare say I am having more fun with it than they are.
I have completed my flights fairly quickly. I had two on Tuesday, one on Thursday, and I was supposed to have my last today, but the approaching Tropical Storm sent enough clouds that we couldn't complete our event (which required good visibility). Cancellations are nothing new: it is warm and moist enough around here that we often contend with afternoon thunderstorms. We (the students) joke often, in fact, that much of the glamour of flying is actually sitting in a ready room waiting for a break in the weather. That is what I did Monday and Wednesday.
In retrospect, I guess flight school is different than I expected. I don't think I had many expectations in the first place, but I am both surprised at the extent to which I enjoy flying and the interminable waiting and studying that goes in to it. That's why, I guess, flight school is regarded as difficult - in fact, that's the only thing that isn't surprising. But I'd rather be doing something interesting and hard than boring and easy, so I guess I can't complain.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Closing in on Aviation
I have reached another milestone in training - I am ready for my first flight! I should be flying on Tuesday or Wednesday, and while on paper I am "prepared," I feel far too nervous and excited to fly than is probably wise or safe. But that is what instructors are for, right? I have to brag a bit - the aircraft we will be flying in is the Lockheed (Beechcraft) T-6A Texan II: a single-engine, turboprop, mono-wing, high-performance aerobatic trainer. What that means is that my aircraft was designed train pilots in aerobatic maneuvering...so part of our training will include things like loops, aileron rolls, split-s's, wingovers, and all sorts of sexy moves from WWII dogfighting and Top Gun (though no 4-G inverted dives with a MiG). It has a glass cockpit, which means the gauges aren't actually "gauges" per se, as in dials with needles that indicate information. They are glass computer displays that project an image of a gauge like your computer monitor. This means that some system is actually processing the information shown on the gauges and then projecting it to the pilot in an easier-to-read format - the assumption being that said system is more accurate than the conventional gauges were in the first place. The real advantage is that all-important displays (like aircraft attitude) won't "tumble" or get out of alignment...ever (even during dynamic manoevering!). It does make me kind of nervous, though, that the old gauges were prone to doing that in the first place! But far and away the coolest thing about the T-6A is that it is equipped with a zero-zero ejection seat, so the aircrew can get out in a hurry if something goes drastically wrong. "Zero-zero" means that even sitting on the tarmac, at zero knots airspeed and zero feet off the deck, this seat can still save my life, by firing me up high enough with its rocket motor (330 ft) that my parachute can safely inflate and land me on the deck.
But getting here has occupied much of my time these past few weeks. Ground school was much different from API, because it is merely an introduction to the materials we are requred to study, it isn't actually a "lecture" course. They call it "big boy school" - you are told what to know, then tested, but the material itself isn't really taught. You must learn it by yourself. First we were tested on weather knowledge, then T-6A systems (hydraulics, propulsion, electronics, avionics), and finally the actual, word-of-the-most-high-naval-aviation-authorites-sanctioned, T-6A operations manual. That was five tests in three weeks.
After that we had a week of simulator events, where you get in a flight simulator and you operate the aircraft from the cockpit. These events are treated like actual flights, and you are being graded each time on how much material you know about the aircraft and how to operate it (there are certain items that we focus on specifically in each event). For example, the first event is just to see if you are familiar enough with the many pages of checklists and the necessary radio calls to operate the aircraft safely. The second event tests all that again, but adds some emergencies in - a fire warning on the ground, a fire warning in flight, an engine failure in flight, and requires you to be familiar with the emergency landing procedure. There were only three of these events, but with all the information you have to know for each one, each one is like studying for a final. But they are fun - I got to "eject" from one simulation, and I got to "fly" in all three, which dispite the lack of visual graphics outside the cockpit, was pretty cool.
Today I had my first period of instruction in the actual aircraft. It was an introduction - showing me how to preflight the plane itself, how to prepare for an actual flight (getting weather and field updates), and how to strap in, get in and get out the aircraft itself. It was a long day, but at least I know that I am about to start flying - which is why I'm down here for in the first place.
Unfortunately, however, all this work means I have lost some free time. I go the beach rarely now, though the temperature has climbed into the high 90s and 100s several times. And except for the rare concert or something I don't get away from my texts much. But since Memorial Day weekend is coming up, I am hoping for a relaxing three day weekend...and yes, more studying.
But getting here has occupied much of my time these past few weeks. Ground school was much different from API, because it is merely an introduction to the materials we are requred to study, it isn't actually a "lecture" course. They call it "big boy school" - you are told what to know, then tested, but the material itself isn't really taught. You must learn it by yourself. First we were tested on weather knowledge, then T-6A systems (hydraulics, propulsion, electronics, avionics), and finally the actual, word-of-the-most-high-naval-aviation-authorites-sanctioned, T-6A operations manual. That was five tests in three weeks.
After that we had a week of simulator events, where you get in a flight simulator and you operate the aircraft from the cockpit. These events are treated like actual flights, and you are being graded each time on how much material you know about the aircraft and how to operate it (there are certain items that we focus on specifically in each event). For example, the first event is just to see if you are familiar enough with the many pages of checklists and the necessary radio calls to operate the aircraft safely. The second event tests all that again, but adds some emergencies in - a fire warning on the ground, a fire warning in flight, an engine failure in flight, and requires you to be familiar with the emergency landing procedure. There were only three of these events, but with all the information you have to know for each one, each one is like studying for a final. But they are fun - I got to "eject" from one simulation, and I got to "fly" in all three, which dispite the lack of visual graphics outside the cockpit, was pretty cool.
Today I had my first period of instruction in the actual aircraft. It was an introduction - showing me how to preflight the plane itself, how to prepare for an actual flight (getting weather and field updates), and how to strap in, get in and get out the aircraft itself. It was a long day, but at least I know that I am about to start flying - which is why I'm down here for in the first place.
Unfortunately, however, all this work means I have lost some free time. I go the beach rarely now, though the temperature has climbed into the high 90s and 100s several times. And except for the rare concert or something I don't get away from my texts much. But since Memorial Day weekend is coming up, I am hoping for a relaxing three day weekend...and yes, more studying.
Sunday, May 1, 2005
Survival, a Wedding, and Reflections
Recently I graduated from API, which is the six-week academic indoctrination before Flight School. The acronym API, in fact, means "Aviation Preflight Indoctrination." It is heavily academic, and instructs students in the basics of aviation: how planes stay in the air, how engines work, how weather affects flying, basic navigation, and the like. Over the first four weeks, in fact, we have six tests, and failure could mean being dropped from the program. However, the final two weeks consist of survival training, and I have spent them parasailing and simulating ejections. I also took a road trip last weekend to Louisiana to help a good friend celebrate his wedding.
I learned early this past week that ejection is rather common in Military aviation, or at least more common than I thought. Apparently 1 in 5 military aviators eject, due no doubt to the relative age of our fighter and attack jets (25-40 years) and the extreme flight regimes we put them through. Because of this, two weeks are spent teaching us the ins-and-outs of parachuting and ejection, covering ejection at high altitude, parachute malfunctions (!), and ejection over land or sea.
First, we completed a parachute simulator event. It consists of a special virtual reality helmet that presents us with the sights of descending in a parachute while we hang in the harness. Via the helmet visuals, we are presented with common parachute malfunctions and are taught how to correct them - for example, if we have twisted paracords, we have to separate our rear risers (the rear straps connected to our harness) with our arms and bicycle kick to straighten everything out. If we do it right, the simulation reflects our success. It can be kind of funny to listen to students handle their particular problem ("Uh, I don't seem to have a parachute at all." "No, actually yours hasn't inflated. How do you correct for that again?"), but it is good training nonetheless.
Later, we got to go "redneck parasailing," which is basically parasailing behind a pickup truck in a field. Ironically, we do it in Alabama. We are attached to our parachute, then towed several hundred feet up into the air, and are released so we can practice landing correctly. Ideally, we land on the balls of our feet, then control our fall in such a way as to spread the force of hte impact on the side of our legs and spine, instead of absorbing it all with our feet and knees. It is basically a funny-looking controlled fall. The parasailing is of course very exilarating, but the landing was daunting - especially since the ground seemed to approach very quickly for all that I was wearing a parachute and all. I ended up hitting my head on the ground, but that was more embarrassing than anything else, and such scrapes were typical. Nobody got really hurt.
This weekend, a good friend of mine from TBS got married to his longstanding girlfriend in Bunkie, Louisiana. I drove the five hours out in my non-ejection seat car on Friday afternoon, and arrived in time for the rehearsal dinner. The wedding was Saturday, and was followed by a great reception. All the stereotypes about the "friendly and hospitable people of the south" are quite true - rarely have I met such friendly, happy, healthy-looking, and beautiful people as the two families I partied with. And I mean "party." They were eager to chat, unashamed to dance, and very disposed to drink. After the reception, we moved to the bar underneath the hotel we were staying at. This was a good idea until a drunkard attacked my friends sister, which nearly started a full-on, broken-bottle, 15-20 person bar brawl. Fortunately, the cops arrived before any punches were thrown, and the night turned out dramatic rather than painful. But even that was memorable and fun. The hometown crowd joked that we out-of-towners were getting exposed to a "real Louisiana wedding."
I remember well at TBS the great attachment I developed to the specific place of Quantico, Virginia and Washington, DC. For some reason, I tend to associate memories with places. One of the great themes in Catholic Philosophy (at least that I have studied) is that the world we live in nurtures us in faith and understanding. At Notre Dame I discovered what this meant by the rich beauty I found in the campus there, a result of both nature, such as sunsets over the dome, crisp golden autumn days, and new-fallen snow, and human investment, such as the striking and beautiful architecture of the campus and the careful land-scaping. In a way, my memories of events and people are localized in specific places, and I am surprised and lucky that I have found all those places beautiful. In fact, it is often the place itself that strikes me most positively during times of struggle, such as the hard schoolwork of Notre Dame or the tough physical training at TBS.
This all came back to me rather forcefully this weekend because almost every single Louisiana resident I met asked me if this was my first time in their state. They also asked (with more interest) whether I liked it there. I answered, truthfully, yes: there was no honest answer after meeting such lively people this weekend. But there are other attractions, too. I can personally confirm many Louisiana stereotypes: on the road to Bunkie, I counted only three other cars (that takes into account both directions of traffic); after about 30 minutes of driving on the road to Bunkie, I could hardly see out of my windshield for the vast number of bugs that were splattered across it; and I played a rather hectic game of slalom with the random possoms and turtles foolishly crossing the road from one side of the swamp to the other. It was all overwhelmingly "redneck." Yet there is a remarkable beauty as well - only in the field at TBS have I seen so many stars, or seen them so clearly, for example. And the people make a big difference to my perception of the place.
It is easy for me especially to fall into the Pathetic Fallacy when thinking and writing about these places. In my memory they are closely associated with emotions, which I end up associating in turn with the place itself. There is a kind of thick heaviness about the south now, that lingers in the humid air and manifiests in the choking, overgrown boughs. It lends a kind of carefree anonymity, as if each day bore no witness to the last, as if each event were cloaked or hidden or reduced by the solitude and density. By contrast, it seemed to emphasize the human events. I know what Evelyn Waugh meant when he spoke of Oxford: "It was this cloistral hush which gave our laugher its resonance, and carried it still, joyously, over the intervening clamor." It is admittedly a far cry from the clearness and freshness of the northwest - but it can be seductive.
I get the strong sense that the trials and opportunities of my military lifestyle - particularly in seeing different areas of the country - is necessary to my continued growth and maturity. My discoveries about places, with their rich complexity of landscape and people, are central to my experience. Spending time on the military base with my nose buried in a textbook temporarily removed me from this kind of activity. But it was going on all the time, I think - I noticed suddenly the rare glory of Pensacola evenings on the beach; it carried all the impact of a conversion. In that sense my brief weekend break between API and Primary was just the vacation I needed.
I learned early this past week that ejection is rather common in Military aviation, or at least more common than I thought. Apparently 1 in 5 military aviators eject, due no doubt to the relative age of our fighter and attack jets (25-40 years) and the extreme flight regimes we put them through. Because of this, two weeks are spent teaching us the ins-and-outs of parachuting and ejection, covering ejection at high altitude, parachute malfunctions (!), and ejection over land or sea.
First, we completed a parachute simulator event. It consists of a special virtual reality helmet that presents us with the sights of descending in a parachute while we hang in the harness. Via the helmet visuals, we are presented with common parachute malfunctions and are taught how to correct them - for example, if we have twisted paracords, we have to separate our rear risers (the rear straps connected to our harness) with our arms and bicycle kick to straighten everything out. If we do it right, the simulation reflects our success. It can be kind of funny to listen to students handle their particular problem ("Uh, I don't seem to have a parachute at all." "No, actually yours hasn't inflated. How do you correct for that again?"), but it is good training nonetheless.
Later, we got to go "redneck parasailing," which is basically parasailing behind a pickup truck in a field. Ironically, we do it in Alabama. We are attached to our parachute, then towed several hundred feet up into the air, and are released so we can practice landing correctly. Ideally, we land on the balls of our feet, then control our fall in such a way as to spread the force of hte impact on the side of our legs and spine, instead of absorbing it all with our feet and knees. It is basically a funny-looking controlled fall. The parasailing is of course very exilarating, but the landing was daunting - especially since the ground seemed to approach very quickly for all that I was wearing a parachute and all. I ended up hitting my head on the ground, but that was more embarrassing than anything else, and such scrapes were typical. Nobody got really hurt.
This weekend, a good friend of mine from TBS got married to his longstanding girlfriend in Bunkie, Louisiana. I drove the five hours out in my non-ejection seat car on Friday afternoon, and arrived in time for the rehearsal dinner. The wedding was Saturday, and was followed by a great reception. All the stereotypes about the "friendly and hospitable people of the south" are quite true - rarely have I met such friendly, happy, healthy-looking, and beautiful people as the two families I partied with. And I mean "party." They were eager to chat, unashamed to dance, and very disposed to drink. After the reception, we moved to the bar underneath the hotel we were staying at. This was a good idea until a drunkard attacked my friends sister, which nearly started a full-on, broken-bottle, 15-20 person bar brawl. Fortunately, the cops arrived before any punches were thrown, and the night turned out dramatic rather than painful. But even that was memorable and fun. The hometown crowd joked that we out-of-towners were getting exposed to a "real Louisiana wedding."
I remember well at TBS the great attachment I developed to the specific place of Quantico, Virginia and Washington, DC. For some reason, I tend to associate memories with places. One of the great themes in Catholic Philosophy (at least that I have studied) is that the world we live in nurtures us in faith and understanding. At Notre Dame I discovered what this meant by the rich beauty I found in the campus there, a result of both nature, such as sunsets over the dome, crisp golden autumn days, and new-fallen snow, and human investment, such as the striking and beautiful architecture of the campus and the careful land-scaping. In a way, my memories of events and people are localized in specific places, and I am surprised and lucky that I have found all those places beautiful. In fact, it is often the place itself that strikes me most positively during times of struggle, such as the hard schoolwork of Notre Dame or the tough physical training at TBS.
This all came back to me rather forcefully this weekend because almost every single Louisiana resident I met asked me if this was my first time in their state. They also asked (with more interest) whether I liked it there. I answered, truthfully, yes: there was no honest answer after meeting such lively people this weekend. But there are other attractions, too. I can personally confirm many Louisiana stereotypes: on the road to Bunkie, I counted only three other cars (that takes into account both directions of traffic); after about 30 minutes of driving on the road to Bunkie, I could hardly see out of my windshield for the vast number of bugs that were splattered across it; and I played a rather hectic game of slalom with the random possoms and turtles foolishly crossing the road from one side of the swamp to the other. It was all overwhelmingly "redneck." Yet there is a remarkable beauty as well - only in the field at TBS have I seen so many stars, or seen them so clearly, for example. And the people make a big difference to my perception of the place.
It is easy for me especially to fall into the Pathetic Fallacy when thinking and writing about these places. In my memory they are closely associated with emotions, which I end up associating in turn with the place itself. There is a kind of thick heaviness about the south now, that lingers in the humid air and manifiests in the choking, overgrown boughs. It lends a kind of carefree anonymity, as if each day bore no witness to the last, as if each event were cloaked or hidden or reduced by the solitude and density. By contrast, it seemed to emphasize the human events. I know what Evelyn Waugh meant when he spoke of Oxford: "It was this cloistral hush which gave our laugher its resonance, and carried it still, joyously, over the intervening clamor." It is admittedly a far cry from the clearness and freshness of the northwest - but it can be seductive.
I get the strong sense that the trials and opportunities of my military lifestyle - particularly in seeing different areas of the country - is necessary to my continued growth and maturity. My discoveries about places, with their rich complexity of landscape and people, are central to my experience. Spending time on the military base with my nose buried in a textbook temporarily removed me from this kind of activity. But it was going on all the time, I think - I noticed suddenly the rare glory of Pensacola evenings on the beach; it carried all the impact of a conversion. In that sense my brief weekend break between API and Primary was just the vacation I needed.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
The Imperfect Paradise
So I am in Pensacola. I've actually been here a couple of months, since I arrived here on December 18th of last year. I was confident, hopeful, and ready to begin Flight School...just as soon as I got back from Christmas leave. I was sad to leave Washington, DC, for I had found good friends there and fallen in love with the city itself. Yet the white beaches, the warm weather, and the prospect of flying made Pensacola seem like a paradise in comparison. And to top it off, I was to be living with my college room-mate. My future promised good things.
I wasn't disappointed. With a few exceptions (like today), the weather has been sunny and warm, and about once every two weeks it gets to beach-going weather for several days (consider it's the middle of winter). I drive around mostly with all my windows down, I grill my dinner on a barbecue most nights, I have a balcony that faces the sunset for evening drinks, if I like.
Yet Pensacola is in an area of Florida called "Southern Alabama." Indeed, it is directly below Alabama. And it feels very much like the deep south. The majority of buildings sprawled outside the small (pretty) urban center are ramshackle and ugly. The roads are in poor condition, and consist mostly of two-lane highways that wander aimlessly. Traffic lights are incomprehensible and long, and freeways are hidden away in inconvenient locations. Besides, they don't seem to head anywhere important. Consequently, it takes about three minutes to travel one mile of distance to your destination. I live about ten miles from downtown Pensacola, which is to say at least 30 minutes away.
I was also surprised to discover that I could not begin Flight School for medical reasons. A condition I was diagnosed with as a child popped up on my initial screening which needed to be waived before I could be medically cleared. I had received a waiver before, when I joined the military in the first place, but flight surgeons have their own rules. So I was put on indefinite hold pending the result of my waiver application. Life in this situation wasn't bad, since I had no work to do. On most days, my only requirement was to call into my Command in the morning and tell them (literally) that I was alive, whereupon I was free until the next morning. Every Monday I had to physically muster at 0800, and once I stood Duty. But the bottom line is that I didn't know whether or not I could stay here in Flight School. And I did very much want to stay.
Since I was unsure of my position, I wanted to wait before I settled in. I tried reading books during the day, distracted myself with video games, developed a daily exercise regime, and even took up ballroom dancing. This last one is perhaps the most entertaining, though I am still a beginner. But yesterday I received my waiver and today I was medically cleared for Flight, so I can bid farewell to idleness and join the working world again. I do not begin classes until next Friday, so I have a little over a week to finish buying my furniture and study materials, get in shape for the PT tests, and finish the books I have started. By all accounts flight school is quite rigorous.
So there is my story! I will try to be somewhat regular, but I doubt training here will be as interesting as TBS. Though springtime is on the way, and as the weather promises to get much hotter I shall be recreating more and more at the beach, located about 10 minutes away. So wish me luck!
I wasn't disappointed. With a few exceptions (like today), the weather has been sunny and warm, and about once every two weeks it gets to beach-going weather for several days (consider it's the middle of winter). I drive around mostly with all my windows down, I grill my dinner on a barbecue most nights, I have a balcony that faces the sunset for evening drinks, if I like.
Yet Pensacola is in an area of Florida called "Southern Alabama." Indeed, it is directly below Alabama. And it feels very much like the deep south. The majority of buildings sprawled outside the small (pretty) urban center are ramshackle and ugly. The roads are in poor condition, and consist mostly of two-lane highways that wander aimlessly. Traffic lights are incomprehensible and long, and freeways are hidden away in inconvenient locations. Besides, they don't seem to head anywhere important. Consequently, it takes about three minutes to travel one mile of distance to your destination. I live about ten miles from downtown Pensacola, which is to say at least 30 minutes away.
I was also surprised to discover that I could not begin Flight School for medical reasons. A condition I was diagnosed with as a child popped up on my initial screening which needed to be waived before I could be medically cleared. I had received a waiver before, when I joined the military in the first place, but flight surgeons have their own rules. So I was put on indefinite hold pending the result of my waiver application. Life in this situation wasn't bad, since I had no work to do. On most days, my only requirement was to call into my Command in the morning and tell them (literally) that I was alive, whereupon I was free until the next morning. Every Monday I had to physically muster at 0800, and once I stood Duty. But the bottom line is that I didn't know whether or not I could stay here in Flight School. And I did very much want to stay.
Since I was unsure of my position, I wanted to wait before I settled in. I tried reading books during the day, distracted myself with video games, developed a daily exercise regime, and even took up ballroom dancing. This last one is perhaps the most entertaining, though I am still a beginner. But yesterday I received my waiver and today I was medically cleared for Flight, so I can bid farewell to idleness and join the working world again. I do not begin classes until next Friday, so I have a little over a week to finish buying my furniture and study materials, get in shape for the PT tests, and finish the books I have started. By all accounts flight school is quite rigorous.
So there is my story! I will try to be somewhat regular, but I doubt training here will be as interesting as TBS. Though springtime is on the way, and as the weather promises to get much hotter I shall be recreating more and more at the beach, located about 10 minutes away. So wish me luck!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)