Cross-countries, moving, and wildfires

The past several weeks have been very busy - so busy, in fact, that I have not seen the last four Notre Dame games, which for those of you who know me well is quite rare. I'm not quite complaining, either. I split my time between my job at the squadron, often spending twelve or so hours a day there, and the St. Brigid's young adult group. And being so busy is certainly having a positive effect on me, though it can be superficially frustrating at times (such as when I want to watch my favorite TV shows).

On the flying side, there was a two-week period where I went on three cross-countries: the first to Phoenix, the second to Las Vegas, and the third to Yuma, AZ (though that one was more of necessity than by choice). The whole idea of a cross country is to take a weekend with a jet to get training done. The positive from the squadron's point of view is that training flights take place on non-working days, freeing up more sorties during the week, and cross countries allow flights to get done without maintenance support. The positive from the aircrew point of view is that we get to travel on the weekend to places like Phoenix or Vegas. And it is fun to fly around unfamiliar places - the sense of detachment and appreciation that comes from looking on new cities and the countryside from the air is always exhilarating.

The Phoenix trip occurred during the week, because Miramar Airfield shut down that particular Wednesday for the upcoming weekend airshow (October 12-14). That day we flew over as a two-ship, or section, from San Diego in two legs, stopping each time to dogfight each other. Those kinds of flights are my favorite: high-G, intense, competetive, and just plain fun. We made it to Phoenix without incident, checked into our hotel for the night, and went out for a quiet evening of college football over steaks (I was pleased to see Navy beat Pitt in overtime) and turned in early. The next morning, we got up, drove to the airport for two more flights; the first being another dogfight, the second being an air-to-ground roll in practice flight (an explanation of which can be found in this post). That night--Thursday--we went out with the ASU kids in Tempe, spending our evening at a bar ironically called "The Library." It was decorated with bookshelves (and real books!), but it served strong drinks and boasted the entertainment of an 80s Metal cover band called Metal Head--which meant we rocked out to Def Leppard and Van Halen tunes for the rest of the night. It was a little surreal to be back in the college atmosphere, but it was one of the better nights I have experienced since the nightlife of Pensacola.

We recovered Friday morning over a full breakfast spread, kindly (and anonymously) purchased for us by a patron of the hotel who noticed us in our uniforms. That was the first time I have ever been treated specially for serving in the military, and it was humbling--I realized personally that while wearing the uniform I am the steward of others' respect and hope. I was also very grateful, and thus motivated I joined my comrades for our two flights back to San Diego. On these legs we fought each other again, and landed Friday afternoon exhausted but satieted with high-performance flying--just in time for the weekend.

That weekend was one of labor for me, as I moved from my La Jolla residence to a San Diego apartment. I moved chiefly because my lease in La Jolla was up, and my previous room-mate had a friend living downtown that he wanted to move in with. As it turns out, the move is a positive one: I am renting a bigger appartment with a closer friend for a lower price. My new room-mate, Brooks, had his girlfriend, brother, and sister-in-law help us move everything across town, and I had some friends from St. Brigid's Young Adult group assist, and overall it was pretty fun. As when the anonymous hotel patron bought me breakfast, I was humbled by the friendship and charity present I found in my friends, who gave up their Saturday to help me move my belongings (in the rain, no less).

The next weekend saw the Las Vegas trip, which was a little different from our jaunt to Phoenix. My part in the plan was to get LAT qualified. LAT is a military acronym meaning Low Altitude Tactics (I think), and next to dogfighting is the most fun I think you can have in a fighter jet. It involves raging around scarce hundreds of feet above the ground, diving through valleys and pulling hard over ridges. And like dogfighting, it is hard work-- we pull a lot of Gs in LAT because it is important to keep the aircraft's speed up, in case we have to quickly climb away from the ground--and high speeds mean high Gs when you turn. It is also very warm, because the air coming into the cockpit is ground temperature and does little to mitigate the heat of the sun coming through the thick canopy. Each flight is roughly like an hour-long workout. We flew two sorties that day, stopping in between at Edwards Air Force Base (and landing behind an F-22, which was kind of cool). Flying into Vegas itself was extremely busy, since we have to compete with all the commercial carriers and the corporate jets for airspace and tarmac. Yet despite the intensity of the approach, I couldn't help notice in awe the gigantic multicolored desert cliffs that surround the city, cast into sharp dramatic relief by the setting sun. I always get a sense of awe flying over the high desert--it seems to be all jagged ridges and blasted lakebeds like a foretaste of the apocalypse. Nearly as impressive is the massive metropolis springing out of bare desert, tucked into a deep valley and bordered by a giant still lake. It looked like something out of the Arabian Nights.

Vegas is kind of a destination for military aviators. The airports there are reasonably kind to us, the city itself is reasonably close to the restricted airspace where we do our training, and Vegas itself offers a lot of entertainment. That Friday night we were staying in the Stratosphere hotel, and decided that we would "stay local" - eat dinner there and go afterwards to the Stratosphere nightclub. Before that, however, I was subjected to a "hasty callsign review," where amongst much drinking "Vigo" was rejected and I was awarded the moniker "ECMO-2." An ECMO is the backseater in an EA-6B prowler, and is responsible for jamming enemy radar signals. As such, ECMOs are reputed to be nerds. Evidently I give off the same impression. After that was over, we went to the nightclub where I happily sang along to all the 80s music they played until I couldn't stand up any more and went to bed.

The next morning I didn't have to fly, so I was free to recover and sightsee as I pleased. It was actually a very depressing day. The temperature was cool--which I wasn't prepared for--and I was fighting off the nauseating after-effect of the previous evening. I was struck by how quickly and disconcertingly grand impressive casino facades and sumptuous casino lobbies gave way to the tawdry glitter and cheap furnishings of the casino floors themselves. I was vaguely disgusted by the expensive design shops built next to banks of industrial vending machines and airport-style shops hawking magazines, ice cream, candy, and soft drinks. The entire city seems designed to be overwhelming and beautiful on the outside, but crushing on the inside. I was shocked and saddened to see elderly men and women gambling and drinking alone at slot machines, and easily frustrated young men with bored pretty young women aimlessly shopping and gambling at quiet, bitter blackjack tables. If Vegas is supposed to be a center of entertainment and fun, so why are so many of it's pilgrims unhappy? I spent nearly the whole day lonely and depressed.

Then I went to Mass. The Cathedral for the diocese of Las Vegas sits almost directly on the Strip, just north of the Wynn casino. It is a dramatic, geometric building that looks to have been built in the late '50s. The facade had a mural showing three men paying homage to a Christ in apotheosis, accompanied by the exhortations "Prayer...Penance...Peace." Inside, the retablo behind the altar consisted of another, pure art-deco mural showing what I assume to be the resurrection--a noble, powerful, youthful, clean-shaven Jesus (identifiable only by the holes in hands, feet, and side) sprang up from the tabernacle in a burst of vaguely atomic light, surrounded by similarly virile angels, spreading his hands toward the ceiling. It was unlike any religous art I had ever seen. However, the trappings on the altar themselves were beautifully carved and expensive-looking, and the church itself was remarkably clean and well-maintained. It occurred to me later that the diocese of Las Vegas was probably quite wealthy. Despite the jarring decorations, the mass itself was orthodox and heartfelt, and preached to a full congregation. It felt good to shut out the huge palaces on the Strip and retreat for an hour into familiar church hymns and rituals. The depression and the sadness of my day melted away, and I exited the church in a more cheerful frame of mind.

Stepping out the church door, I was greeted by a gritty blast of cool dry desert wind. The palm trees were bowing toward the horizontal and sheets of dust raged howling up the Strip. Well-dressed gamblers and partygoers, hunched against the assault of sand and air, scurried along to get cabs or get inside. I slitted my eyes and strode as best I could down to the Flamingo, two miles to the south, where I was staying for the night. I passed the silent, wind-lashed fountain outside the Bellagio and inwardly rejoiced at this desert windstorm that had thankfully shut down the painful, frenetic pace of the city. Returning to my hotel, I ate a nice, quiet dinner with my room-mate, declined my comrades' offer to go to the Playboy Club, and retired early.

The following morning we simply ferried the jets home from Vegas in one trip. We did a low-level (more LAT), which was fun, and I got to see some of the fires in their very early states as we flew in from the east, but on the whole it was simply good to be back in the solid reality of my own routine and apartment. After two cross countries following so shortly after each other, I looked forward to a week to settle back in, get back in a routine, and not have to live out of a suitcase. But providence had other plans. That week the fires struck San Diego county. Monday morning the pilots in the squadron flew the jets to Arizona (to get them out of the danger zone) while the WSOs--like me--stayed back to run the squadron. There was much to do. My job turned out standing Tower ODO, as the officer in charge of running the airfield itself. It is largely a supervisory role and it isn't too difficult. Mostly I just make sure that the crews who operate the actual control tower, the refueling equipment, and the fire trucks are all doing their job in accordance with the airfield schedule. That day I had to start the field preparing for the eventual arrival of the President, along with his assorted limosines and helicopters, all of which were flown in Tuesday night by Air Force transport aircraft. It was exciting to be a part of that kind of planning, and part of the firefighting effort--even if all I did was supervise the support of real firefighters.

The following day the squadron was shut down, so I sort of had the day off. The day after that, Wednesday, the jets flew back in and I was asked to fly to Yuma as part of a training detachment. Even when fires threaten our home town, training must go on. Those of us who went were lived in areas not threatened by fires. The trip itself was supposed to be a quick one: fly over Wednesday night, complete the training flights Thursday morning, be back that afternoon. But all of our jets broke. And they broke hard. We spent Thursday trying to fix them, reluctantly stayed Thursday night again in Yuma, and found out Friday that the maintenance would take probably several days, so we rented a car and drove three hours back to San Diego. Though the trip ended up a frustrating experience in many ways, I was surprised and humbled by how well my fellow aircrew and the maintenance guys handled it. You learn a lot about the quality of your comrades when you watch them deal with adversity. Those guys I was stuck with complained a lot, but not in a negative way. They did it to be funny, and they do it in spite of working very hard to fix what is wrong. They didn't whine or give up. As a result, the trip turned out to be kind of fun. I was reminded again that I am in the company of true professionals.

The events of the last three weeks or so have left me with a wealth of experience. I am not sure how it all fits together. Phoenix, Vegas, Mass in Vegas, moving, wildfires, getting stuck in Yuma--I am fortunate to have enjoyed and learned so much. As a new guy to the squadron, I get the more thankless tasks and the rougher hours, but it seems there is a bright side.

Still, I hope I can go at least a couple of weeks without a cross country.

An historically bad season

Notre Dame football is making a lot of people happy by the season it is having. Zero and five for the first time in history? how the mighty have fallen. Certainly one would expect ND to do better, after all they hold the most national championships and heisman trophies, and the second-best winning percentage. They have been a major heavyweight on the college football landscape for nearly a hundred years.

Notre Dame fans are trying to deal with this bitter autumn. Some seek a pound of flesh: after watching the Irish lose to Michigan State two weeks ago, one fan struck up a conversation with me where he declared several times that Charlie Weis, our head coach, "has got to go." ESPN agrees--and has pointed out smugly that since ND fired Willingham after three years, surely Weis should (in a fair world) be given the same treatment. This is natural. But I think it is the wrong approach, given that Charlie has a historically inexperienced team. The reasons for and consequences of which are explained very well here. Certainly ND has shown some promise on the gridiron, successfully excecuting long passes, good runs, and solid defence. The consistency required to win football games--and eliminating penalties--will come with more experience. I am far from despair about the state of the Fighting Irish.

It is more disturbing, however, to find that some Irish fans are developing indifference. They have stopped watching or even following the games, perhaps as a way to insulate themselves from the disappointment of losing. That's understandable, but ultimately wrong. To my mind, we earn the right to be fans in the bad seasons. Solidarity is better developed through adversity and struggle than victory. Of course, one could argue that these fans are still supporting the team internally. But a great pope once said that love is mere sentimentality without sacrifice, and I think that "supporting a team" means making the sacrifice to follow the team, or at least continue to support them. To become indifferent is to abandon them.

Now I have made the argument before that we take football so seriously at Notre Dame because it represents everything we strive for at the university: excellence and righteousness. Though love and responsibility for a football team is far less important than most other obligations we contract during our lives, abandoning it when it ceases to be valuable, or pleasurable, or successful speaks poorly of our ability to support anything else we love. For us fans, Notre Dame should be our football team, win or lose. And when responding to any comments made about this terrible season--whether good-natured cracks to dark, sincere joy at our predicament--we should always make clear that we care deeply enough about this team to feel strongly disappointed (or excited, if fortune turns).