So it was last Tuesday that I left my erstwhile home in Iwakuni, Japan for the long-awaited trip back across the Pacific. I was returning to my real home in San Diego, and let me tell you that I'd been looking forward very forward to it. I was supposed to arrive three days ago, but due to the intervention of a little misfortune and happenstance, I was unavoidably detained elsewhere (not that it's all bad, I promise). At this point, I've been traveling for five days - or rather six, since I went from Wednesday back into Tuesday while crossing the International Date Line. Which is a bit strange, I think, the whole having to set the date on your watch back. It makes the concept of continuous and linear time seem kinda silly. In any case, these past six days have brought me up short on Laetare Sunday.
Appropriately enough, it was St. Patrick's Day that I lived through twice, commonly one of revelry in the United States. Now I like St. Patrick quite a bit (being part Irish by birth and all Irish by attendance at Notre Dame), and I'm not averse to raising the odd glass or two in his memory, especially on his dedicated feast day, but sadly this day always occurs during Lent, when I make the habit (or have for several years) of jumping back on the wagon as a form of fasting. That being a big part of Lent and all. So this year, despite having two feast days instead of one, I honored him soberly. I don't think he'll mind--after all, as a Saint the old boy probably did some fasting of his own.
Anyway, it's appropriate that we got St. Patrick's Day twice because the feasting and imbibery therein associated fits quite nicely with the general theme of our recent WestPac. I've mentioned this before, but for a crew of young, healthy, and motivated men and women, taken lately from their loved ones and accustomed society, there's little to do but try to make the best of a new situation the easy way. And that's done primarily with alcohol, with Western Pacific watering holes like Tokyo, Korea, Okinawa, and Australia having in abundance. So without divulging anything too incriminating, I can say only that we made plenty of fun over the course of the deployment, with some parties perhaps even welcoming that particular type of enjoyment all the more for certain stateside restrictions that didn't apply overseas (though of course I personally cannot recall any such individual myself). So though we greeted our impending return home with considerable joy and eager anticipation, we were a bit nostalgic for our happy WestPac fraternity, forged by the trials and drinking games of WestPac, which would soon be broken by the presence of loved ones and the inevitable march of the Marine Corps, and therefore set forth from Iwakuni with the honest intent of making the most of our last days on deployment.
Our chief excitement in this regard was reserved for Hawaii, which by a glorious and unexpected grace the powers-that-be had designated as the site of our "catch-up" day--firstly, for to fix any broken aircraft and allow tardy ones to catch up, and secondly to allow us fragile aircrew to "readjust our internal clocks" and "reset our Circadian Rhythms," because apparently such things were knocked off kilter during the course of transiting seven time zones in two days. Wouldn't want the men with $40 million of high-tech, deadly government property to be tired or jet-lagged. No, sir, that wouldn't do at all. A positively careless gamble with the public purse. So in the interests of prudence and fiscal discipline we gleefully landed at Honolulu International and rushed headlong to the relaxation of Waikiki beach. Not but what the ongoing spring break didn't motivate us a little bit too.
What a fitting end to WestPac! we thought (and gushed to one another). A free evening out on the town, with no required wakeup the next morning, and a whole free day after that--well! what an opportunity for celebration (and perhaps other things as well). It was a perfect situation, really. One final big push, one final memorable night, then at long last, home. And I did make the most of it, soaking up the ambiance and scenery of a popular local restaurant that first night, then visiting the USS Arizona Memorial the next morning (which, I tell you, makes a man right solemn and pondersome), then hiking up the local volcano Diamondhead that afternoon for some famous Hawaiian scenery and a mighty pretty view of the city.
The next morning, my pilot and I started up our aircraft just fine until we realized it required a little extra servicing before it could fly. So we settled ourselves in for a bit of a wait, knowing that we would miss the first launch but certainly would make the second -- no big deal at all. A small hiccup, totally canceled by a timely substitution. Shortly, we taxied out and took off, and finally were on our way!
Now the tanker assigned to us for this final leg was of the KC-10 variety, and it was set up to dispense fuel from two wing-mounted pods. The reason being that some fifty-pound brains (i.e. nerds) had determined that when out around the middle of our route from Hawaii to the US (and some one thousand miles from land in any direction), cycling any more than three jets on a hose could result in a situation where players might not have enough gas to reach terra firma at all, which would be bad, all things considered. Ejection over the middle of the ocean is not conducive to rescue or survival, given that the ejectees are relying on a mere chance that some boat is at hand to pull them out. So the two-hose configuration of our Tanker was required in order to safely nurse all six aircraft home. Unfortunately, said wing-mounted hoses are not altogether reliable. But more on that in a second.
So we had ourselves a plan. And it seemed to be working, too. The first aircraft hooked up to his basket just fine. The second one, however... well, the second aircraft barely got his probe into the other basket when, to our united horror and dismay, the hose bowed ominously. To quick to be countered (but to our wondering eyes seeming quite slow) a wave flicked along the length of the hose, then rebounded from the Tanker's wing and ripped the probe right off our jet. There was suddenly a lot of fuel spraying from the now useless hose, or at least there was for the very long couple seconds it took the tanker guys to shut off the flow. And suddenly we were down to one hose.
So there was to be no homecoming that day for that aircraft, nor (as it turns out) for my pilot or me neither, because The Rules Governing Military Aviation clearly state that all fighter aircraft must travel with mutual support (i.e. another aircraft), and we were lucky enough to be chosen as the escorting aircraft. It was a turn back to Hawaii for our two jets, to await the fixing of one broken probe and the irritating whimsy of the Air Force, from whom we now needed another Tanker.
As you might expect, I use the phrase "lucky enough" with some sarcasm, because after six long months home had started looking pretty nice. Especially the part about not living out of a suitcase. In fact, I'd worked myself up into a considerable state of excitement over the whole homecoming, and well to turn around like that was frankly a disappointment. By the time we touched back down at Honolulu I had worked myself back up into a right foul mood. However, being (still somewhat) young and resilient, and being unable to ignore the increasingly excited company of my fellows (nor the good weather neither), I gradually simmered down and began to enjoy the prospect of some more days on vacation.
And the next couple days exceeded my expectations. We did plenty of sightseeing and even caught some nice Waikiki nightlife -- especially as two of those "couple days" were Friday and Saturday. But wouldn't you know that Sunday always follows quick on the heels of the weekend, and with it the inevitable obligation of Sunday Mass. Of course, by phrasing it that way I don't mean to indicate that I dislike Sunday Mass, but ] after the late weekend of unmitigated Spring Break, it was a little bit more of a transition than usual. Required reorganizing the mind, like.
Fortunately, there was an easily identifiable church not 10 minutes (walking distanc) from my hotel, which looked like one of those rigidly beautiful structures built for worship in the 1950s and 60s. Triangular in structure, with triangular side windows of stained glass, it is aggressively simple and points aggressively upwards. It has a new, modern, and severe feeling--all of which enhances and makes conspicuous the soft, beautiful scenes depicted in the stained glass. The side windows each illustrate episodes of the Gospel, and the entire front of the church is a giant stained-glass picture of the Church's patron, St. Augustine. It was cool and dim inside. It was also relatively full, which I found surprising in a parish that caters mainly to tourists.
Now, like any good Catholic I understand intellectually that Mass is something in which I participate, but which does not require my participation. I've been instructed that the Mass is essentially whole and complete whether or not a congregation is present at all. Likewise, a Mass is not less valuable for the absence of music (or the use of substandard music) nor even for quality of homily preached. All that notwithstanding, I (like many fellow Irishmen) personally hold some rather strong opinions about the whole affair, especially during special season like Lent. Consequently I prepared to cock a rather jaundiced and cynical eye on this event.
But my first impression was one of humility, as I realized I had forgotten what day it was: Laetare Sunday, when in the midst of Lent the Catholic Church calls upon it's members to be joyful in remembrance that past the fasting and penance lies the hope of Easter. More humility was dished up later on when I found my mind wandering during the Gospel reading. Before you go getting all judgmental on me, however, you should know that it was the optional reading provided for integration with an RCIA class, and it was a long one -- but still, that's a pretty poor excuse. It wasn't even boring or anything; it told the (remarkable) story of Jesus curing the blind man on the Sabbath. Perhaps I was a bit petulant in my sub-conscience, given that I am used to (and sort of expect) nice short easily digestible readings. Not that that's any better an excuse, however. I mean, the Gospel is the most important text there is when it comes to Church, and it's pretty sad if I can't pay attention for fifteen minutes instead of five.
In consequence of all that humility, I was pretty sullen when I sat down to hear the homily. My mood was not improved by the fact that the priest has a strong accent. It wasn't that he spoke poor English, mind -- his grammar was correct, his sentences eloquent, and his ideas coherent -- it was that deciphering his actual words required just a little extra concentration. Concentration I'd rather have used berating myself, what with me being the inordinately proud Catholic that I am. So with a barely audible sigh of frustration, I swung my arm back over the pew and and settled in grumpily to listen.
What I heard was surprising. The priest directed our attention to the many references to "sight" or "seeing" in the Gospel, and reminded us that the quick, commercialized modern world offers us an overwhelming stream of images --advertisements, television programs, magazines, movies, music, and books -- all which may conflict with or distract from the image of God. He asked if we were choosing to see the right images, and explained how "the Jews" of the Gospel reading (which occupy the role of Jesus' own people , which essentially means us) had chosen blindness by refusing to see the right image, the sign he worked for them in the curing. There is no blindness, he admonished, like the blindness of those who either refuse to see what they are looking at or who refuse to look at all. He concluded with a twofold mandate: first, that we reject images that distract or detract from God, and second that we actively participate in sacrament and prayer -- thus we might not be blind to God.
Now I was brought up respectful and more often than not will address an older gentleman or lady by "sir" or "ma'am," respectively. It therefore stands to reason that I generally hold priests in esteem as well. But there was something extra worthy about that priest in Waikiki: it took some intestinal fortitude to stand in front of a church full of Spring Breaker and tell them they are looking at the wrong images. I mean, it's a well-known fact that the images of Hawaii are pretty spectacular, whether you're into the natural beauty of the islands themselves or the possibly natural beauty of Hawaiians and/or other tourists. Furthermore, nobody on vacation wants to hear a lecture, especially one that implicitly questions their very reason for being there. Yet I knew as I heard him speak that I needed to hear each word he said, as as far as I could tell the entire congregation had the same reaction: there seemed to be a lot humility and inspiration going around. I guess hearing the truth has that kind of effect on people.
So there's nothing like a bit of good bit of preaching to get you to think about your priorities, and I was painfully aware that I had been a just a mite too caught up in having fun, and rather reprehensibly unconcerned with spiritual and filial duties. And that had been my condition since starting the deployment. There, at the end, it was time to turn around and start working on meaningful relationships like family and old friends, and actually enter spirit of Lent. Which is, after all, partially about fasting and serving others; two things that I pretty much ignored throughout WestPac.
So, Laetare indeed! Our delay, such a disappointment to me at first, has turned out providential. The headlong rush of deployment carried me in some ways far from my values, but inside that stern beautiful church the illusions I had been chasing were exposed and melted, briefly, in the face of holier images. So I will begin both penance and fasting in cheerful earnest -- fasting from the excesses I'd grown used to and penance to correct my previous spiritual lassitude, all in the joyful hope of Easter, when Christ will rise again before me and renew the great promise of heaven.
