Many the Miles

It has been five long and eventful years since I began cataloguing my experiences and thoughts for the world. It was an interesting hobby, probably characterized mostly by comical futility. But it's been fun reflecting on Infantry training, Flight School, Virginia and Pensacola and San Diego, the tough joy of squadron life followed by the struggle and wonder of deployment to the Far East. Indeed my feet have trod many miles, but this past weekend they found a place of rest and happiness that will carry through the rest of my life. This is that story.

Matt: As a freshman at Notre Dame in January of 2001, I found myself in a writing class. As it was part part of the required first year course of studies, the students were a random assortment and I wouldn't have a single other class with any of them for the rest of my college career. That, coupled with my chosen "Great Books" major, contributed to my ill-concealed contempt for the class as nothing more than a necessary evil. There was, however, one benefit to showing up each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and that was the fetching young lady named Kate who sat across from me. She was pretty and popular--and completely out of my league--and she definitely caught my attention.

Kate: I met Matt the first day of Spring Semester my Freshman year during a required Composition class. I don't remember if it was by chance that we ended up sitting across from one another, but I'm fairly certain that after doing a quick scan of the class, it is most probable that I specifically picked the seat directly across from the cutest boy in the room. Introductions were made, and Matt announced that he was from Seattle. For a girl from Chicago, Seattle seemed exotic and different, a place where the 'cool bands' originated, and coffee was produced in magical Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-eqsue shops. It was also the former location of "The Real World," so I naturally assumed people lounged around in their houseboats all day and compared the philosophies of Sartre to Kurt Cobain. As I shook myself out of the daydream, I remember Matt speaking. "This boy is brilliant," I thought, "brilliant!" He was confident and perceptive; an intelligent young man who wasn't afraid to discuss literature and/or sentence structure. Bingo! I made a snap judgment that THIS boy was THE boy for me.

Matt: One afternoon she approached me and inquired if I'd help her on a paper. I probably stuttered a bit in my attempt to answer yes, desperately trying not to let my surprise and jubilation spill out onto my otherwise "cool" exterior (by which I mean a comically ineffective poker face). So I awkwardly made an appointment (a date?) and accordingly presented myself one evening at her dorm. It was locked down as female residence halls always were at Notre Dame, but a kindly resident let me in and I braved the gauntlet of feminine stares along the hallways leading to her door. The next hour is a blur, but I gather that we sedately gathered around her computer, I offered some constructive criticism in a terrified and studied academic manner, and then I left. Afterwards I wondered if this pretty young lady wasn't perhaps at least as interested in me as she did in her paper, but immediately discounted the notion as highly improbable. She was out of my league. I avoided any potential embarrassment that another encounter might create and went about my college life.

Kate: I asked him for help on a paper, which is probably THE most transparent move I could have made. A paper? Really? Smooth move, Dolack. My Calculus homework certainly, but a paper? We must have discussed a time and date, probably in early February, where we would meet in my dorm. At the time, I was living in a crowded three-room dorm above the rector, with three roommates; our doors were guarded by a very intimidating security woman who spent her days patrolling our hallways and knitting hats and sweater vests for her gerbils. I'm certain I must have confided to my girlfriends that Matt Klobucher, that cute boy from my FYC class was coming over, because I don't remember anyone in the room. And then the big moment arrived. Matt Klobucher walked into my room to help me with my paper. And he did just that. He helped me with my paper, made a few comments about the sentence structure, and left. The boy actually commented on my use of a split infinitive. That's right, I was totally rejected because of a grammatical error.

Matt: After that class, we never really ran into each other. I stalked her lightly on Instant Messenger, and later on FaceBook, but only as a sort of dream. I was a dour Marine Corps-bound "Great Books" major; she was clearly destined for happiness and perfection. Unbeknownst to me, we ended up with some of the same friends, and I always noted Kate's presence in our friends' online photographs with a little jolt of pleasure and nostalgia for what might have been. I noted that she moved to LA after college, and occasionally stifled my attention to her during other relationships. Then I noticed something new and interesting about her.

Kate: After that class, Matt and I never really ran into each one another, (but I never forgot him). I would love to push rewind and watch the number of times we passed each other, since we had many friends in common. In fact, most of my closest friends were kids from his dorm or girls from his major. I lived up my time in college, acting in plays with my dearest friends Julianne and Megan, and attended parties and Irish pubs with my girlfriends, Krista, Aindrea, Jen, and Emma. Meanwhile, Megan, both a talented actress AND a "Great Books" major, attended classes and military balls with Matt (I attended several military balls with the Air Force boys). When not out with me, Aindrea and Jen occasionally hung out with Matt at typical Notre Dame watering holes. After college, Jen actually bounced back and forth from Pensacola to visit her college boyfriend, John, who lived with Matt while they were in Flight School together (I moved to LA and began my career working for FX). In November 2006 Matt moved to San Diego within a week of my final departure from LA for Chicago. We passed each other, I am sure, on the road. Sometimes I wonder if I waved.

Matt: It was one evening in early 2007. I was living in Pensacola, Florida, and idly browsing FaceBook. My "feed" informed me that Kate had posted a note. The title intrigued me, as did the opening sentence which was displayed on my screen. I clicked on it and proceeded to read one of the most entertaining, most poignant short stories I'd ever seen. I remembered ruefully that she had once asked ME for help writing, since she was clearly so much better than I was. I wished in that moment (and have in many since) that I could write like her. I was so impressed, in fact, that I threw caution to the winds and commented on her story, telling her how good it was. As I expected, I received no response.

Kate: In late 2006, searching for an outlet for my thoughts, I sat down and wrote a short memorist-style story and posted it on Facebook. I wrote about being a single gal in the city, living in a high rise building, trying to avoid both being sucked into Lifetime Television for Women and the exhaust from the 151 city bus. I had been out of college for more than two long years. I missed Notre Dame. I missed my friends. I missed our carefree atmosphere. But, in the end, I ended the piece with a hopeful nature. Goodness, to be twenty-three. I remember Matt commented, and I remember being touched. I missed him; my old friend.

Matt: Over the following months, I sought out and read everything she posted on Facebook. Occasionally I'd comment, impressed with her writing and wanting her to know how good she was. I certainly didn't forget how attractive she was, either! Finally in the spring of 2007 I wrote more publicly on her wall (instead of simply commenting on a note), and she responded! It was a kind and sweet response, and in it she mentioned a few books in connection to her writing and my job. Little did I know that her recommendation of "The Prince of Tides" that day as her favorite book would eventually provide the seed for our current wonderful relationship.

Kate: Matt and I would go back and forth between writing small snippets to each other. Occasionally, we'd each go months without a response from the other. Then one day, he wrote to me. I had just finished reading my mom's recommendation of what would become my favorite book of all time, Pat Conroy's, "The Prince of Tides." I knew Matt was a big reader like myself. I also was aware that he was in the Marine Corps and had trained in flight school, so I wondered if he may be interested in "The Great Santini," and/or "The Lords of Discipline". I asked him if he had ever read the book, and he said no. I told him to check it out. In the meantime, I debated actually sending him all of Conroy's finest works. But at the last minute, I backed out. So instead I wrote, "Go buy that book!"

Matt: You see, I read that book on her recommendation. That was (and still is) rare for me. I almost never read something another has recommended to me. I've always been on my own little reading program. But in this case I took the plunge, I read that book, and enjoyed it. I thought it so good that I wrote a review of it online. and as it happened wrote a review online.

Kate: I dated other people. He dated other people. But I often compared others to him, which is odd since we didn't know each other that well, really. But I did know he was something rare. He was somethin' special. I remember checking Matt's profile when he was on deployment. I wrote him slightly more often then. "Come visit!" I would cheerfully suggest. "I'm in Japan," he would respond. "But it's warm here in Februrary," I would lie. "Have fun with that weather!," he would joke. I thought of him on Christmas. He seemed so far away. Months passed and I was deeply involved in my work, pulling late nights at the office, traveling around the country to complete interviews and buried in research. In May, we wrapped the first season of the show I helped create. In June, I was anxious: I had spent so much of the past year of my life developing this series, I didn't know what to do with my time. I couldn't sleep. I spent far too much time on Facebook posting silly messages to friends and crafting song lyrics as away messages.

Matt: Then she apparently found the review I'd written on "The Prince of Tides" online one night last June. And she was apparently so impressed that she wrote me a fairly long note. It wasn't an ordinary note, filled with kindly concern and intellectual agreement. It was a genuine and elegant note that communicated the just the same kind of respect and sympathy that I felt for all of her writing. It was also complimentary and sweet. I was stunned and delighted.

Kate: One week later, I found myself up at 1:30am. I knew Pat Conroy had a new novel about to hit the bookstores, and so I started to research any information I could find on the author. On page three of a silly google search, I saw a review of "The Prince of Tides." 'Oh, my favorite," I thought to myself, and clicked on the link. And then, there he was: a photograph of Matthew Klobucher attached to his review of "The Prince of Tides." I was floored. It took me about five minutes to compose myself. The review was beautiful, and his writing was just as I remembered. I checked the date on the review: only one week after I suggested he read "The Prince of Tides." Without thinking, I wrote him immediately.

Matt: I couldn't believe she had written me! I hastily crafted a response that would be appropriately appreciative. This was a delicate moment, since I wanted to be absolutely sincere but nevertheless was conscious that betraying too much of my suddenly developing attraction might put this dream girl off. So in honest but carefully considered phrases, I thanked her for her note and invited further correspondence.

Kate: He wrote me back. He was just as I remembered...or maybe better? I knew I had to find a way to San Diego. I started to think of ways to interview a subject, research a story, develop a show.anything.

Matt: This started a series of letters between us, surprisingly deep in content and gradually moving from Facebook to "old-fashioned email," then to talking over the phone. As it became blindingly obvious to me and my good friends in San Diego that I was crushing hard on this girl, I impetuously invited her to accompany me to a wedding in Boston, just a month after Kate's first long note. She accepted. It was pretty exciting.

Kate: We wrote back and forth. Once, I wrote him a letter from thirty thousand feet in the air...eager to hit 'send' as soon as I arrived back in my apartment. His letters were magic...like poetry. Then one night, he phoned. We spent four hours on the phone deep in conversation--and every night thereafter, we logged at least that much. Thank GOODNESS we both have AT&T! A few weeks later, Matt asked me to the wedding of his good friends, Matt and Margaret. Of course, I accepted. I was thrilled, nervous, excited, and every other emotion one could imagine.

Matt: Apprehension ran high as I prepared to pick her up in Chicago and go to this wedding. When she met me in the Chicago airport it was the first time we'd seen each other in seven years. But that didn't matter. After a month of intense letters and conversations (and my lovely college memories of her) we met with laughter, an embrace and many kisses. From that moment, we were dating officially and seriously.

Kate: We had our first kiss at Midway airport. We wandered around the city, attended an art show, and sat on beach steps and watched people play in the water and jog back in forth. That night, over pizza and under summer stars, he told me loved me. It was our first date. It was perfect. And I think, well, I had been in love with him from the very beginning.

Matt: When you know, you know. Several weeks later I started preparations for proposing to her--ordering a ring, talking to her father, and all the rest. But we quickly decided that the preparations were taking too long. We loved each other, we wanted to marry each other, we were ready to cheerfully and excitedly begin the preparations for a wedding and the follow-on joys and difficulties of a marriage. So we became secretly engaged in the last week of September, pending the actual proposal. Though a secret engagement is romantic, I am glad our intention is public knowledge! Now, I am eager to finalize wedding preparations and finally start my life with her. She is nothing less than my soulmate and the love of my life.

Kate: The rest, as they say, is history. How many times had I wondered, well, HOW do you know? People who were happily married would try to explain. "Well," they would say, "you just know." But yet I would continue to ask. "Is it a feeling? Is it something in your head? Is it settling? Do you just decide one day? What am I not getting? How does anyone just 'know?!' I just could not understand, couldn't find the solution, couldn't find the logical components that would equal the answer. And it wasn't until I found Matt again that I discovered the answer to my question. It was him. He was the answer all along.

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.