Finding Love in California

California has always been an ideal for me. Since I was old enough to understand that there existed a larger world than my family, home and school, I'd heard that it was wonderful; that the weather there was perfect; that there was almost too much in the way of recreation. It had a reputation as a "fast" place, the location of Hollywood and the seat of much wealth and luxury. There was the added romance of recent social and ethnic tensions: student riots, race riots, slums and gangs, East LA. It had a historical significance to me as it was initially "colonized" by strict Catholic Spanish missionaries, then later built up by gold rushers and capitalists, and in this century the destination of many service members on their way to fight in the Pacific, Korea, and Viet Nam. There was a power in the word "California" that somehow reconciled the disparate ideas of social liberalism, military towns (good and bad), rampant capitalism, racial tensions, incredible wealth, and raw physical beauty. It called to me in my youth, whispering of adventure, opportunity, and glamour. I wanted to live there, at least for a little while. I wanted to experience California.

Thanks to the military, I received that opportunity. In 2007 I received orders to a training squadron based out of San Diego, California. Even better, my follow-on orders would be to a fleet squadron based in the same place. I was looking at spending four years of my youth in what general regard and my own fantasy painted as a paradise. That November I set out for my first real road trip, the three-day drive from Pensacola to San Diego and the welcome next installment in this military adventure.

I enjoyed the drive very much. Hours on the road were something new and fairly exciting, as were the dingy motels in which I nervously slept each night. My excited eyes welcomed the sights of Louisiana bayous, Texas oil fields (and the posted 80-mile-per-hour speed limits there), and the barren desert mountains of New Mexico, Arizona, and California. By a fortuitous coincidence, when I reached the suburbs of San Diego on the third day of my trip I found myself driving up the "Semper Fi" highway along the east side of Miramar while F/A-18s flew into land over head. Never in a long career of subconscious attempts to imitate this movie have I ever felt more like a character in Top Gun. That coupled with the confluence of ocean, hills, greenery and desert made me believe I had finally arrived in Paradise. Hello Southern California!

Over the years I've lived here, I've experienced quite a bit of the area. My flying has taken me over San Francisco, the California coast, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, to Phoenix, Scottsdale, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Fresno in the central valley. I have driven California Highway 1 down the coast. I have spent lazy days watching surfers compete in the crowded break off San Diego beaches, run beneath rugged cliffs that line the coast under Torrey Pines golf course, sailed the Gulf of Santa Catalina, walked the trails of the coastal mountains, eaten plenty of "healthy" food that happens to be organic or vegan, and explored the paradoxical array of night-clubs, dive-bars, and exclusive restaurants that make up (seemingly) the lion share of California entertainment. I've certainly made some good friends here and enjoyed my time immensely. And yet In the months after I returned from a recent long deployment to the Far East, I discovered myself surprisingly ambivalent toward this place--perhaps even eager to leave.

Like anywhere else in the world, California has it's goods and bads. Perhaps unusually, there are few "natural" bad things about it - no hurricanes, difficult winters, chance of flooding, or (unless you live in the Bay Area) even really earthquakes. The negatives about California are all artificial, imposed by the people who live there. So while the land is rugged and pretty, even stunning, I found it hard to reconcile myself to the jaded nature of society here. Except for little enclaves here and there (like my squadron or my church) there is a glaring dearth of warmth and friendliness to be found in the people I meet. They are all very comely, certainly, but they seem vaguely overdressed and fragile, as if they are more concerned with looking "correct" than looking "nice" or "respectable." They are, on the surface, very nice - they say "please" and "thank you," but yet manage to make those phrases sound both rude and contemptuous. They are appallingly rude to waiters and store clerks. Their fun seems forced, as if the joy they experience is carefully controlled to conform with some standard, and therefore doesn't quite come from their hearts. It seems sad that a people can spend so much time worrying about how they look or act, and so much more time actively making themselves a certain way, and yet get so little enjoyment out of it. It's like they've all resigned themselves to the fact that they're as happy as they'll ever be in their shallow unambitious world of luxury.

Though I had a close group of friends with whom I shared many interests (foremost being our Catholicism, shared military experiences, and our love of college football in general and Notre Dame football specifically), by the summer of 2008 it was obvious that separation was inevitable. Some friends were heading out on deployments or even moving duty stations altogether. Others were entering the kind of serious relationships that occur after college and a certain amount of time living alone as a young professional. Truth be told I envied the latter. Between the slowly changing dynamics of my relationships in San Diego and the social character of California itself I was growing weary of a "single life." It is certainly exciting to be young and independent, but eventually I found that bars, restaurants, and beaches look mostly the same the world over and I yearned for something less transitory in my life and relationships. I was tired the constant change, no matter how slowly it was occurring, and I wanted to hold on to something more stable. I was in fact, and probably subconsciously, looking exactly for the kinds of serious relationships into which so many of my friends were entering. This consideration made me glad to deploy to Japan (which I did in the fall of 2008), because it was a chance to pare down my life and occupy myself with more immediate tasks--it was a chance to push a growing loneliness away.

Deployment was in many ways a struggle. I have only tasted the barest sip of the bitter loneliness felt by deployed service members who leave loved ones behind, for as I was still independent the solitary hours were to some degree a familiar experience. But the time away from home, immersed as I was in a difficult job and forced to spend time with (and get along with) tough-minded and equally independent squadron mates, was more a blessing. There is something redemptive and cleansing about suffering, a chance to forget old problems for new and take satisfaction in solving the problems and surviving the difficult times. And there was certainly plenty of fun to be had flying in new parts of the world and enjoying the unique freedom and carelessness that attends membership in a tight group of comrades sent to a new and exciting place. I returned home in March 2009 eager to re-engage California and make the most of my remaining time there. I vaguely intended to make existing friendships stronger with the knowledge that as they developed new relationships of their own, "stronger" wasn't going to necessarily mean "more available."

Initially, to my disappointment, I seemed to fall back into exactly the same incomplete life I had left seven months prior. In my long absence, new priorities had developed for my friends--some were newly engaged, others were newly married, still more had other friends besides. Nobody abandoned me, but there was nevertheless even less room in my old--and now shrinking--circle for me. So life goes: people grow and develop and change. There was no less love or friendship than before, just less availability. And I knew that as a good friend I needed to support my various friends' new changes. So I began insidiously accepting a smaller life than I wanted. I accepted more time alone and a smaller group of friends. And though I tried to remain cheerful, the melancholy of my situation made much more apparent the jaded and shallow character of California. It was a place of harsh light and dust, which I shut out by retreating into my parish "Young Adult" group, into my largely unfurnished apartment, and into books.

Then one summer week changed all this. Three events occurred which by themselves were hardly out of the ordinary, but which together began a process of growing appreciation and happiness. First, coincident with the weekend of July fourth, I was able to spend a day with my college and Pensacola room-mate. Though the substance of our encounters was noteworthy--one day we went sailing and followed it with a Cajun crawfish boil at his brother's house, the next we tied one on cathartically and royally in San Diego--I chiefly remember it as a moment recalling the great joy of our lives back in college and flight school. Those were the best years of my life at the time: carefree, young, healthy enough to often indulge in the kinds of pass-times that might otherwise result in sore-ness, injury, or hangover, and above all in the company of good friends.

Second, I spend the last part of that holiday weekend the beach with and as the guest of more old college friends. These were a newlywed couple, neither of whom I knew well at school (despite sharing their major and participating with them in ROTC), but with whom I nevertheless had much in common. Their hospitality, kindness, and cheer stunned me. We discussed books and life, their soon-to-be-born son, and enjoyed (again) the kind of company that had so recently been slipping away from me.

Third (and most significantly), I was contacted by a girl I knew from Notre Dame regarding something I wrote on the internet. Though of course I responded well to the compliments therein, I think I was more interested in the fresh and innocent character of the note. This connection was unfreighted with an impending departure, a common and competitive job, or a connection propped up at all by a common religion. There was no need for presence or determined and defensive courtesy, and I amid our far-reaching conversations I confided in her my spiritual malaise in California, aware that she had lived here after college but moved away after several years. The correspondence that developed between us was remarkable for it's fresh and sincere character, and as we traded stories and perspectives I began to see what initially brought her out to California, and learned that she was considering coming back after several years living in her hometown of Chicago. That was an idea that made California seem much more attractive as a place to live.

And in the glow of such company I started looking at California in a new light. My mind was suddenly filled with external ideas, jokes, and interests. It felt like my life was expanding again, that it was exciting and had a place here. I don't mean to suggest I thought my life was a dead end before; rather I had given up on much good ever happening in California. The "jaded and shallow" character certain Californians now seemed trivial and amusing. I realized anew how much there was to enjoy--between the company, the beach volleyball, the football, the cool ocean, and the sunlight I felt sudden sympathy with all those young men who passed through here during World War II, fell in love, and came back to settle after the war. It felt like paradise. The entire nature of the place is optimistic at heart: for the missionaries it was a place to found a new and holier society; for the gold rushers it was a place to make a fortune, for later settlers it was a place to be successful agriculturally in the abundant natural sunlight; for more recent refugees from failing economies, stifling cultures, and difficult winters of parts east it is simply a place to remake their life in a happier mold. There is an innocent appreciation common to such pilgrims, a profound enjoyment of California's beauties and opportunities that is rooted in their knowing full well the reason came her in the first place.

California seduces with beautiful scenery and beautiful people, and that may be in fact the true soul of the place anymore; and yet co-existing alongside it are good people both eager to live a happy life and ready to fully enjoy the weather, recreation, scenery, and simple unfettered lifestyle. Certainly, what previously hindered my enjoyment of California was a combination of my own pain at watching a close group of friends inevitably separate as they moved on with life and career and the conspicuous glitz and shallow ambition so obvious in California "society." Too rarely did I ignore those things enough to appreciate the good people and amazing opportunities for happiness here. I think I needed to be able to share this place and it's wonders with those good people--namely my friends, old and new.

I have written before of the importance of place. I have always been affected by places, by their beauty and by their romantic ugliness, but those are surface attributes. What I really notice, I believe, is the character of the place. That may be inspired by characteristics of the place itself, but it resides in and comes from the inhabitants. California is chiefly a place of dreams: beautiful dreams, nightmarish dreams, broken dreams, all kinds of dreams. People here are generally looking for something, but they have a kind of sojourning mindset--a cheerful acceptance of difficulty and an eager anticipation of their goal. They have hope. I temporarily lost that hope, but found it again during that providential summer week. As life grows and changes, new friends and comrades will step in to fill the void left by the departure or separation of the old, who will still be available (though not perhaps as they were before) but with no less friendship nonetheless. Most importantly I found a real love, something that has the potential to be greater than the closest friendship or the most bracing comrades. For the correspondence that began in late June grew into a long-distance date to Boston, and finally a real, committed, and exciting relationship. There is a great hope in that--a hope implicit in the presence of romantic love--that at least this relationship may not be transitory; that it might not be marked by inevitable separation but by a chance to do the growing and changing with a partner.

As I drove on to base today I watched the sun suddenly rise over the scrub hills of east Miramar, smite the buildings and my mirror, and momentarily blind me. It seemed to me that this sunrise, beautiful and gleaming golden between the soft layers of autumn clouds over the coastland, was the essence of California. It contained the hope of sunshine and optimism, the very hope that originally drew me and countless others. It was a reminder--though I scarce needed it--that finally, after two years of looking, I had found an ideal here in this land of dreams. I found what I sought. I found the hope of lasting happiness.

"...for those in peril on the sea"

The Naval Service is austere. The proposition--conducting battle on the ocean, a notoriously unpredictable and dangerous natural feature of this earth we inhabit--is difficult. The danger, though it rarely includes face-to-face combat, is both omnipresent and great. If a naval vessel manages to conduct its mission without running afoul of storms and shoals, its crew may yet suffer the effects of an industrial disaster leaving them stranded in open water, possibly on a burning or irradiated deck. In addition, of course, there is the threatening enemy, which may deliver ordnance on the surprisingly fragile and vulnerable ships themselves. All of which may lead to an ignominious death by sharks, starvation, or exposure.

It used to be a lot more dangerous, actually. Before satellite tracking of storms, vessels might easily and suddenly stumble into a hurricane or typhoon. Before the development of the steel-hulled and engine-driven ship, vessels burned more easily and were at the mercy of winds for navigation, including while actually engaged. Before the advent of large guns (reaching out tens of miles), ships often had to engage within 'boarding distance' of each other, requiring crews to find their way across the narrow gap between them and the enemy, taking the dual risk of being shot or carved up as they defenselessly swarmed across a gangplank or crushed between the hulls if the ships collided. Before neatly packaged cruise missiles and air-delivered naval ordnance, vessels had to fire many hundreds of high-explosive shells at each other, each taking a toll both on the firing platform and the target. Don't forget that the crews had to keep their respective vessels afloat despite the often appalling damage wrought by naval warfare, for after combat there is still the danger of storms and industrial failures--not to mention the chance of an enemy coming upon a crippled ship to finish her off.

There is certainly still danger. Missions may require penetrating storms or operating in shallow waters (like the Persian Gulf). Aviation operations are complicated and unforgiving, and the unwary sailor may be run over or sucked into a jet intake on a crowded carrier deck, cut in half by a split arresting cable, or blown off deck by jet exhaust just as the complacent pilot may lack the incredible required precision to put his or her aircraft on exactly the right spot on the pitching carrier deck on every landing to ensure a safe arrestment. Neatly packaged cruise missiles launch with a rocket booster, threatening their launch platform with rocket exhaust, while the radars required to guide them over long distances are powerful enough kill small birds (and presumably humans) who are too close to their emitters.

None of this danger takes into account the additional strain exerted by a life on the ocean. In order to be survivable, naval warships are not built for comfort or recreation. They are honeycombs of steel, built to sustain damage and yet function, with living and working spaces worked in around the armor, weaponry, and engines (and aviation paraphernalia, if the ship happens to be a carrier). The manpower requirements of operating the myriad systems for a complete twenty-four hour schedule require that as many sailors as possible live in the cramped quarters. The younger sailors won't even have their own bunk, often--they'll share it with a comrade on another shift. The ship must be kept free of rust, which means chipping paint, and tidy to allow for maximum efficiency in combat. There must be constant drills which pull crewmembers out of bed during their few hours of rest to prepare for possible disaster - firefighting, man-overboard recovery, and impending combat. Because it is a vastly complicated piece of machinery, often utilized to its design envelope or strained by the vagaries of the sea, things constantly need maintenance and repair. Because any crew-member may be killed or lost, the crew must conduct training so as many sailors as possible can perform a given job. All of which, of course, must be taken care of whenever free time comes up between the more important task of conducting the mission--whether that mission is a simple sea lane patrol or active combat operations.

The sailors who run these risks and suffer this difficult lifestyle are by necessity a disciplined and professional bunch. They bear the thankless burden of protecting the world's oceans, ostensibly for our own merchant shipping as the movement of goods is necessary to our economy. They do so in trying conditions and much danger, ready if required to protect our assets (and people) by force or to quickly take the fight to our enemy, restricting their movement of materiél and threatening their coastal cities. It's a valid threat our Navy poses to potential enemies, considering that most of the earth's surface is water and most of the population of the earth lives close enough to a coast to be within naval striking distance. It has probably never been calculated how much real deterrent a capable navy provides. It certainly isn't often considered in general society or the halls of power, where the vast movement of goods that brings cars and electronics and clothes to local stores is taken for granted and where the Navy, chiefly operating far from the eyes of the media and the world at large, seems to be considered little more than an expensive and probably unnecessary military toy. These sailors perform their tasks and exercise their values--honor, courage, and commitment--in the strained and difficult confines of small ships, alone upon the great and wild seas. They are often remembered only by their loved ones, who hope and pray for their safety without the comfort of constant telephone contact, a more recent luxury afforded to ground forces. They compete for our funding and resources with more visible brethren, whose service is evident in airplanes flying over our cities and soldiers living in our neighborhoods. And they often fail to get the money they need.

Due to military cutbacks the Navy has had to decrease the amount of ships it builds and maintains. In a response to the shrinking demand, the naval shipyards have cut production ability. Now the USS Enterprise will not complete its required overhaul on schedule, which will in turn require two ships to extend their deployment two more months. Instead of six months at sea, those crews will serve eight. It is perhaps not particularly significant, for there have been longer and more difficult deployments in the history of the service. The sailors in question will no doubt follow their esteemed forefathers and continue to serve with dedication, perfection, and without asking for pity. Their families will no doubt swallow their sadness and frustration and continue living a little longer without their loved ones close. Such is the reward and virtue of those Americans who decide to give their youth and maturity to a difficult service. But it seems a pity that we as a nation value our security and their sacrifice so little that we can spare so little of our vast resources on their vital mission, which requires them to spend even more of their own selves executing that mission anyway. For the mission must be accomplished. There is no compromise on that, either in the ethos of the service or the unforgiving evaluation of the nation.

Elsewhere are the details of how a modern military is essential to a nation's health and survival, and how it must be built upon foundation of public support and industrial capability. Yet we blindly continue to withdraw our public support, focusing generally on what we want instead of what we need, and we continuously shrink our industrial capability because we aren't willing to accept the expenditure. And the burden of our national defense and sustenance grows heavier, and falls upon fewer shoulders. Meanwhile, right now, the high and stern task of the Navy has become a bit more difficult. It is sad for those sailors and their families, and we should be mindful that the debt of gratitude we owe them is growing.

Red Flag Nellis

Three weeks ago, I shipped out with my squadron for Red Flag Nellis, an aviation war game conducted at Nellis Air Force base in Las Vegas, Nevada. It's not much of a deployment, as it's only five hours away from San Diego, and it offers some pretty nice benefits: world-class training with other aviation services (including international ones) and the opportunity to experience the pleasures of Sin City. The exercise comes at an important time for our squadron particularly, as it forms the "final exercise" an air-to-air training syllabus we've conducted these past months. And almost as important as the tactics we practice is this opportunity for the squadron to experience the vicissitudes of deployment as a team before actually heading out to Japan next March.

Much as I remembered the last WestPac, deployment is suddenly a small life, made up of a shared hotel room, shared workspaces, a rigid vehicle schedule made for the convenience of all (but really the convenience of none), and the annihilating desire of comrades to engage in debauchery in Vegas. There are significant frustrations, like the lack of privacy and amenities (laundry, gym). There is constant heat and new faces and a high tempo of briefs and planning, with little free time in between. But there is also a high and august calling about it, a chance to really learn the trade of being a Hornet aircrew. There is a chance to live the tactics in way that is impossible in the comfortable life of San Diego; there is the immense satisfaction of working as a team to solve problems--logistical and tactical; and there is the unique joy that comes with being young and hardworking, being in a new and exotic place, and feeling capable of anything.

From the blowing desert surrounding Nellis AFB rise the fantastic towers of "The Strip," rising like Oz to the south of the base. They are a surreal sight in the canopy as we taxied to take off each day, while at night their brightness hurt our eyes whether viewed through night-vision goggles or not. It's truly amazing what we have created in Las Vegas - buildings of striking beauty and innovation, lavishly adorned, dedicated ironically and only to Mammon and lust. Long after our civilization has faded, I'm sure, the towers and sculptures and fountains of Las Vegas will stand mute ruined testimony to the glory and corruption of our people. As for the runways at Nellis: they will disappear, as all artifacts of virtue and sacrifice do--stories of those themes live only in legend. "Go tell Sparta, passer-bye / that we, obedient to their laws, here lie."

But there was little time for philosophical reflections during the exercise. The first week I was on the night page, beginning my day at 5:00 PM to fly at 10:30-ish, returning to the hotel around 6:00 AM the following morning after all the debriefs. The cycle was a bit like groundhog day: lots of briefs before the flight, lots of briefs after the flight, then time to go home, hungry from lack of time to eat and drained from the heat, the adrenaline of flying, and the strain of waiting in all the briefs. The hotel wasn't much of a home, either: reeking of second-hand smoke and constantly contaminated with the noise of slot machines, it was actually a little stressful as living quarters. But in spite of the schedule we had one weekend to relax, which we occupied (characteristically) with a gigantic party in the Wynn in downtown Vegas that Saturday night filled with craps, catered food, and squadron shenanigans in our party suits -- a kind of flight suit done in our squadron colors and adorned with patches of our choice (usually cataloguing our various experiences in the Corps and sometimes funnier stuff). Given that it's such a distinctive and novel suit, however, some of us were asked whether or not we were strippers as we strutted amongst the tables in the casino. A compliment? perhaps. Only in Vegas, though.

That single Sunday was given to recovery and, for some of us, church. The Cathedral in Vegas is amazing for several reasons, and I've written of it before. For one, it is on the strip itself, stoutly lodged among rival temples to pleasure and money. For another, it has some fantastic art. Non-traditional, to be sure, but nonetheless fantastic. Dominated by a youthful, athletic, beardless Jesus, there is a triumphant air to the aggressively modern building. It's enough to make most Catholics uncomfortable, as it sort of ignores the suffering aspect of Christ's life, but its worth seeing and spiritually stimulating nonetheless. It felt like a turnpoint, too, because I moved from the awkward schedule of night flights to the more normal rhythm of daytime missions. And by that point most of our comrades were surfeited on gambling and night-time pursuits. From that point on it was a race to Friday, our last day in that city of harsh sunlight and dark nightlife. The fantastic flying and long hours helped pass the time.

In my experience, the best part of Las Vegas is getting there and leaving. It is wonderful and magnificent, but up close it reveals its seediness despite the appalling luxury and its unhappiness despite the constant entertainment. It makes me uneasy. It was good to fly in Red Flag, and fun to see the wonders of that city again. But it was better far to leave.

Especially since I went from there to a wonderful and much-anticipated vacation in Chicago, autumn town and long-time love affair of mine.

Reflections on a summer weekend

Four and a half months after my return from deployment I find myself still, by and large, content to quietly enjoy freedom. I haven't really fought for freedom in the way of those who have seen combat; my deployment experience involved loneliness and hardship but no conflict. Nevertheless, I continue to deeply enjoy the quiet moments in my apartment with my friends and family accessible, the feel of driving my own car, and the ability to disappear occasionally. This summer has been good for it.

The squadron's flights on a daily basis are relatively simple. They are training flights. Occasionally, when we have new or inexperienced aircrew, we conduct the simplest of flights, where we practice basic military aviation skills like dropping bombs or employing air-to-air weapons. But those are stepping-stones, really, to more advanced flights wherein basic employment how-do-I-get-this-thing-to-do-what-I-want (i.e. launch a missile or drop a bomb) is taken for granted, and the challenge lies in executing tactics. Because while it's all well and good to be able to deliver ordnance on your enemy, the real trick is doing so when your enemy is aware and possibly trying to kill you, which they tend to do when you're attacking them. But even these "more advanced" flights are stepping-stones, despite requiring detailed tactical knowledge and skilled flying in addition to basic employment abilities. Because the real war that we could conduct, and the one we wish to train to, involves detailed coordination of disparate elements. Within the Marine Corps alone there are other aviation elements to protect and to work with, and the entire aviation element has to protect and provide for the ground unit. After all, the whole business of dominating your enemy starts with an Infantry Marine whose boots are on the deck and who controls the actions of others by holding a monopoly on violence. That Marine is, by Marine Corps doctrine, the entire reason for the aviation element in the first place.

So, having diluted the purpose of my squadron's business to its most basic raison d'etre, we return to the necessary inadequacy of monthly squadron training. It's necessary that we are good at the basic skills of our profession, but certainly not sufficient to conduct a real battle. It's likewise necessary for that infantryman to be skilled at employing his rifle, but he must also be able to integrate and employ with machine-guns, mortars, artillery, mechanized units, and so on all the way up the ladder of a combined arms conflict. And because it is expensive and time-consuming to gather the scattered elements of a division, or an air wing, together, there are few opportunities if any to practice in peacetime that kind of integration. So it was with excitement (and a little grumbling) that we departed from our comfortable Southern California work schedule last week to plan and host a Large Force Exercise (LFE).


In a way, it was a welcome relief from the mundane. Once in a rhythm of flying, well, the flights are still fun and offer lots of opportunity for improvement, but they don't take quite as much personal investment as before. Which leaves more time to be guilty about not doing ground-side, administrative work. And my beloved Corps being a military institution, there is always more paperwork and bureaucratic tasks to complete. So those of us involved in the planning turned to our computers and tactics manuals to plan an exercise that could accommodate Air Force and Navy units, integrated with operational combat systems, responding to a fully detailed scenario. It is tiring and enjoyable, those 12-hour days. There are few breaks for food or rest between all the coordination meetings and the plan or product revisions, but being a member of the team and working hard to produce together a cogent and workable plan is an inspiring experience and very much worth the suffering. It brought me back to the long happy tactical days of Red Flag Alaska and Aces North in Australia, when the squadron banded together into a tough group of professionals, leading complicated missions and doing their best to ensure the success of missions in which they only had a part. This is the best kind of flying: tactical knowledge is assumed, the missions are dynamic and require flexibility, we carry and deliver real ordnance, and there is a real-time proctor of the fight to send "killed" aircraft home when they die. It's as close to combat as it gets, simply put, and a chance to show our mettle. And we relish that.


It is part of our internal squadron workup to go to Red Flag Nellis later this month, which is in turn part of our work-up to deploy back to Japan for the spring, summer, and early fall of 2010. I am excited for it. Though I have recently found some new things for which to stay home, there is no denying that WestPac is a valuable and exciting experience. It has a purpose I agree with also; for to guarantee that freedom and democracy have a chance to flourish in the world outside our borders we must show Free Democracies that we will support, assist, and even protect them from entities who want them to fail. St. Thomas Aquinas paraphrased Aristotle by saying that excess of anything is always bad, except excess of devotion to the Lord. So also extreme ideology is bad, except the extreme ideal that man, left alone to do so, will accomplish much more through his own freedom than otherwise. Clearly, "extreme" is a provocative word, and a limited one, for there are some limits: freedom that provides opportunity is generally peaceful and free from threat and oppression from within and without, and it requires a culture which encourages success. But those elements, I believe, grow organically out of freedom as a whole. That is what we've accomplished practically in the United States (despite certain attempts to nationalize certain services), and we've been successful with it. Doing our bit to help others along by demonstrating our commitment is the right and decent thing to do. That is, in essence, what each WestPac is about, and I am proud of my part in it.

It is easy to sit on a summer afternoon in San Diego under lucid skies and pleasant burnished disc of the sun and reflect on these things. It is pleasant to remember the feelings of WestPac: the urgency to exercise disciplined, professional flight operations while dealing with foreign-language controllers and foreign airspace; the unparalleled freedom of having nothing more complicated to do in your free time but hang out with your comrades; the easy studying with no beaches or non-squadron loved ones to distract you; and the wonder at seeing places like Korea and Australia. But though such nice reflections diminish the memories of loneliness, the burden of short tempers, and the frustration of unsolvable problems, such memories remain distant and let me know that the next WestPac will not all be fantastic flying and parties. There is considerable difficulty in living long months away from loved ones, and the ideals which support your purpose out there, supporting free nations with the best you have to offer, feel quite cold and sterile.

And so it is. I am beginning to get that itch again to go after greatness--first at Red Flag, then during WestPac. To suffer for my beliefs and earn them. Not, obviously, as those who have seen combat. But I cherish their sacrifice and hope my own investment will be worthy of them. I will also enjoy this nation that we jointly serve, but to different degrees: the freedom, in this case, of enjoying a long summer evening, with metaphysical thoughts in my head and the desire to put them on paper.

(Or in this case, a computer screen)

Reflections on Getting Home (or, the scariest day of my life)

One sunny day not very long ago I found myself scheduled for a BFM flight. In these days of aging aircraft, such flights are rare indeed. Something about the heavy sustained G-forces and dynamic maneuvering strains the airframe, apparently...and when a certain strain threshold is reached, well, the nerdy engineer chaps say we can't fly the airplane safely. Perhaps the wings will fall off. Or an engine will break from it's mounting and depart the aircraft. Catastrophic failures like that would NOT be conducive to continued flight, so with much sighing and private gnashing of teeth we obey said engineers and only fly high-strain flights in order to be proficient for an impending battle. Should the worst happen, and all.

In any case, the world being what it is, the only really fun flights are those that strain the jets, so when it comes time to "maintain proficiency" by flying one, well, there are plenty of volunteers. I was among the lucky ones this time and so was quite excited for the day. There was, it seemed, an extra rich flavor in the squadron coffee, usually so vile. Instead of dragging on, the brief flew by while touching on old, well-learned lessons about how to handle one's aircraft in the thick of the fight with an unyielding adversary. I couldn't help dwelling on the glorious sunshine as I stepped from the squadron, my G-Suit, harness, and survival gear each attentively donned, tightened, and adjusted for comfort.

Takeoff, as usual, pressed me back in my seat with acceleration. As our flight of two climbed out into the achingly blue Southern California sky, we noted appreciatively the utter clarity of that day. No haze, no dust, no smog--just an unimpeded view in each direction. It was breathtaking.

And we were going to fight.

Our adversaries that day were F-5 aircraft from the Marine professional adversary squadron, the "Snipers." A fighter much inferior to the Hornet in performance and avionics, it nevertheless had one significant advantage: the pilot. Sniper pilots have, on average, three thousand or more hours flying. That is usually the result of more than fifteen years in the cockpit. They also practice fighting exclusively, being undistracted by other missions which we Hornet aircrew perform (namely, air-to-ground missions). They fight Hornets a lot. They are very good at fighting, and particularly at fighting Hornets. All in all, our contest could be pretty evenly matched.

Which just made us more eager.

What fleet captain or major wouldn't want to bring back gun footage of a hopelessly defensive senior adversary?

Checking into our working area, each of our two Hornets paired up with a Sniper and separated for individual fights. The setting was perfect. Farm fields and the Salton Sea below, clear blue sky above, the sun glowing in the south, and the air so lucid that our Sniper's camouflage paint job was nearly useless. We would shortly be locked in a close struggle, the proverbial "knife-fight in a phone booth" of two fighters so close in proximity that the slightest mistake could offer the other a chance to kill, and end the engagement.

There is something compelling about BFM. The acronym stands for "Basic Fighter Maneuvers" and covers fights that occur with both opponents within visual range. Normally, of course, if we can deal with our enemies beyond visual range, so much the better. Even more so if we can kill them before they can kill us. But once we're within visual range, all bets are off. It's pure airmanship. Both players try to maneuver their aircraft through 3-dimensional space so as to be too close or in the wrong piece of sky for their enemy to shoot them, while simultaneously attempting to set up their own shot. Doing so requires careful--even delicate!--flying in order to get the most aerodynamic performance out of the jet; it also requires the strength to fight against the centrifugal forces of an airplane arcing through the sky in a maneuver, measured in Gs. At 7.5 Gs, our performance limit, every finger, limb, even our heads weigh 7.5 times their normal weight. It becomes quite the chore to adjust something in the cockpit under that pressure, or look around the canopy to keep eyes on your opponent. Oh, and there is the ever-present threat of the ground to worry about, too. Flying into that will end the engagement as definitively as a missile shot.

What glorious combat! Our mettle as fighter aircrew at stake, we sweat and strain against the G-forces while struggling to monitor our opponent, our own aircraft, and our position in the sky. It is the ultimate challenge, an avian version of a cage-match. And behind the pride and reckless fun is the haunting knowledge that one day, just maybe, our lives will depend on our skill in this arena. Defeat, if it comes, is sobering and frustrating. Victory is sweet.

The propitious mood of the flight continued through our engagements. We fought three sets against our Sniper, getting the best of him each time. Then he called "min fuel" and headed for home. We cheerily confirmed we'd debrief after landing, and, flushed with exertion and success, we climbed up to watch our wingman. Him a newer guy, we had some friendly concern with how he'd handle his wily bandit. We were pleased, my pilot and I, to see that he was doing well. And when his opponent also bowed out for fuel reasons, we decided to have a fourth fight right there while we could--you know, just because we could. And it also went well.

Hard to beat a day flying like that. You really feel you earn your salary, working that hard. Or, well, mostly just wonder who would be crazy enough to actually pay you to have so much fun.

The flight back was easy as pie. In that weather, visibility extended beyond a hundred miles, so we had the field long before coming up approach. Gliding gracefully into the overhead break pattern back home in Miramar, I thought to myself, that was the perfect flight.

And it was.

But one in the aviation business does not say that, even to him or herself, without feeling a suspicious twinge. And suddenly I remembered another seemingly perfect flight, scarce months earlier.

March 23, 2009 found me in Hawaii. It was my sixth day there. Normally, I would be ever so happy for such an exotic spring break on the dime of the Marine Corps, but, well, this time I was headed home from a six-month deployment and I really just wanted to get home. It was my luck, of course, that when we attempted that task five days earlier, an incident with a fellow Hornet caused it (and because we travel in pairs, my jet too) to return to Hawaii for repairs.

Which, being completed quickly, left us waiting on the Air Force.

Now the Hornet is designed for fighting and attacking. Highly maneuverable and passably fast (in the order of Mach 1+ and/or 800 kts), it achieves all this by being mostly wing, engine, and fuel tank. The engines, being quite powerful (36,000 pounds of thrust total) eat up the fuel at an alarming rate, even when the aircraft is just cruising. So in order to make it more than several hundreds of miles, we need the succor of a Tanker. For long trips, we need a BIG tanker.

The raison d'etre, partially, of the Air Force--specifically the Air Mobility Command portion of the Air Force, is to help military units deploy. And so they own the big tankers. The kinds that can unload the required hundred thousand pounds of fuel required to see two Hornets across 2300 miles of ocean. But they like their banker's hours. They do not move quickly, or easily deviate from their schedule. So we waited for them to task a tanker to us, so we could finally return home.

Pleasant and relaxing as it was, Hawaii couldn't quite make us forget that desire. Though the presence of spring break tourists on Waikiki did dull the pain a bit. As did the nightlife.

But so, on the morning of March 23, we were to take off from Hickam, Honolulu with a single KC-135 tanker for the six-hour flight back to the States. Not a moment too soon. The KC-135 is affectionately called "The Iron Maiden" by Hornet pilots because it's refueling basket is a solid metal contraption, suspended from the end of the boom by an eight-foot hose. It's weight makes it easy to hit with the refueling probe, but in order to get fuel, the pilot has to drive his airplane (with the basket on the probe) in towards the boom in order to create a 90-degree or greater "knuckle" in the bearing connecting the hose and basket, for that's what opens the valve and allows the precious fuel in. Holding the airplane in that uncomfortably close position to the boom and the Tanker, while fighting the windstream pushing the basket around and the high-pressure fuel pressing against the probe itself, is no small feat of airmanship. It is the most demanding of the Air Force's big tankers for Hornet aircrew. But it is also the most reliable. Take note of that.

Being as it was a reliable refueling system, and we were experienced aircrew with many TransPac flights under our belt, we were not worried about tanking so much.

The TransPac itself was worrisome. They always are. Flying over large stretches of water with limited fuel reserves is always a little nerve-wracking. So many things can go wrong, like weather. And if something breaks and an airplane can't take fuel, then does it have enough left to get to a runway? If not, of course, the alternative is for the aircrew to eject. Such an ejection may be so far out in the middle of nowhere that no rescue craft (boat or helicopter) could reach the aircrew for many days. Survival rate in that case? not so high.

But any risk can be mitigated with much planning, and so we do. Or more truthfully the Air Force does it for us. They provide us with handy little packets describing our route and scheduled refueling points, chosen so at no point while airborne does any aircraft have insufficient fuel to make at least one divert. Theoretically. We paid close attention to such things on this particular flight, because as it happens the TransPac leg between Hawaii and California is the most dangerous, since there are literally no intermediary diverts--no friendly little islands (or even atolls) on which a runway exists to save a fuel-starved Hornet. One point, poetically named "Point FEARR," is the midpoint of the trip: nearly 1200 miles from land in any direction. In order to fly that far, a typical Hornet would need something like 14,500 pounds of fuel. The most we can carry is 16,500 pounds. That means a very small margin of safety if anything were to happen.

But we weren't worried. We'd done this before. On the "Iron Maiden." And what a nice day it was!

It was a nice day. Clear, sunny, with Honolulu glowing over the bay under the low sun and the shadow of Diamondhead behind her. Aircraft start went without a hitch, the Tanker called us on the radio to signal their own readiness to take off, and suddenly we were rolling down the taxiways toward the departure runway. As we taxied, airport ground control held up a commercial liner to let us pass, a commercial liner, no doubt, with several hundred paying passengers. It just didn't seem fair, I tell you, but it sure did seem right. And with that little surge of pleasure and satisfaction we blasted off into the pellucid Hawaiian air for the long trip to Miramar.

We rendezvoused with the Tanker a hundred miles east of of Hawaii and formed up for the flight. TransPac flying is boring, mostly. Once you get used to the endless span of trackless ocean, the horizon sharp and clear amid the scattered puffy clouds that seem to float just above the water, you only have the other aircrew and whatever entertainment is on hand to keep you busy. Periodically, of course, everyone snuggles up to the Tanker and takes fuel when it's their turn, and that takes some concentration and attention. Otherwise, though, you're just waiting. Feeling that parachute harness dig into your gluteal muscles. Squinting to keep the rising sun out of your eyes. Updating the nearest divert as you pass every navigational waypoint, on the off chance that something requiring a divert will go wrong. And possibly reading, or listening to music, or eating. It's a lot like a road trip.

But our high spirits that day made it all quite bearable. Kith and kin lay ahead, and a warm welcome after six months (and Thanksgiving and Christmas) spent abroad. We were, in a word, cheerful. Time after time we eased in behind the tanker, carefully and smoothly refueled, and re-assumed our position in the flight. The miles grew between us and Hawaii, shrunk between us and California. As soon as the former exceeded the latter, we knew we'd be going home if there were a problem. We were just waiting for it. With visions, I might add, of our triumphant overhead break at the field after six months' absence dancing in our heads. It was going to be good.

Closing in on Point FEARR we moved closer to the Tanker for Aerial Refueling Point 6. This was the first of several scheduled points in close proximity, designed to keep our fuel tanks full in case of divert. Realistically, we would simply cycle on and off the basket with our wingman, refueling as soon as he finished until we were full, and vice versa. We watch as our lead moved up behind the KC-135 basked and began taking gas. As he was doing so, he commented over the radio, "we're going to California, boys!" And we rejoiced, for we had just passed the half-way point and were actually closer to home than to Hawaii.

Our lead, took a full load of gas. Sixteen-thousand-some pounds. He moved off the tanker to the right side, exactly as he had done for the last five refuelings, and we moved in from the left. We stabilized our flight about 15 feet behind the basket, exactly as we were supposed to, and my pilot informed the tanker of this fact by calling "Pre-contact" on the radio. As expected, and in accordance with procedure, we quickly received "Cleared to contact" in reply. Moving forward with the proscribed 2 knots of closure, my pilot with characteristic accuracy put the probe into the center of the basket and pushed it in until it locked. Then smoothly transitioned to pushing the basket forward toward the boom, putting the slack in the hose that would eventually create enough of a "knuckle" for fuel to flow.

It was a skilled approach, well befitting a fighter pilot and professional aviator. It was a nearly identical repeat of all the previous tanker approaches thus far.

But, as we were watching the basket and hose to monitor the formation of the "knuckle" and confirm fuel flow, suddenly before our wondering eyes we saw the hose perform a funny little jink. Instead of rotating smoothly around the basket on it's bearing, it jerked the wrong way, hesitated, then violently spun to the accustomed position.

The whole apparatus appeared to explode in our faces.

Our canopy was suddenly rendered nearly opaque by the tens of gallons of high-pressure jet fuel cascading over it and back along our aircraft. In a sliver of vision I caught a view of the hose flailing wildly at the end of the boom with no basket attached. Ominously, there was a shadow on the right side of the windscreen indicating that the fuel basket was still attached. "Get back" I said forcefully, a mere instant after I heard the engines spool to idle and felt the deceleration of the airplane. In a flash I comprehended: we weren't getting fuel; we were in an emergency; we would have to Bingo all the way home.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. The whole event took probably two seconds or less from the time our probe touched the basket and the time we pulled away from the tanker. But already I had the awful comprehension that the trip was changed, and that it was suddenly dangerous, and amazingly enough I couldn't muster any emotion. No disappointment at all. Just, what happens next?

Away from the Tanker, with our canopy clearing in the windstream, I felt the engines come back up to military power. We were climbing to a higher altitude where the lower concentration of oxygen would lessen drag and cause our existing fuel to burn more efficiently. I had our nearest divert, San Francisco International, as the waypoint already, and we were heading there. As this registered, I heard the welcome voice of my flight lead command the same. My pilot pulled up the nose, the Tanker began to fall behind us, and I heard my flight lead on the Tanker frequency advise our intentions and declare an emergency. He named our destination as Moffett, a military airfield as close to San Francisco as makes no difference. It was a better choice than SFO.

Sometimes it's nice to have a friend handy.

At this point, I confirmed that we were on a max-efficiency climb, and advising my pilot of the navigation setup: "You have steering to Moffett with 1150 miles to go." I then looked at the fuel: thirteen-thousand-some pounds.

That was below our intended Bingo. That was alarming.

I knew that some fuel had been burned as we maneuvered away from the Tanker, and began our military power climb out. I knew also that Air Force Bingos were very conservative, including some 40-minutes of loiter time over the airfield in case of weather, or something. But still, I knew it was going to be close. Especially with a large metal basket hanging off our jet. Who know how much fuel THAT would suck up with it's drag?

My lead interrupted my depressing little reverie. "Engine look OK?" he asked. Suddenly really worried, I quickly pulled up the engine monitor page, remembering how close the probe was to the right intake, and fearing for a horrible instant that some shard of the basket assembly had been ingested into our right engine. Even a small piece of metal would tear the engine apart, at best causing us to shut it down and proceed single-engine, at worst causing more extensive damage. I scanned both columns on the page, looking for tell-tale discrepancies which might indicate an engine problem. I found that the right engine was running a little hotter the left, with higher RPM and Oil Pressure as well. I brought this to my pilot's attention, but he confirmed that our right engine had so operated the entire flight thus far. Relieved, we concluded that no shards of metal or bearings had gone down the right intake, but nevertheless resolved to keep a close eye on that right engine.

What with Murphy's Law and all, who knew what might happen next?

About this time we started having difficulty getting any higher. Apparently we had reached our optimum cruise altitude, 33,000 feet. Now pointed straight at our divert airfield--albeit with more than a thousand miles to go--and stabilized at altitude, we painstakingly set the throttle setting that would yield the most distance covered for our remaining fuel. Our lead told us to fly the best jet we could; he would simply follow us. No problem, buddy! We weren't going to deviate from the precise settings calculated for peak efficiency, not for all the tea in China. And then the tedium began.

Our on-board computers showed us landing with about 1300 pounds of fuel, adjusted. That was scary. The minimum landing fuel in the Hornet for us is two thousand pounds, which provides roughly two missed approaches in visual flying conditions and one missed approach in instrument conditions. We were below even that. If there was weather, we might not make the runway. If we had to go missed approach (for any number of reasons), we might not make the runway. Heck, if we had a headwind, we might not make the runway! Besides, nobody really knows when the hornet runs out of fuel--is it when the meter reads zero? or (more likely), at some higher number? Would we flame out with several hundred visible? and if so, then we had even less than 1300 pounds to work with. I settled in for a very anxious couple of hours.

Now no reasonable man is going to trust his airplane and perhaps his life entirely to a computer, if he can help it. The computer said 1300 pounds of fuel on deck, but I could calculate myself based on our airspeed, distance-to-go, and fuel burn exactly what we'd get to Moffett with. And I did. Constantly. I filled sheets of paper from my kneeboard pad with calculations. At first, my calculations agreed with the computer. With that basket staring at us through the windscreen, those were indeed the bad moments.

Clearing out the cockpit for a possible ejection? Not much fun. Especially if you can anticipate waiting until the last possible minute, when the engines have flamed out and the aircraft is about to fall out of the sky, before pulling that handle, and trusting your life to a little rocket motor, a parachute, and a life jacket (the latter two of which were packed unknown hands, unknown years ago). Scary.

But as fuel burned off, and less throttle was required to keep the aircraft flying, the fuel-on-deck numbers crept up, both computer-generated and manually calculated. Looking suddenly at about 1700 pounds on deck, we decided not to jettison our tanks (now that they were empty), we were going to make it. Maybe. Providentially, with about four hundred miles to the coast, a tailwind picked up and grew to about 40 knots. Suddenly we were looking fat, anticipating 2100 pounds on deck! It was a relief, I tell you, And, we reminded ourselves, it didn't count the fuel saved in the descent.

Drawing toward the coast, we flew into radio contact with Oakland Center. The tanker had relayed our situation to them, so when we checked in as "an emergency flight direct Moffett" we got a cool response and no instructions. Which is exactly what we wanted. We weren't out of the woods yet. Any excessive maneuvers off course would put us into the dangerously low fuel realm again. Also, now that we could radio Moffett for the weather, which was again! Providentially clear and beautiful, we could anticipate landing to the north. The simplest thing, we decided, was to aim south of the field, setting up a nice easy turn north on a six-mile final approach path that would allow us to slow down nicely and waste as little gas as possible. Things were starting to feel a little more manageable.

I can't describe the feeling of seeing the coast that day. To see California, after two hours of wondering whether we'd make it at all, after five hours of endless ocean horizons, after six months gone was like witnessing a miracle.

Shortly after sighting of the coast we saw the field--easily fifty miles away, but clearly visible on that beautiful day--and took a slight cut right to facilitate our easy turn to final. As a result of our gradual descent we were looking now at a veritable surfeit of fuel: 2500 pounds on deck. Our lead, however, reminded us that we still had a heavy metal basket tenuously attached to our aircraft, and we wanted to make sure we didn't do anything to drop it on some unsuspecting Californian on our way to the field. It was the right call. Generally, if something is going to fall off the jet, it will do so when the landing gear and flaps come down, for the new protuberances on the airplane tend to disturb the airflow over all the surfaces. With the recent crash of a stateside Hornet into a house in San Diego, we were especially worried. We didn't want to do anything stupid.

So now that we'd made it, fuel-wise, we began to tackle the ticklish problem of terminal area flight with a refueling basket our aircraft. We lowered the gear just after crossing the coast and right over the unpopulated coastal hills that separate the south part of San Francisco Bay from the Pacific. It was with trepidation that my pilot reached up for the gear handle, and for my part I kept my finger hovering over the button that would mark our position and padlocked it with my eyes (the better to follow it's trajectory), all in case the basket decided to depart. As the gear doors slammed open and the gear began descending, I felt more keenly than before every airframe buffet from the changing wind, eyes glued to our unwelcome guest, willing it to stay on.

Fortunately, it did. The gear came down smoothly with nary a vibration from the basket.

Which made for quite a relief--or did, until we saw more clearly our flight path to the field: nothing but houses. Nothing but houses, picket fences, in pleasant suburban neighborhoods. The exact place, in fact, we didn't want that basket coming off. Granted, it has survived the configuration change. But still, as we had so recently learned, you never knew what was going to happen. It was a source of worry.

At this point, Approach Control began squawking at us on the radio. They wanted us to take a vector south to deconflict from a northbound airplane passing to the east of us. We refused forcefully, citing (again) our emergency status and worrying again about fuel if we had to fly too far off course. Not to mention the gnawing concern of that basket perched precariously on a stubby fuel probe, flying over perfect San Jose neighborhoods. Approach would not stop talking, however, and and as soon as we got the northbound airplane on our radar, we told them shortly we'd maintain separation ourselves and switched tower. My lead turned toward the field first, and once we had sufficient separation from his aircraft, we followed suit. My pilot then began slowing the airplane for a normal touchdown.

Horrified, we noticed the basket vibrating. Vibrating significantly. Acutely conscious of the hundreds of American Dreams lying peacefully beneath us, we quickly accelerated back to the speed where the basket didn't vibrate. Not now! I thought. Not this close!

As our airspeed climbed above 200 knots, however, the basket visibly settled back. OK, then, we'll fly it in at 200 knots.

Now our problem is landing too fast.

At that speed, the nose tire would probably burst on touchdown, causing us perhaps to lose control on the runway. But we had a little space past the neighborhoods (inside the airfield boundary) in which to slow down, and a nice long runway to coast into. It would just take a little touch.

My pilot skillfully brought the throttles back once clear ground was beneath us, and with barely a quarter mile to touch down aerodynamically braked the plane for a gentle, 150-knot touchdown. Perfect. The basket vibrated again, true, but it stayed on...all the way through the rollout.

As our airspeed meter counted down to 48 (its lowest displayed number), I relaxed suddenly in a slump. It was over. We had made it. Nothing dropped, nobody hurt, back to the good old contiguous U S of A. Pulling off the runway, I called for taxi, responding halfheartedly to the gibe over the radio as we taxied past the tower: "hey, is that thing supposed to be on there?" I just wanted to get out of that jet.

As I tried to negotiate the ladder down, I noticed my legs were shaking. On the ground, as I stared in disbelief at the large, heavy metal basket we brought from 1150 miles out to sea, I noticed my hands shaking too. I was drained, but not tired--just eerily aware of all that had happened. Mustering up as much bravado as I could, I snapped some pictures and traded some jokes with my pilot and the lead aircrew. We weren't home yet, but suddenly it didn't matter.

The Epilogue is a story in and of itself. After landing, we contacted Oakland Center to have them divert the last cargo plane with our Trail Maintenance element to Moffett, so they could take the basket off our aircraft. They complied, and we enjoyed a nervous, tired dinner in the lush, lazy environs of Santa Clara while we waited for them to arrive. We greeted them awkwardly when they landed, knowing that they wanted to be home too and feeling guilty despite ourselves that they had to come all this way to fix us. We needn't have worried, however. They had heard about the emergency and become very concerned, very concerned indeed--many maintainers hugged us when they saw us on the tarmac. And with characteristic Marine efficiency, they took off the basket and readied us for flight the next morning in little enough time that they continued back to San Diego later in the evening. So the story ended happily for all.

As for us, we slept well in Navy housing, woke early, and made our belated return to Miramar at about 10:00. The wonder of California hadn't left me since that first miraculous view from the Pacific less than a day prior, and I spent as much of the flight as my tasks would let me stuck to the window, looking from coast to mountain to desert. Finally our beloved field was in sight, and as we broke over it I saw the rest of the squadron out to welcome us home. Not a perfect return, by any means, but a good one for sure.

Getting home is all that matters sometimes.

So on that recent beautiful June day, returning victorious from battle against a worthy adversary, I remembered that a perfect flight is, perhaps, overrated. In extremis, whether mechanical or combat-related, getting home is really all that matters. Getting you home and your jet home. Preferably both working. And in that exact order.

Independence Day 2009

Independence Day this year came with a whimper. I was three months home from deployment, which doesn't seem enough to be settled but which pushes me well beyond the point where I can reasonably claim that I "just" came back. I was demoralized a little bit by California: the angry drivers, the apathetic people, the rudeness to waiters and store clerks. The recent election riots of Iran, the brutal quelling of them by the government, the still-depressed economy, and the end of "hope and change" excitement left over from our own recent election all left me strangely weary to celebrate our national birthday.

As the fourth this year fell on a Saturday, our liberty schedule released us at 1200 on Thursday for a 1200 Monday return. Memories of the less enjoyable parts of WestPac crowded back as I labored to clean up my piece of the squadron and was drawn, despite myself, into the internal imperative to make things better. The curse of all Marines, this drive keeps our noses to the proverbial grindstone in silly little projects well after our reason tells us we are justified in going home. Many hours and one uber-map of the SoCal operating area later, I headed dejectedly out of the squadron for an early bedtime. The next morning I wearily slept in before running some errands and heading up the coast to Dana Point for some sailing with a friend and his brother.

During the drive up, Grace stole upon me like a summer storm. Glimpses of the endless ocean, disappearing into a horizon so sharp clear it might have been drawn by a draftsman, washed slowly into my soul. I drove past the dry rugged hills of Camp Pendleton with delicious recklessness, my speedometer hovering around ninety. Pulling into Dana Point I noticed appreciatively the green grass, cypress and palm trees, and the careful architecture that made it seem like a casual resort town. Orange County, I thought, really is all it's cracked up to be.

The marina was crowded with easy-going boat owners, camped out on their slips for barbecues and beer. The weather was perfect. My friend met me, took me to his brother's boat, and we headed off. The trip ended up being leisurely and informative, with everyone taking a hand at the sails and tiller for instruction in the surprisingly delicate art of sailing. We went nowhere in particular, simply tacking toward and away from shore for several hours. At one point a school of dolphins joined us in a companionable way, sporting about our prow and broaching alongside. There is something so free and easy and joyful about the streamlined way they swim: they seem so perfectly suited for and attuned to their environment. They also deserted a lumbering dolphin-watch tour boat for the visit, which didn't seem fair to those paying customers but seemed right enough to us.

Once back in the marina, my friend and I grabbed some gourmet pizza from a marina shop and headed back down for an early dinner on the boat. Talk about a careless afternoon! Rocking gently on the water in the fine afternoon sun, eating some good, satisfying food, drinking from an abundance of beer, and listening to some Johnny Cash Gospel music on the sound system were all it took to leach the rest of my pre-holiday depression from my body. The fact that it was only Friday and therefore two and a half more days of weekend lay before us no doubt contributed to the mood.

The rest of the night included a crawfish boil, a delightfully barbaric way of eating that involves twisting apart the cooked but very alive-looking bodies of the animal, crushing the head between thumb and forefinger and drinking the softer organs like a shot, and peeling back the tail's exoskeleton in order to pinch out the shrimp-like meat. Spicy and messy in character, it reminded me of fishing off Wake (where, to my initial surprise, we happily killed the fish by clubbing them with a blood-stained aluminum baseball bat and liberally spattered ourselves with gore in the process). Some witty comments to the effect of how lucky crawfish were with all the head-sucking and tail-pinching that was going on. Of course, we washed the whole tasty and interactive meal down with beer and continued on to the pool and the poker. My friend's family is from Louisiana, and the reckless hospitality present that evening was just a little bit of Southern Charm transplanted and thriving on the West Coast. I ended up cheerfully crashed on my friend's mother's couch and needing a ride to my car in the morning. Dignified? sadly not. Somehow, though, I knew it was all OK.

The next morning, despite my hangover and the wicked farmer's tan I'd acquired sailing, I sped back under crystalline skies and over the sun-lit coast to San Diego, where I had an important date: the St. Brigid's Young Adult Picnic. Enterprising youth of more temperate habits than mine had promised to stake out a prime beach location and set up a volleyball court. I made it back by ten in the morning, did some recovery and ate some food, and drove down to the beach at noon fully expecting some painful traffic and strangely unconcerned. But to my growing surprise the streets were comparatively empty. It was surreal--I wondered if I had mistaken the day. Was it really the 3rd? the 5th? normally Pacific Beach is bumper to bumper in the streets and elbow to elbow everywhere else. But after I parked and began the several-block watch to the beach, I noticed that people were concentrated houses, partying in their yards. It dawned on me that the City of San Diego had banned alcohol on city beaches recently, and unwilling to give that up most people just forewent the beach altogether. More room for me! I thought elatedly and continued my merry way. And indeed I was not all that upset. I prefer a somewhat active approach to beach recreation: volleyball, throwing around a frisbee or football, swimming. NOT swilling alcohol. I prefer to save that part of it for the evening. And indeed, I did all of the above at the beach that day, enjoying the perfect sunshine, refreshing water, and excellent company.

Visiting with two old friends from Notre Dame later that afternoon, we all re-discovered a love of literature, and so spent what was for me a glorious hour comparing stories, ideas, and memories through the books we'd each read. The literary nature of our conversation reminded me of one of my favorite quotes, courtesy of C.S. Lewis:

"...[W]e must say that the sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone reading a book which interests him; and that all economies, politics, laws, armies, and institutions, save insofar as they prolong and multiply such scenes, are a mere plowing of the sand and sowing of the ocean, a meaningless vanity and vexation of spirit."

Indeed, that's what my weekend turned out to demonstrate. The sun did look down on friends talking (and laughing) over beers in a boat, friends talking about books read quietly and with great pleasure, families and groups enjoying the gifts of summer over a long weekend--these are the things that America has given us. Our greatest achievement as a nation, perhaps, is the intrinsic respect declared in our founding document that our "inalienable" rights include life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Nearly all Americans have a part in this and have labored to build such a land in homes, factories, offices, schools, and in uniform. Thus as the light faded gracefully that night over the clarion Pacific horizon, and the fireworks began, I felt around me the trappings of paradise. I knew there would be a work day soon, and that it would certainly come with enough stress and difficulty to pull me down from my Elysian mood, but I knew that all toil and worry were worth it: in this world, such contentment as I found is only truly this accessible in this land of the free and home of the brave.

Betrayal in Language

For the last several years, much has been made of "the insurgency." In the immediate aftermath of "combat operations" in Iraq, many were dismayed to see an insurgency develop, made up mostly (we were left to believe) of disaffected Iraqis unhappy with the erstwhile US Military occupation. Much ink was spilled comparing the insurgency to the American Revolution, where the US Military figured as a typically oppressive analogue to the Redcoats of legend. Incidents like Abu Ghraib contributed to the perspective of Revolution and freedom fighting versus tyrannical occupation. "The Surge," President George W. Bush's ambitious plan to stamp out the insurgency, was met with amazement and ridicule. How, the standard questioning went, could the solution to Iraq's collective wish for our occupation to end be to inject more US troops? Yet the evidence shows that the Surge worked, most notably the fact that only a few days ago US forces pulled out of Iraq's urban areas completely and left the security of that newly peaceful and marginally prosperous nation to indigenous units.

An insurgency is not a new problem, as I feel we have been led to believe. It is not some phenomenon that is attributable to US meddling in the affairs of other countries. The growing insurgency in Afghanistan is, likewise, not a new problem. The insurgents are a contemporary incarnation of a shameful historical institution. Such men (and women) have been called partisans, guerillas, and terrorists long before they were called insurgents. They are, as far as I know, a fixture of modern wars, the first of which is arguably the American Civil War. In that long and bitter struggle, small irregular bands of "bushwhackers" from one side or the other conducted a brutal campaign of rapine against the farms and homesteads of their enemies, which included burning dwellings and salting fields, lynching, horse thievery, and torture. Their aim was fairly straightforward: to break the Confederate (or Union) will to continue the struggle. Most of that activity was concentrated away from the large and famous military battles, in the western part of the then-United States, and is mainly responsible for the cultural tensions that still exist between states like Missouri and Kansas. Sherman's well-documented and ruinous march across the South to sack Atlanta was a classic Bushwhacker tactic, though it was of dubious effectiveness.

Americans (and Europeans) chiefly remember World War I for the pitched military warfare that dominated German, French, and English involvement. But insurgency existed in that war as well. In the fighting centered around Asia Minor bands of Christian Greek insurgents and bands of Islamic Turkish insurgents carried out parallel irregular warfare against settlements comprised of opposite nationalities. That kind of irregular warfare is the chief reality for those two involved nations. In World War II, similar insurgencies raged in occupied Europe as a "Resistance," while Nazi Germany conducted it's own appalling irregular fight with the Einsatzgruppen, who ravaged the Soviet countryside for Jews and other undesirables in order to murder them wholesale. On their side, Soviet "partisans" resisted the Nazi occupation of Czechoslovakia and the Balkans by torturing and murdering accused fascists and their families, with the aim of having those nations join the Soviet Bloc in the war's aftermath. Communist guerillas used the same tactics in Viet Nam, Central, and South America in the late 1960s. They continue to do so in Colombia and Bolivia today.

That insurgencies are often motivated by ideology (nationalism, communism, Islamic fundamentalism) makes them Romantic. Che Guevara, a Communist guerilla leader, is has often been romanticized. But insurgencies are uniformly brutal and destabilizing. Whatever they're called, insurgents promote their particular ideology by forcing a populace to submit through terror and humiliation. The will or desire of said populace for that ideology is not relevant. The insurgents in Iraq were motivated by a desire for a Sharia Law, Islamic theocracy, and the humiliation of America. To accomplish that end, they committed suicide with bombs designed to kill civilians, they ousted people from their homes to make strongholds, and they punished "collaborators" who assisted or worked with American troops. They often conflicted violently with US forces, and as often lost (like the Viet Namese before them). The Taliban insurgency springing up in Afghanistan will probably experience the same.

Yet despite their cowardly tactics, insurgents can be deadly to soldiers. That the enemy blends so well with a foreign society which is difficult to understand in the first place means an unbelievable strain as the soldiers must be constantly watchful. In urban environments, where insurgent conflict often takes place (and which may just as easily occur in a two-street village as a metropolis), the fighting is physical demanding and often very personal, with firefights occurring within the confines of a room. With a world-wide and well-stocked arms market, insurgents often have access to sophisticated and effective weapons, to include machine guns, mortars, propelled grenades, and nearly unlimited small arms. In a word, conflict with insurgents is just as much combat as more traditional combat between professional armies.

Which is why the drivel about a "counterinsurgency contingency operation" instead of something called a "war" makes me so angry. Whether a conflict is called a war, an operation, or whatever else is a political decision. It doesn't make much difference to the individual soldier or Marine except as regards the support he or she gets from America, measured in logistics and affirmation of the mission. To rename operations in Iraq and Afghanistan something that sounds less warlike is to demean the forces in theater from their status as the best we have to offer and our ambassadors of freedom (roles that US forces cherish and desire) to mere mercenaries, forgotten paid civil servants doing a dirty and difficult job. Defeating insurgents is a noble task, for insurgents are responsible for most of the non-military suffering from the many wars that have blighted our world. Why are we collectively so happy to deny our troops, born of our citizens and our society, even this justified satisfaction; why are we so eager to forget what is probably our only greatest contribution to the world so far this century?

Politics is often a war of words. Language shapes our thought because it is the architecture of our thought. Poetry and literature have long been considered among the greatest of artistic pursuits. Generally, we value language when it describes reality. But the sword cuts both ways: words can distort reality too. The reality is that our conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan is tough and dangerous armed fighting, against an evil and oppressive enemy who would force a specific and evil ideology (Islamic fundamentalist theocracy) upon the citizens of those countries. That does not appear to fit the ideology of our current zeitgeist. The language being applied to our troops and their effort steals the righteousness and nobility in arms they crave and for which they struggle their entire career under arms. They deserve far better of us. And if we aren't careful, our collective diminishment of them whom we admire will diminish our own selves.

1962 Latin versus 1965 Vernacular

For the entirety of my life, Catholic Mass has been said in the vernacular. I've heard it in English, Spanish, Italian, and Croatian. My first exposure into the great mysteries and ideas of the Catholic Faith occurred during those times I heard a priest intone the solemn, lucid, and impassioned rubric of the liturgy in a language I could easily understand. I have no doubt that it's the same all over the world. Yet recently the Holy See published a Motu Propio which allowed and encouraged the celebration of Mass according to ancient and traditional Latin Rite. I noted this decision and reflected on it a bit in an earlier post.

I don't very well understand the transition between the Tridentine Mass and the Novus Ordo which established new rubrics and directed the use of vernacular language. Accounts of it differ; I gather that various dioceses instituted the changes in different ways. As far as the timeline, I'm fairly sure that latest revision to the Tridentine Rite was published by Pope John XXIII in 1962, and the Novus Ordo of Pope Paul VI appeared in 1969. Therefore, beginning with the 1970s Catholics learned, adjusted, and grew into Mass celebrated generally in their native language. However, I understand (from the documents of the Second Vatican Council) that churches were expected to continue using Latin in the new liturgy for the Ordinary, or the portions of the Mass that are said exactly the same way every time the Mass is celebrated. In that manner, the fathers of Vatican II meant to marry the tradition of the church with it's opening into modernity.

Nonetheless, it seems that shortly after the appearance of the Novus Ordo Latin had all but disappeared from post-conciliar Catholicism. The occasional Agnus Dei is still sung or spoken in Latin in more traditional parishes, but I encounter this rarely. When I questioned this as a young Church History student in high school, I received some strongly-worded responses, which discouraged further questioning. That, combined with the near-total dearth of Latin in America's liturgical landscape (and the pressing concerns of adolescence), drove any thoughts or questions on the ancient language out of my mind. I unconsciously adopted the view that using Latin in Mass was the mark of a conservative parish, one which secretly yearned for the pre-conciliar worship. Such parishes, apparently, were part of a large but disorganized secret society that looked with hostility upon the Novus Ordo and the new Catholic Church. I say apparently because I don't ever remember hearing such words or prejudices outright, but somehow I came to believe them. It was, I guess, the character of the Church as a whole--or certainly the character of the Churches I attended. When in literature and in the occasional memory of either parent I heard about the old rite, I was struck by an attitude of "it's so much better now." I learned, aghast, that the old Catholics were crazy: no meat on any Friday instead of just during Lent; fasting for 12 hours before Mass, confession required prior to Mass in order to accept the Eucharist, and so on. Yet behind my sanctimonious and self-righteous rejection of that kind of strict faith, there burned a light of Romanticism--a desire for a faith that held its adherents to such high spiritual and intellectual standards. Shortly after college, in fact, while becoming acquainted with the strict rules of the Marine Corps, I began to explore the old Ordinary in Latin.

It was a half-forgotten hobby of mine, memorizing ecclesiastic Latin. I loved the difficult words and the powerful, defined romance syllables. The language of Caesars, medieval Kings, Crusaders, and Missionaries seemed to breathe majesty in a way even the most moving opening prayers and prefaces of my Sunday worship couldn't replicate. It seemed appropriate, somehow, to speak and pray to a God beyond us all and beyond the "vale of tears" in a language nobler than our own. In Mass, whenever the Agnus Dei dropped the thrice-repeated phrase "Lamb of God" for substitutes like "Bread of Life," I would quietly whisper "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi" three times myself. So it was a subject of great interest to me when Pope Benedict XVI issued his Motu Propio Summorum Pontificum authorizing the celebration of old rite in full. And through I am maybe not quite prepared to enter into that formidable liturgy completely yet, I am eager to join in the submerged and fierce debate going on as to the worthiness of Pope John XXIII's 1962 liturgy.

For starters, I'll state that I understand the immediate appeal of Mass in a common language. The ceremony, which refers to and enacts the greatest mystery and event of the Catholic faith, the crucifixion, ought to be fully understood by all participants--especially the prayers that make up the Ordinary explicitly define the tenets of Catholic faith (the Kyrie, the Credo, and the Sanctus in particular). When the entire congregation can recite these parts and listen to the Canon in their native tongue, notably with their own faculty for understanding each word and interpreting it's context, they can theoretically participate more fully and comprehend their essential faith better. Additionally, the 1970 Missal (Novus Ordo) directs that the priest faces his congregation instead to facing the Altar (with his back to everyone else). This allows the priest to communicate directly to the congregation the mysteries he celebrates during the Mass. I think the intent of the changes was to make the Mass more personal and participatory, to more readily communicate via the structure of the liturgy a sense of community, of being a part of the body of Christ.

But it must be admitted that there have been some less-than-satisfactory effects of the Novus Ordo. The author Thomas Day memorably and amusingly catalogues some of them in his books Why Catholics Can't Sing: The Culture of Catholicism and the Triumph of Bad Taste and Where have you gone Michelangelo? The Loss of soul in Catholic culture. The hyperbolic titles betray his considerable passion for this topic, but his observations are generally correct. First, the awe and majesty that accompanied a dead and imperial language, and which was entirely appropriate to the celebration of Mass, was literally lost in translation to a clear, almost colloquial vernacular. Also, notably, I think congregations can tune out their own language in Mass just as easily as they might tune out a radio advertisement. Second, in facing the congregation, there is the temptation for the Priest to slip into the role of "entertainer," feeling pressure (real or not) from his congregation to "perform" the Mass up to their satisfaction. Unfortunately, this additional complication to the ceremony tends to distract from the central mystery being celebrated under the priest's hands, allowing the congregation to focus less on the sacrament and more on the presentation of the sacrament, which (of course) partially defeats the purpose of recasting the sacrament in a common tongue.

Mr. Day argues that the old 1962 rite bypassed these issues. The priest, gorgeously robed in archaic clothing (the cassock, stole, and mantle), nearly disappeared into the ceremony. For the period of time he celebrated the Mass, he wasn't a particular priest, he was The Celebrant (capitals intended). Moreover, he didn't sit center-stage. That was where the altar was. He sat inconspicuously off to one side. When in front of the altar, he faced it, reinforcing by the choreography of the liturgy not only that attention was to be focused on the tabernacle within and not on him, but that he was the "leader of the faithful," leading them in a worship directed at something external (Christ). The only time and place where the priest faced the congregation was during the homily, given from the Ambo, which is traditionally removed the farthest distance from the altar that the sanctuary allows so as to maintain the sacred space about the altar and tabernacle.

Celebrating in Latin, though it might have been the vernacular in "Early Church" days, also acquired a ritualistic significance. As early as the Dark Ages Latin was spoke nowhere the church existed except perhaps the wealthier parts of Rome itself. Yet in holding on to the dead, imperial language the Church impartially aligned itself with none of it's constituent ethnic members. Whether Catholics in a particular place knew Sicilian, Italian, Greek, French, Spanish, or Gaelic, they all worshipped in the same language, and that told a world torn apart with war and vandalism more than anything else that the Church of Christ was open to all peoples. During Mission work later on in her history, the Church could plausibly claim that Native American (Central, South, and North) worship was worth the same as European worship for that same reason. But if the choreography of the Tridentine Rite and the "universal" language of Latin graphically demonstrated the Church's universality and true faith, they also were also called a barrier to understanding the liturgy itself.

I don't entirely agree. A barrier to understanding the liturgy? Not if they are willing to do a little research. I recently purchased a 1962 Missal with a section in it that, with Latin on one page and English on the other, walks the Mass attendee through the all the liturgical steps of the Mass, to the extent of detailing the small though symbolic gestures the priest makes with each liturgical phase of the celebration. Not only is it easy to follow, but the raw beauty and spiritual power of the Tridentine Mass (translated into archaic, majestic English) takes my breath away. Yet such a celebration has admittedly limited appeal. Children, for example, will probably not be eager to follow the small text of a missal through Church each Sunday. Nor will people who don't enjoy reading. And the Catholic Church correctly desires to reach these types of people as well. My joy of the Tridentine Rite is NOT worth more to God than the faith of a child (in fact, it's worth much less, as Jesus says in Matthew 18) or the piety of an non-literary man or woman. A friend of mine once told me "in order to lead someone somewhere, you must first go to where they are now." And so I think the Church was right to craft a liturgy that was more accessible (the vernacular) and more personal (priest facing the congregation). Therein Catholics with little time or inclination to pursue the detailed scriptural underpinnings of liturgy--or put another way, Catholics whose faith does not demand the explanation and demonstration of Tridentine Mass--could find spiritual sustenance and growth. After all--and as I said before--hearing each Sunday liturgy in my own language was my first introduction to the magnificent spiritual depths of Catholicism, an introduction which I might never have experienced if I had been hearing uncomprehendingly the hushed latin of the 1962 Rite.

Which brings me back to the debate. Some argue that the Tridentine Mass more appropriate and reverent, and correctly identify it's influence on great Saints and how it sustained the central worship of Catholicism through schism, scandal, and attack for five hundred years. Others argue that it reduces the faith to a dead worship of unhealthy focus on personal faith, suffocating the "body of Christ" under an impersonal and obscure ceremony. What has the vernacular brought us but irreverence? What has the Latin to offer but a Mass beyond our comprehension. I think there is a very simple answer. Tridentine Mass has a place in contemporary worship. It is truly solemn and beautiful, and encourages a deeply personal relationship with Christ in the Eucharist. It is not surprising to me that such Masses newly offered in my own diocese are well-attended. The Novus Ordo, however, has the chief place in our worship. Correctly celebrated, it opens the words of scripture and the truths taught by the Magisterium to Catholics in a heartfelt, understandable, and exhortational way. And there is no reason why each can't inform the other. Certainly the parts of the Mass that are most familiar, like the Ordinary and the Elevation, could be easily spoken or sung in Latin. Such a practice would reinforce their extraordinary nature and the Church's universality without affecting the congregation's understanding of those parts of the liturgy. And opening the Tridentine Mass to more participation, such as allowing the congregation to recite parts of the Ordinary or the Lord's Prayer with the priest (in Latin, of course) would encourage more Catholics to enter that deeply spiritual rite.

Bringing back Tridentine Mass as an option cannot but help increase the spirituality of Catholics, which cannot but result in their opening up to God and becoming better disciples and witnesses here on earth. In fact, now that it exists I encourage all Catholics to attend a Tridentine Mass just once to see what it's like. It does not diminish the Novus Ordo but enhances it, for the old rite is the foundation of the new and and understanding the former may increase appreciation of the latter. Latin Mass isn't a shameful secret of our past, an example of overbearing religiosity and hypocritical piety; it is the fruit of Catholicism's long and grace-filled struggle against the temptation of worldly power, the attacks of enlightenment atheism and reductionism, and the deadly indifference of modernity. It will bear fruit for us, too, if we allow it: in our prayer life, in our public worship, and most importantly in our collective public ministry.

Notre Dame Commencement 2009

The news today has focused on Notre Dame's commencement, at which President Obama spoke. A contentious decision by the University Administration, the announcement over a month ago sparked angry reactions from many American Catholics, protests on campus, and a storm of analysis (mostly speculation, as is the way with such things) regarding what the Catholic Church really believes on abortion and what Notre Dame's own position should be. The University "stuck to it's guns" and went ahead with the invitation, and cited many good reasons for bringing the president, however pro-choice he might be, to campus--many of which I agree with. I think there's no question that the president brings with him the dignity of the office. I think it is important for a Catholic University to engage in dialogue with public figures regarding issues of mutual concern. I think it is Notre Dame's role to "lead the way" by remaining visible and vehement in considering Catholic values publicly. I think, however, this particular situation involving our current president is different.

First of all, when you invite someone to speak at commencement, you are giving them a "bully pulpit." That is not dialogue, and does little to invite discussion--a forum is a much more seemly academic setting for a dialogue. Second of all, commencement speakers are usually chosen because they embody or represent values that the institution wishes to instill (or have instilled) in the graduates. Choosing a consistently pro-choice, pro-stem-cell-research politician implies somehow that those positions ("values") are reconcilable with Church teaching, or more specifically that you can hold that perspective and be perfectly in accord with the school and--by extension--the Church. Third of all, awarding a Juris Doctor (even honorary) indicates the awarding institution has somehow decided that the recipient is capable and prepared ethically to interpret law, which considering the Church's strong position on the illegality and horror of the current "holocaust" of abortions is clearly not the case with Obama.

Some have argued that abortion (or stem-cell research) should not be "the issue." I disagree. With the recent work on the Theology of the Body and the developing "spousal" imagery inherent in our understanding of Church-Laity relationships and self-Christ relationships, I think it is becoming more clear that the idea of the sanctity of life stands nearly equal with the gift of free will and the mysterious nature of Christ and the Trinity as a foundation of our Faith. In fact, respect for the sanctity of life has its roots in Christ's famous commandments "Love your neighbor as yourself" and "Love your neighbor as I have loved you," and is the subsequent foundation of all Catholic moral teaching--and the fountainhead of Catholic social teaching (on which President Obama and the Church indeed have much in common) As such, it is more important than social teaching or personal morals. This is why the Church teaches that abortion is the worst of sins and incurs automatic (latae sententiae) excommunication, a state which remains until the abortion is confessed and reparation is made to God in the form of penance.  So I think it is "the" issue. There is no person so helpless and so in need of charity as an infant; how much more so for the unborn infant.

This whole focus on the unborn infant is distasteful to some in our society, who argue that concern for the mother should also enter into an abortion decision. I sympathize with this perspective. A mother may be in physical danger from childbirth, bearing the fruit of rape, or unable to support a child, or simply unwilling to continue the pregnancy. On the far extreme of this side are those who regard abortion as a "health care choice" of a woman, a decision protected by her essential freedom (as if the fetus is merely an extension of her body which she could decide to have removed). I think there is a legitimate concern that anti-abortion legislation would take some control from women over their own bodies: they would be forced to deal with the consequences of sexual activity and possibly guard a life they didn't intend to create. Indeed, women unable or unwilling to handle the responsibility of rearing a child deserve our charity and support (and certainly not the kind of cruel social stigma that often attaches to pregnancies outside of a marriage). But my sympathy for women in this regard is limited, for in this country the selective service also takes control from young men over their bodies, and at any moment may expose them to the violent and painful death promised by war, or torture at the hands of our nation's enemies, or disfigurement. Furthermore, I think in both cases I think society has the right to protect all its citizens, either at the expense of women by disallowing their murder in the womb, or at the expense of men by using their bodies to provide for national defense.

Whatever your view on abortion or stem-cell research, however (and President Obama readily admitted there were two legitimate and probably irreconcilable sides to the issue), as a Catholic you must acknowledge that the Church brooks no compromise on this issue. According to the Magisterium, abortion is never allowed: not if the mother's life is in danger, not if the child is the progeny of a sex crime, not if the child is going to be mentally disabled, not ever. There are no ifs, ands, or buts. Catholics must abide by this teaching and understand it if they are to be "In Communion" with the Church. And such teaching does not allow for useful dialogue, since there is no compromise a Catholic apologist can make, nothing they can "give" to a pro-choice advocate in discussion. So while it is well that this issue remains in the public arena (both for Catholics and others), and it certainly does when a pro-choice politician speaks at the commencement of a Catholic University, it undermines the official position of the Church on it's sanctity of life teaching to honor that politician with a degree and a "bully pulpit." It implies that holding views on the sanctity of life heterodox to Church teaching is allowed. That is poor instruction and poor leadership. I expected better from Notre Dame.