Over the weekend of June 8-10, I traveled to Washington DC for a wedding. It was held in St. Veronica's church in Fairfax County. The ceremony was not particularly sentimental. The vows were traditional, taken by the bride and groom in a quiet and serious manner. The readings were appropriate, but certainly not the expected fare: no 1 Corinthians chapter 13.* The homily was very down-to-earth, but was neither moving nor eloquent, and the consecration was professional rather than grave or solemn. Nobody exclaimed in penetrating whispers after the mass, "What a beautiful ceremony!" The best accolade I heard while exiting the church was a simple, "That was very nice." And it was nice. It was simply nice. But I think that goes a lot farther in the long run than pure romance.
For me, the ceremony had a lasting effect and rare value. In the homily, the priest spoke in clumsy analogies, calling on the groom's profession as an artist and the bride's profession as a doctor to point out that a successful relationship requires both creativity and imagination from the artist's side, and discipline and precision from the doctor's side. He pointed out that the practical foundation of a good marriage is, in essence, good business sense (the organized hospital); while the personal or spiritual element foundation requires quiet, comfortable, inspired interaction (found in the studio). The entire content of the homily, in fact, was plain advice on how to make a permanent and necessarily close relationship between two people work.
In short, the priest made the wedding ceremony one of commitment. He invited us, the family and friends of the new couple, to witness their bond. The advice he gave, not preachy, was a memorable blueprint for a good and lasting relationship. Sentimentality is pretty, but steadiness is more lasting. Steadiness is made of loyalty and care--and while it springs from the more erotic love of two young people who have "fallen for each other," it is in fact more romantic. It is the source of contentment and happiness over a long life, instead of over a short period.
Then, before distributing Communion, the priest reminded his congregation that the Catholic Church refuses the Eucharist to those who aren't Catholic themselves, because the sacrament is not only the body and blood of Christ, but also represents the recipient's full accord with the teachings and laws of the Church. Since about a quarter of those present did not appear Catholic, I thought this was a difficult thing to say. It seems rude and demeaning, probably, to them, who consider themselves as much a Christian (sometimes, if not more) than any Catholic. But, as a priest, he is bound to respect and uphold the laws of the Church, even when it is unpleasant. And I admired him for it.
During my trip back on Sunday, I had a two and a half hour layover in Chicago's Midway airport. As I walked through the terminal to my next gate, so I could find a place to settle down and read, I heard over the intercom an announcement for Mass. Though I had planned to go to Mass that evening (my church offers a 5:30 PM Mass), I was interested. I changed course for the chapel and took my place in one of the seats.
Slowly, the place filled up. There were several families with children, many couples of all ages, and many solitary travelers (like me) in the room before Mass started. Eventually there was standing room only. The priest entered quietly, we all stood, then he started by asking that no one leave after communion, but admonished that we all should stay for the completion of the Mass. He also offered confession afterward to anyone who was interested. Again, I found this admirable. Most people (and I think especially Americans) do not like to be criticized or told what to do. It seems to me that many American Catholics react strongly and negatively when a priest (or anyone) asserts the need for confession, or that it is polite and respectful--to God, if not the priest--to stay for the entire Mass (instead of taking communion and leaving). Too often, then, are these subjects ignored. It is easier to talk about other aspects of the faith. But this priest--frail, old and a stranger to all of us--invoked his ecclesiastic authority.
I should point out here that I don't think many of the erstwhile parishioners at the airport Mass needed the priest's reminders. We were a motley collection, consisting mostly of private, sometimes ugly people quietly going about our business. There was nothing exceptionally social in our demeanor, nor particularly inspired about our worship (though we did sing at times). I felt, though, a strong and solid faith among us; everyone there seemed to be executing their duty to God in a quiet but lasting way. At Notre Dame I saw the same thing. Students and professors who rarely spoke about religions quietly (but clearly, if I observed them) went to Mass every weekend (since I lived on campus I had ample opportunity to discover this amongst my fellow students) and led essentially sober, good lives--though "sober" might be a misleading word here, because groups of people I've met drink and party as often or good-humoredly as Midwesterners. I say "essentially sober" because I doubt seriously whether many Midwesterners drink so as to lose all control and thereby commit great sins, rather they are good, honest people when drunk as well as when sober.
Was the priest at the wedding from the Midwest? I don't know, but I heard the trace of a flat "a" sound while he spoke that reminded me strongly of the accent heard in Ohio and Illinois. His homily was redolent of the plain, practical common sense that Midwesterners bring to their religion and religious duties (among which are Mass and marriage), which I was reminded of so strongly--by both the priest and congregation--during the short Sunday traveler's Mass at Midway airport. And though I go to a church now that is much more inspired, I recognize the value of such good sense and practical discipline in my own life (spiritual or otherwise). I certainly don't want to imply either that my Notre Dame Mass experience lacked inspiration or that my current Mass experience lacks solid values--neither would be true. But like a relationship between two people, a relationship with God also requires both inspiration and discipline. And since I have become so used to the inspiration side, it was good to be reminded of the discipline side.
*Note: I do not dislike 1 Corinthians chapter 13. I find it a powerful and illuminating text. It is nevertheless somewhat cliché at weddings. I find it much more romantic and applicable when it is read starting with chapter 12, verse 27.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Tactical flying (and living) San Diego
It has been four long months since I last wrote about my continuing military adventure. This is partially due to the time commitment of my job, partially due to the other activities I have taken on, but mostly due to the fact that my job is no longer so easy to explain. As I get more specialized in my profession, the knowledge I acquire is more technical, and thus of diminished interest to the world at large. But I will try to adequately describe the excitement of operating a real military jet, which goes far beyond its flight capabilities.
The program here consists of several phases. The first I wrote about in my last post about flying. The next is air-to-ground training: how to bomb and deliver advanced weapons (the ones you hear about on the news). Much of knowledge required is technical specifications about the ordnance itself, or the delivery systems organic to the aircraft, and much of that stuff is secret (no, it's really classified...I'm not kidding). But the flights themselves are rewarding, because we generally "roll in" on a target, a fancy way to say we dive-bomb it. It has a few advantages: you can look at your target and thereby be more accurate, and you can deliver the weapon on a moving target (something harder from high altitude). There is nothing, however that gets your adrenaline pumping like flying at the ground at 500 mph, trying to put a steel bomb downrange without actually impacting the ground yourself. Naturally, we are very careful--and we certainly don't hesitate to pull out of the dive if any dangerous situation develops. But it requires a lot of concentration.
Some of you may be inquiring why we dive-bomb when we have all these fancy GPS weapons. More may be thinking that we're crazy to dive-bomb at all, what with the threat of turning ourselves into a kamikaze jet. A single answer suffices for both: dumb bombs are cheaper than smart bombs, and the most effective way to deliver them is by a dive delivery. And since the whole purpose of Marine Aviation is to put bombs on bad guys, we do that as best we can...even if it's dangerous. And we train to it. Hence the many practice flights. You'd think it gets repetitive, but it doesn't. It's a lot of fun, partially because it's such a challenge. There are few things in life as satisfying as doing a demanding job well.
Speaking of putting bombs on bad guys, the culmination of the air-to-ground phase is CAS, or Close Air Support. That is the art of supporting ground troops actually in contact with the enemy, as opposed to pre-planned deep strikes against solitary (but presumably high-value) targets. This is also very dangerous, because the explosive effects of our weapons can cover a lot of ground, and the worst thing that can happen is a friendly-fire incident. To add to the possibility of error is the fact that oftentimes we cannot plan our targets in advance, since a battle is always fluid and we have to respond to developing situations. We instead rely on external controllers (airborne or on the ground) to direct us to targets as they appear. So we have strict procedures to follow in the airplane that involve a specific brief over the radio (the 9-line) and standardized radio comms in order to prevent us dropping ordnance on our own troops. I can't really describe the excitement of this kind of mission: it is exciting, challenging, and intense. It is, in fact, exactly what I wanted to do when I signed up for Marine Aviation. It’s worth noting that as a backseater, I will be trained to be one of the (airborne) external controllers, and my job then will be to fly above the battlespace and direct other aircraft (including helicopters) in Close Air Support. I can’t wait.
In my civilian life, I have found a church here with a very strong Young Adult program (they tend to get offended if referred to as “youth,” though I still think of myself as such). This facet of their ministry is appropriate considering their location in Pacific Beach , a neighborhood of small shops, tattoo parlors, and bars whose chief residents are college students. But the ministry offers everything from a Memorial Day barbecue to in-depth conferences and bible studies oriented toward (and led by) young adults. It’s a fun group—we often go out to dinner after Mass, or simply go out drinking if the mood strikes us. Recently I began leading a bible study with a friend of mine, and the chance to do the “great books” thing again--by immersing myself in the text and trying to understand it with other people and perspectives--has been very rewarding. In fact, spending time with these young Catholics constitutes my largest extra-military activity.
As my parents found out when they visited over Mother’s day, I lead a good life down here. Despite my location by the coast, the weather is nice more often than not, and (at least around the city) the landscape is beautiful. It is definitely part of the desert, though--I find it amazing that the entire coastal landscape becomes distinctly greener after a day of rain, and becomes gradually browner during good weather. The real desert is evident when flying over the mountains east of the city to the bombing ranges. It is a bleak, magnificent landscape; never easier to appreciate than when raging around at 300’ above the desert floor, rolling over dramatic ridges and diving through valleys. Though it's fun to see that kind of landscape, I prefer the comparatively lush coastline.
On one flight out over the ocean, I chanced to look down as we went “feet wet” and noticed what appeared to be a solitary beach immediately below me. That afternoon I went to check it out as a possible location to go for a run. There were only a few people there, but oddly enough half of them appeared to be naked. It took a minute for this to sink in (since it was so unexpected), but I discovered later that I had found Black’s Beach, which is apparently a de facto nude beach. Given the several-hundred-foot cliffs that separate it from the headland, authorities rarely (read: never) come to enforce the San Diego ordinance prohibiting nudity. Despite that, it is a largely solitary and clean beach, nestled between the surf and the cliffs--a beautiful place to run. In fact, there are many beautiful places around here, and I am happy to be able to enjoy them. Southern California has not disappointed me.
The program here consists of several phases. The first I wrote about in my last post about flying. The next is air-to-ground training: how to bomb and deliver advanced weapons (the ones you hear about on the news). Much of knowledge required is technical specifications about the ordnance itself, or the delivery systems organic to the aircraft, and much of that stuff is secret (no, it's really classified...I'm not kidding). But the flights themselves are rewarding, because we generally "roll in" on a target, a fancy way to say we dive-bomb it. It has a few advantages: you can look at your target and thereby be more accurate, and you can deliver the weapon on a moving target (something harder from high altitude). There is nothing, however that gets your adrenaline pumping like flying at the ground at 500 mph, trying to put a steel bomb downrange without actually impacting the ground yourself. Naturally, we are very careful--and we certainly don't hesitate to pull out of the dive if any dangerous situation develops. But it requires a lot of concentration.
Some of you may be inquiring why we dive-bomb when we have all these fancy GPS weapons. More may be thinking that we're crazy to dive-bomb at all, what with the threat of turning ourselves into a kamikaze jet. A single answer suffices for both: dumb bombs are cheaper than smart bombs, and the most effective way to deliver them is by a dive delivery. And since the whole purpose of Marine Aviation is to put bombs on bad guys, we do that as best we can...even if it's dangerous. And we train to it. Hence the many practice flights. You'd think it gets repetitive, but it doesn't. It's a lot of fun, partially because it's such a challenge. There are few things in life as satisfying as doing a demanding job well.
Speaking of putting bombs on bad guys, the culmination of the air-to-ground phase is CAS, or Close Air Support. That is the art of supporting ground troops actually in contact with the enemy, as opposed to pre-planned deep strikes against solitary (but presumably high-value) targets. This is also very dangerous, because the explosive effects of our weapons can cover a lot of ground, and the worst thing that can happen is a friendly-fire incident. To add to the possibility of error is the fact that oftentimes we cannot plan our targets in advance, since a battle is always fluid and we have to respond to developing situations. We instead rely on external controllers (airborne or on the ground) to direct us to targets as they appear. So we have strict procedures to follow in the airplane that involve a specific brief over the radio (the 9-line) and standardized radio comms in order to prevent us dropping ordnance on our own troops. I can't really describe the excitement of this kind of mission: it is exciting, challenging, and intense. It is, in fact, exactly what I wanted to do when I signed up for Marine Aviation. It’s worth noting that as a backseater, I will be trained to be one of the (airborne) external controllers, and my job then will be to fly above the battlespace and direct other aircraft (including helicopters) in Close Air Support. I can’t wait.
In my civilian life, I have found a church here with a very strong Young Adult program (they tend to get offended if referred to as “youth,” though I still think of myself as such). This facet of their ministry is appropriate considering their location in Pacific Beach , a neighborhood of small shops, tattoo parlors, and bars whose chief residents are college students. But the ministry offers everything from a Memorial Day barbecue to in-depth conferences and bible studies oriented toward (and led by) young adults. It’s a fun group—we often go out to dinner after Mass, or simply go out drinking if the mood strikes us. Recently I began leading a bible study with a friend of mine, and the chance to do the “great books” thing again--by immersing myself in the text and trying to understand it with other people and perspectives--has been very rewarding. In fact, spending time with these young Catholics constitutes my largest extra-military activity.
As my parents found out when they visited over Mother’s day, I lead a good life down here. Despite my location by the coast, the weather is nice more often than not, and (at least around the city) the landscape is beautiful. It is definitely part of the desert, though--I find it amazing that the entire coastal landscape becomes distinctly greener after a day of rain, and becomes gradually browner during good weather. The real desert is evident when flying over the mountains east of the city to the bombing ranges. It is a bleak, magnificent landscape; never easier to appreciate than when raging around at 300’ above the desert floor, rolling over dramatic ridges and diving through valleys. Though it's fun to see that kind of landscape, I prefer the comparatively lush coastline.
On one flight out over the ocean, I chanced to look down as we went “feet wet” and noticed what appeared to be a solitary beach immediately below me. That afternoon I went to check it out as a possible location to go for a run. There were only a few people there, but oddly enough half of them appeared to be naked. It took a minute for this to sink in (since it was so unexpected), but I discovered later that I had found Black’s Beach, which is apparently a de facto nude beach. Given the several-hundred-foot cliffs that separate it from the headland, authorities rarely (read: never) come to enforce the San Diego ordinance prohibiting nudity. Despite that, it is a largely solitary and clean beach, nestled between the surf and the cliffs--a beautiful place to run. In fact, there are many beautiful places around here, and I am happy to be able to enjoy them. Southern California has not disappointed me.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
A defense of real cork
I am very interested in wine. This is partly my parents' fault, since they are also very interested in wine, and I grew up with it at the dinner table every night. But they weren't just interested in drinking it: my father especially is fairly knowledgeable about how wines are made and labeled (no small subject of inquiry). Following in his footsteps, I myself have recently begun to investigate the ancient art of fermenting grapes into a drinkable beverage. And I have found it very intriguing.
I should be very clear here. I find that knowing about wine is almost as fun as drinking wine. I don't mean the pretentious knowledge about, say, which wine labels are better than others, or which wines can be correctly paired with what kinds of foods--that sort of "knowledge" is, in my experience, largely a result of one person trying to appear better than others. It is, essentially, condescension. I am not interested in that. I am interested in discovering where certain wines come from and how they (hopefully) reflect their origins. I am interested in attempts, both old and new, to make a better wine by combining various grapes. I am interested in the fermenting process, the aging process, and most of all in the finished product. I am interested because I think it truly is a craft, just like making fine furniture or painting pictures.
I am, for example, fascinated that champagne was developed as a desperate bid to make marketable wine from the Champagne region of France, which apparently has very poor natural conditions and soil (from a winemaking perspective). The medieval monk Dom Perignon was one of the chief engineers of sparkling wine, and his name is immortalized now as the label of a very famous champagne. Likewise interesting is the fact that Riesling winemakers will leave a portion of their grapes on the vine past the first harvest so they will ripen further. This is a risk in Germany, when autumn frosts come early and hard. But the longer the grapes are left on the vine, the sweeter, more ageworthy, and more flavorful are the wines made from them. And even if the grapes freeze, they can be made into a very sweet wine called Eiswine ("Icewine").
Such examples of winemaking illustrate the painstaking care and ingenuity that goes into producing the bottle of wine that I choose to drink. And that makes drinking the wine a Romantic experience--not romantic in the sense of being appropriate to two people who are in love, but rather in the sense I define at the top of this page: being "marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized." A bottle of wine made with care should represent both the place it came from and the intent of the winemaker who created it. It can produce an astounding variety of flavors and even enhance the flavor of the food we eat while drinking it. Above all, like any great endeavor of human ingenuity, it should inspire us.
The English author Evelyn Waugh recognized this, and in the novel Brideshead Revisited, during a darkly amusing and depressing dinner with an excessively practical, grasping, manipulative man named Rex Mottram, the main character muses: "Those were the kind of things he [Rex] heard, mortal illness and debt, I thought. [But] I rejoiced in the Burgundy. How can I describe it? The Pathetic Fallacy resounds in all our praise of wine. For centuries every language has been strained to define its beauty, and has produced only wild conceits or the stock epithets of the trade. This Burgundy seemed to me, then, serene and triumphant, a reminder that the world was an older and better place than Rex knew, that mankind in its long passion had learned another wisdom than his. By chance I met this same wine again...in the first autumn of the war; it had softened and faded in the intervening years, but it still spoke in the pure, authentic accent of its prime and, that day, as...with Rex Mottram years before, it whispered faintly, but in the same lapidary phrase, the same words of hope."
So perhaps it is easy to see why I have been sorry to see the intrusion of wax synthetic corks and plastic screwtops into the world of wine. It isn't that I refuse to recognize the benefits of these technological advancements: cork taint, or the intrusion of molds and bad flavor into the wine from the cork, is one of the oldest and most consistent problems with wine bottling. In fact, when the waiter at a restaurant pours a little wine into the glass for you to taste before the wine is served, it isn't so the you can decide if you like the wine. It's so you can be satisfied you are getting a wine untainted by the cork. Without question, synthetic corks and screwtops largely eliminate this problem. Furthermore, as both substitutes are less porous than cork, they help wines age better. Nevertheless, the quality of the cork is one among many unknowns that make wine drinking such a romantic experience.
When holding a bottle of wine in my hand, I feel great anticipation. The bottle, cork and all, holds the promise of new flavors and experiences. The fact that it may turn out either very good or simply mediocre (or even unpalatable) heightens the anticipation. The particular ceremony required to open the wine--peeling the foil, inserting the corkscrew, and extracting the cork (hopefully without leaving bits of cork in the wine) all further contribute to that anticipation. And synthetic corks (especially screwtops), while they may eliminate the possiblity of cork taint and bad extractions, also kill some of this anticipation.
I am sad, then, to hear more and more winemakers are switching over from real cork. I will miss the satisfying pop! that heralds the opening of a wine bottle, and examining the stamped and stained cork itself as a prelude to tasting the wine. Hopefully a few winemakers, at least, will retain the risk and the reward of using real cork--and the soul-satisfying act of opening (and tasting!) a new bottle of wine will retain its magic for old-fashioned romantics like me.
I should be very clear here. I find that knowing about wine is almost as fun as drinking wine. I don't mean the pretentious knowledge about, say, which wine labels are better than others, or which wines can be correctly paired with what kinds of foods--that sort of "knowledge" is, in my experience, largely a result of one person trying to appear better than others. It is, essentially, condescension. I am not interested in that. I am interested in discovering where certain wines come from and how they (hopefully) reflect their origins. I am interested in attempts, both old and new, to make a better wine by combining various grapes. I am interested in the fermenting process, the aging process, and most of all in the finished product. I am interested because I think it truly is a craft, just like making fine furniture or painting pictures.
I am, for example, fascinated that champagne was developed as a desperate bid to make marketable wine from the Champagne region of France, which apparently has very poor natural conditions and soil (from a winemaking perspective). The medieval monk Dom Perignon was one of the chief engineers of sparkling wine, and his name is immortalized now as the label of a very famous champagne. Likewise interesting is the fact that Riesling winemakers will leave a portion of their grapes on the vine past the first harvest so they will ripen further. This is a risk in Germany, when autumn frosts come early and hard. But the longer the grapes are left on the vine, the sweeter, more ageworthy, and more flavorful are the wines made from them. And even if the grapes freeze, they can be made into a very sweet wine called Eiswine ("Icewine").
Such examples of winemaking illustrate the painstaking care and ingenuity that goes into producing the bottle of wine that I choose to drink. And that makes drinking the wine a Romantic experience--not romantic in the sense of being appropriate to two people who are in love, but rather in the sense I define at the top of this page: being "marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized." A bottle of wine made with care should represent both the place it came from and the intent of the winemaker who created it. It can produce an astounding variety of flavors and even enhance the flavor of the food we eat while drinking it. Above all, like any great endeavor of human ingenuity, it should inspire us.
The English author Evelyn Waugh recognized this, and in the novel Brideshead Revisited, during a darkly amusing and depressing dinner with an excessively practical, grasping, manipulative man named Rex Mottram, the main character muses: "Those were the kind of things he [Rex] heard, mortal illness and debt, I thought. [But] I rejoiced in the Burgundy. How can I describe it? The Pathetic Fallacy resounds in all our praise of wine. For centuries every language has been strained to define its beauty, and has produced only wild conceits or the stock epithets of the trade. This Burgundy seemed to me, then, serene and triumphant, a reminder that the world was an older and better place than Rex knew, that mankind in its long passion had learned another wisdom than his. By chance I met this same wine again...in the first autumn of the war; it had softened and faded in the intervening years, but it still spoke in the pure, authentic accent of its prime and, that day, as...with Rex Mottram years before, it whispered faintly, but in the same lapidary phrase, the same words of hope."
So perhaps it is easy to see why I have been sorry to see the intrusion of wax synthetic corks and plastic screwtops into the world of wine. It isn't that I refuse to recognize the benefits of these technological advancements: cork taint, or the intrusion of molds and bad flavor into the wine from the cork, is one of the oldest and most consistent problems with wine bottling. In fact, when the waiter at a restaurant pours a little wine into the glass for you to taste before the wine is served, it isn't so the you can decide if you like the wine. It's so you can be satisfied you are getting a wine untainted by the cork. Without question, synthetic corks and screwtops largely eliminate this problem. Furthermore, as both substitutes are less porous than cork, they help wines age better. Nevertheless, the quality of the cork is one among many unknowns that make wine drinking such a romantic experience.
When holding a bottle of wine in my hand, I feel great anticipation. The bottle, cork and all, holds the promise of new flavors and experiences. The fact that it may turn out either very good or simply mediocre (or even unpalatable) heightens the anticipation. The particular ceremony required to open the wine--peeling the foil, inserting the corkscrew, and extracting the cork (hopefully without leaving bits of cork in the wine) all further contribute to that anticipation. And synthetic corks (especially screwtops), while they may eliminate the possiblity of cork taint and bad extractions, also kill some of this anticipation.
I am sad, then, to hear more and more winemakers are switching over from real cork. I will miss the satisfying pop! that heralds the opening of a wine bottle, and examining the stamped and stained cork itself as a prelude to tasting the wine. Hopefully a few winemakers, at least, will retain the risk and the reward of using real cork--and the soul-satisfying act of opening (and tasting!) a new bottle of wine will retain its magic for old-fashioned romantics like me.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The power of imagination
On a recent flight from Washington, DC to San Diego I had the fortune of watching the movie Bridge to Terabithia. It didn't seem like fortune at the time, though. I was frankly disappointed that a more exciting movie wasn't playing. Crammed into a small airline seat, forced to sit still for four hours or so, I wanted to watch something with action and drama and even romance, not some fantasy movie for children. But I didn't feel like reading, so I plugged in my headphones and decided to give it a chance.
As a part of the programming, the airline included a review before the movie actually started. Interestingly, one reviewer remarked that he had the same misgivings as I did about the movie before he saw it, but ended up pleasantly surprised. He also mentioned that there were some significant dramatic themes, including a death. At the time, his comments didn't really make me more excited to watch the movie myself, but I remembered them later.
I will probably spoil the movie for those of you who haven't watched it, so if you really want to see it, move on to the next post. The main character, Jesse, is a young boy with four sisters. His family is struggling to get by, and his parents have too much on their mind to pay much attention to him. The movie is chiefly about his pre-adolescent struggles, and how he learns to deal with difficulties in life, which for him take the form of school bullies, a demanding and rigid father, and an annoying little sister (she actually loves him very much and because of that seems clingy to him).
The movie begins on the first day of sixth grade. Jesse has been practicing all summer so he can be the fastest kid in his class in the opening field day race. Unfortunately, he his mother insists that he wear his sister's hand-me-down pink sneakers, for which classmates will tease him--but that's pretty normal for Jesse, since his family can't afford to buy many new things. During the race, he beats everybody in his class except a new girl named Leslie. What makes it worse for him is that she seems extremely interested in being his friend. He puts her off initially, partially bitter from the race he lost but also partially because she is new and different. Like him, she is an outcast--and the two eventually become friends.
Leslie discovers that Jesse has a passion for drawing. He keeps a notebook filled with drawings of imaginary creatures and events, though he is very shy about it. And with her encouragement, they begin to visit the woods behind their houses every day after school, developing in their imagination a fantasy world which they protect and rule. It is Leslie that instigates the imaginative part; Jesse is at first skeptical, reluctant, and derisive. Their world, Terabithia, is sophisticated: the children bring in the problems they face at school and at home and re-create them as evils threatening Terabithia, and likewise project their role and king and queen into their everyday lives, teaming up to get the better of bullies and help other students. Terabithia is a visible manifestation of the childrens' friendship and a means by which they can romanticize their sufferings and make them meaningful. And while their sufferings might be considered trivial compared with adult problems, as children at the very beginning of puberty they feel disappointment, regret, and frustration with all the clarity of innocence. The movie clearly presents the childrens' problems as a microcosm of our (the viewers') own.
Later in the movie, Jesse is been invited to visit an art gallery with a teacher whom he has a crush on. For that reason, he doesn't invite Leslie. When Jesse returns from the gallery he finds his parents sick with worry and senses something wrong: they tell him that Leslie went to the woods (Terabithia) by herself, and when crossing a swollen stream fell in and drowned. It is a terrible scene. Jesse can't believe it at first and runs to her house, only to find ambulances and police cars and sympathizers already in attendance--including the teacher he was with that day. Reproachfully, he tells her that next time they should invite Leslie.
At this point in the story, I realized I had read the book before. It had been when I was very young, and I chiefly remember that I cried. It is a tragic story: Jesse senselessly loses his best friend; he blames himself because he didn't invite her to the museum; he watches the exciting world they dreamed together and its positive effect on real life come crashing down about his ears. It was perhaps my first real encounter with grief. I sympathized with Jesse through the medium of the story--when he loses his temper with his little sister and pushes her to the ground, when he runs from his father into the woods, when he gets into a fight in school. I felt keenly the unlooked-for compassion of his parents (who struggle tell him that Leslie's death wasn't his fault) and his teachers, who tell him how lucky he was to have befriended Leslie and how special they thought she was. And, most importantly, I discovered that the gifts of others -- in Jesse's case, Terabithia -- are the things that preserve their memory the best.
Bridge to Terabithia is far more than a simple children's story. It is about dealing with suffering, death, and maturity. It reminds us that holding ideals with childlike clarity and abandonment is worthwhile. Jesse's father, careworn as he is, recognizes this: "That girl gave you something very special, and to remember that is to keep her alive," he tells Jesse. The value of a story like this recalls the great literary value of other "children's stories," such as the fables of Aesop and Hans Christian Anderson and the Chronicles of Narnia, which (like Bridge to Terabithia) continue to escape a more "mature" reading audience who decide they no time for childrens' tales. And yet if joy, contentment, sorrow, pain, and frustration are the simplest emotions we feel, surely we feel them most keenly in our simplest frame of mind - when we are as little children. Even Jesus taught that we each should believe in Him and his message "as a little child."
For if Terabithia is an ideal, so is the promise of Christianity. They are both firmly in the province of faith. And they both provide meaning to our daily trials and a goal to work toward in our daily labor. Keeping such an ideal before us despite the intrusion of dull or demanding tasks and obligations requires imagination--more specifically, it requires a simple, uncomplicated, unfettered imagination. It requires the imagination of a child. Such an imagination is the means by which we discern hope even amid our current suffering. That is what Bridge to Terabithia celebrates.
As a part of the programming, the airline included a review before the movie actually started. Interestingly, one reviewer remarked that he had the same misgivings as I did about the movie before he saw it, but ended up pleasantly surprised. He also mentioned that there were some significant dramatic themes, including a death. At the time, his comments didn't really make me more excited to watch the movie myself, but I remembered them later.
I will probably spoil the movie for those of you who haven't watched it, so if you really want to see it, move on to the next post. The main character, Jesse, is a young boy with four sisters. His family is struggling to get by, and his parents have too much on their mind to pay much attention to him. The movie is chiefly about his pre-adolescent struggles, and how he learns to deal with difficulties in life, which for him take the form of school bullies, a demanding and rigid father, and an annoying little sister (she actually loves him very much and because of that seems clingy to him).
The movie begins on the first day of sixth grade. Jesse has been practicing all summer so he can be the fastest kid in his class in the opening field day race. Unfortunately, he his mother insists that he wear his sister's hand-me-down pink sneakers, for which classmates will tease him--but that's pretty normal for Jesse, since his family can't afford to buy many new things. During the race, he beats everybody in his class except a new girl named Leslie. What makes it worse for him is that she seems extremely interested in being his friend. He puts her off initially, partially bitter from the race he lost but also partially because she is new and different. Like him, she is an outcast--and the two eventually become friends.
Leslie discovers that Jesse has a passion for drawing. He keeps a notebook filled with drawings of imaginary creatures and events, though he is very shy about it. And with her encouragement, they begin to visit the woods behind their houses every day after school, developing in their imagination a fantasy world which they protect and rule. It is Leslie that instigates the imaginative part; Jesse is at first skeptical, reluctant, and derisive. Their world, Terabithia, is sophisticated: the children bring in the problems they face at school and at home and re-create them as evils threatening Terabithia, and likewise project their role and king and queen into their everyday lives, teaming up to get the better of bullies and help other students. Terabithia is a visible manifestation of the childrens' friendship and a means by which they can romanticize their sufferings and make them meaningful. And while their sufferings might be considered trivial compared with adult problems, as children at the very beginning of puberty they feel disappointment, regret, and frustration with all the clarity of innocence. The movie clearly presents the childrens' problems as a microcosm of our (the viewers') own.
Later in the movie, Jesse is been invited to visit an art gallery with a teacher whom he has a crush on. For that reason, he doesn't invite Leslie. When Jesse returns from the gallery he finds his parents sick with worry and senses something wrong: they tell him that Leslie went to the woods (Terabithia) by herself, and when crossing a swollen stream fell in and drowned. It is a terrible scene. Jesse can't believe it at first and runs to her house, only to find ambulances and police cars and sympathizers already in attendance--including the teacher he was with that day. Reproachfully, he tells her that next time they should invite Leslie.
At this point in the story, I realized I had read the book before. It had been when I was very young, and I chiefly remember that I cried. It is a tragic story: Jesse senselessly loses his best friend; he blames himself because he didn't invite her to the museum; he watches the exciting world they dreamed together and its positive effect on real life come crashing down about his ears. It was perhaps my first real encounter with grief. I sympathized with Jesse through the medium of the story--when he loses his temper with his little sister and pushes her to the ground, when he runs from his father into the woods, when he gets into a fight in school. I felt keenly the unlooked-for compassion of his parents (who struggle tell him that Leslie's death wasn't his fault) and his teachers, who tell him how lucky he was to have befriended Leslie and how special they thought she was. And, most importantly, I discovered that the gifts of others -- in Jesse's case, Terabithia -- are the things that preserve their memory the best.
Bridge to Terabithia is far more than a simple children's story. It is about dealing with suffering, death, and maturity. It reminds us that holding ideals with childlike clarity and abandonment is worthwhile. Jesse's father, careworn as he is, recognizes this: "That girl gave you something very special, and to remember that is to keep her alive," he tells Jesse. The value of a story like this recalls the great literary value of other "children's stories," such as the fables of Aesop and Hans Christian Anderson and the Chronicles of Narnia, which (like Bridge to Terabithia) continue to escape a more "mature" reading audience who decide they no time for childrens' tales. And yet if joy, contentment, sorrow, pain, and frustration are the simplest emotions we feel, surely we feel them most keenly in our simplest frame of mind - when we are as little children. Even Jesus taught that we each should believe in Him and his message "as a little child."
For if Terabithia is an ideal, so is the promise of Christianity. They are both firmly in the province of faith. And they both provide meaning to our daily trials and a goal to work toward in our daily labor. Keeping such an ideal before us despite the intrusion of dull or demanding tasks and obligations requires imagination--more specifically, it requires a simple, uncomplicated, unfettered imagination. It requires the imagination of a child. Such an imagination is the means by which we discern hope even amid our current suffering. That is what Bridge to Terabithia celebrates.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Palm Sunday reflections
Today is the start of Holy Week, which is probably my favorite week of the year. That seems strange even to me. Catholicism makes me feel by turns comforted, cared for, frightened, guilty, and frustrated. My “progress” is often hampered by my own opinions and the opinions of religious authorities. And sometimes I am nagged by the vaguely unsatisfied feeling that I am not getting as much out of my religious experience as I should be.
My attraction to Holy Week starts with the ceremonies. They are remarkably different from what we do every Sunday for the rest of the year. Only during this week do Catholics imitate the crowds of Jerusalem with palms, and only this Sunday and the following Friday do they read the Passion in church. The liturgical decorations are different, and often very grand (today we had large palm trees flanking the altar). And on Good Friday, there will be no mass. There will be only a service commemorating the Cross and crucifixion conducted in a bare church and in front of an empty Tabernacle. The theatric nature of these liturgies and the fact that they only happen once a year makes them exciting.
Holy Week is also very interesting, because it focuses on a great tragedy; a tragedy which in the literal sense ranks among the greatest mythological tragedies humanity has yet produced. Yet unlike mythological or literary tragedies, we believe this one is true—and we believe it has immediate and important consequences for us. This is the reason we celebrate the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus so dramatically. In a sense we are meant to live this week as Jesus did: we were there today when Jesus enters Jerusalem to cheers; we will be there Thursday when He celebrates his last supper with friends; we will suffer with Him Friday when he agonizes in the Garden, is betrayed, and is crucified; and we will be there Sunday when He rises from the dead. Catholics enter this great story more than any other from Scripture.
None of these reasons, however, fully explain my enjoyment of Holy Week. I know that the Church intends the pomp and circumstance of Holy Week to induce awe and respect (and appropriately so) in its members; I know also that the end of a six-week period of fasting which coincides roughly with the end of winter and the beginning of spring magnifies the intended effect of the liturgical celebrations. But it isn’t the ceremonies themselves that attract me, nor is it excitement that spring is here and fasting is over. I find that participating in Holy Week gives me great spiritual satisfaction.
The Easter truth answers almost all the unspoken questions I carry with me about life and how to live it. I know that sounds like a huge generalization, but I mean it in a very specific sense. In the movie Stranger than Fiction, a literary professor neatly divides human stories into two categories: Comedies, which tell of the continuance of life; and Tragedies, which relate the inevitability of death. And this dichotomy lies at the root of our happiness and unhappiness here and now. If the comedic elements of our lives, such as the feeling of love, of laughter, or achievement, are to be meaningful at all, they must have an eternal component. There must be some kind of continuance for us, who have personally experienced this happiness. Otherwise, it and us are meaningless. If all that awaits us after life is death, then all our stories are tragedies, and whatever joy and light we experience now is temporal; a cheap entertainment to stave off ultimate loneliness and fruitlessness. I can’t believe that.
I think the presence of love (and companionship, and happiness) on this world means that humanity does not entirely belong here. There is a part of us right now that belongs to a supernatural world, with the world “supernatural” meaning simply an existence beyond the natural one, or namely the “eternal life” spoken of in Church. But for all the reasons that religion is sometimes a chore for me I cannot feel ready for, comfortable about, or worthy of that “eternal life.” The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ illustrate all that and explain how I might restore myself from my discomfort and unworthiness, all of which throw up the obstacles to religion I feel to a greater degree during the rest of the year. I profoundly believe the Easter story and its implications for me.
The qualitative measure of a tragedy has always been the extent to which it produces catharsis. I don’t know exactly what that word means. The dictionary defines it as a “purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear)…; a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal.” That’s pretty close, but I think catharsis also implies an understanding that by suffering one achieves the purification and subsequent renewal. It is the suffering of Lent and the suffering of Jesus—which I believe we are called to embrace in the form of our own individual crosses—that bring about our renewal. Easter celebrates our renewal from sin and fear. This catharsis is a source of joy and satisfaction untouchable by my family, my friends, my work, or any other influence of this world. This catharsis is the reason why Holy Week is my favorite week of the year.
My attraction to Holy Week starts with the ceremonies. They are remarkably different from what we do every Sunday for the rest of the year. Only during this week do Catholics imitate the crowds of Jerusalem with palms, and only this Sunday and the following Friday do they read the Passion in church. The liturgical decorations are different, and often very grand (today we had large palm trees flanking the altar). And on Good Friday, there will be no mass. There will be only a service commemorating the Cross and crucifixion conducted in a bare church and in front of an empty Tabernacle. The theatric nature of these liturgies and the fact that they only happen once a year makes them exciting.
Holy Week is also very interesting, because it focuses on a great tragedy; a tragedy which in the literal sense ranks among the greatest mythological tragedies humanity has yet produced. Yet unlike mythological or literary tragedies, we believe this one is true—and we believe it has immediate and important consequences for us. This is the reason we celebrate the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus so dramatically. In a sense we are meant to live this week as Jesus did: we were there today when Jesus enters Jerusalem to cheers; we will be there Thursday when He celebrates his last supper with friends; we will suffer with Him Friday when he agonizes in the Garden, is betrayed, and is crucified; and we will be there Sunday when He rises from the dead. Catholics enter this great story more than any other from Scripture.
None of these reasons, however, fully explain my enjoyment of Holy Week. I know that the Church intends the pomp and circumstance of Holy Week to induce awe and respect (and appropriately so) in its members; I know also that the end of a six-week period of fasting which coincides roughly with the end of winter and the beginning of spring magnifies the intended effect of the liturgical celebrations. But it isn’t the ceremonies themselves that attract me, nor is it excitement that spring is here and fasting is over. I find that participating in Holy Week gives me great spiritual satisfaction.
The Easter truth answers almost all the unspoken questions I carry with me about life and how to live it. I know that sounds like a huge generalization, but I mean it in a very specific sense. In the movie Stranger than Fiction, a literary professor neatly divides human stories into two categories: Comedies, which tell of the continuance of life; and Tragedies, which relate the inevitability of death. And this dichotomy lies at the root of our happiness and unhappiness here and now. If the comedic elements of our lives, such as the feeling of love, of laughter, or achievement, are to be meaningful at all, they must have an eternal component. There must be some kind of continuance for us, who have personally experienced this happiness. Otherwise, it and us are meaningless. If all that awaits us after life is death, then all our stories are tragedies, and whatever joy and light we experience now is temporal; a cheap entertainment to stave off ultimate loneliness and fruitlessness. I can’t believe that.
I think the presence of love (and companionship, and happiness) on this world means that humanity does not entirely belong here. There is a part of us right now that belongs to a supernatural world, with the world “supernatural” meaning simply an existence beyond the natural one, or namely the “eternal life” spoken of in Church. But for all the reasons that religion is sometimes a chore for me I cannot feel ready for, comfortable about, or worthy of that “eternal life.” The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ illustrate all that and explain how I might restore myself from my discomfort and unworthiness, all of which throw up the obstacles to religion I feel to a greater degree during the rest of the year. I profoundly believe the Easter story and its implications for me.
The qualitative measure of a tragedy has always been the extent to which it produces catharsis. I don’t know exactly what that word means. The dictionary defines it as a “purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear)…; a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal.” That’s pretty close, but I think catharsis also implies an understanding that by suffering one achieves the purification and subsequent renewal. It is the suffering of Lent and the suffering of Jesus—which I believe we are called to embrace in the form of our own individual crosses—that bring about our renewal. Easter celebrates our renewal from sin and fear. This catharsis is a source of joy and satisfaction untouchable by my family, my friends, my work, or any other influence of this world. This catharsis is the reason why Holy Week is my favorite week of the year.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
On the current war
The controversy over America's "War on Terror," since it started in 2001, has occupied much of our national attention. After swift and decisive battlefield successes in 2002 and 2003, we are now struggling to fashion democracies in the countries we occupied, and expending resources and lives in the process. The issue of whether or not we should continue our involvement provokes much criticism and righteous debate. Many Americans find our involvement in this "war on terror" to be useless, foolish, arrogant, and dangerous, and think it would be prudent to pull out.
It is not the first time American has seen such debate. Between 1 September 1939 and 7 December 1941, similar opinions were voiced and similar decisions were made. On 1 September, Hitler's Germany provoked war with our ally Britain by invading Poland, and on 7 December we were pulled into the war ourselves after Japan, Germany's ally, attacked Hawaii. Between those two dates, FDR -- a controversial American President who had alienated many with his "socialist" domestic policies -- attempted to support freedom and advance our interests by taking the British Side and providing them resources against much righteous criticism that such actions were useless, foolish, arrogant, and dangerous. There are, of course, differences between FDR and George Bush, such as the fact they hailed from different parties and different political ideologies. But both were accused of warmongering, both faced vile opposition from journalists and opposing politicians, and both were loudly accused of ruining this country with their policies. Certainly their most important similarity is that they both claimed to stand up for freedom and democracy, and protect America's interests abroad.
History has endorsed out FDR's actions. The Nazi regime stands exposed as guilty of perhaps the greatest and most significantly evil endeavor in human history, the industrial and industrially cruel murder of some 11 million persons, six million of which were Jews. Additionally, in their quest for economic and military dominance, they wrought destruction upon the entire continent of Europe by (among other atrocities) demolishing and starving Warsaw, brutally conquering peaceful Denmark and Norway, plundering France, and relentlessly bombing civilian London. Yet through 1940 and 1941, all this was merely unpleasant to America, the unfortunate effect of another petty European conflict. In those dark years, FDR used deceit and presidential powers to the utmost of his ability to aid our old democratic allies against their enemies, against the will of his constituents.
George Bush is attempting to do something of the same thing. Our enemies now are guilty of great evil, from the use of ethnic Kurds as test subjects for Saddam Hussein's chemical weapons, to the cruel and systematic oppression of women under the Taliban. Therefore, deposing them was a good thing. Furthermore, though perhaps Iraq and Afghanistan (and, it seems, Iran) are not explicitly allied with the terrorists who destroyed the World Trade Center and Madrid subway cars, the simple fact that these countries turned a blind eye to terrorist training they knew was directed against their hated enemy, the United States, establishes an implict connection. Al Qaeda may be stateless, but that does not mean states do not make them welcome. And according to our laws, harboring a criminal is criminal in and of itself.
Herman Wouk, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author, wrote a two-volume work on World War II. The Winds of War and War and Remembrance follow the experience and growth of Victor Henry, a U.S. Navy Officer, his family, and the many people they meet (American and otherwise) in the events of that War, and their parts in the struggle against America's fascist enemies. As with all great novels, these books are not meant merely to entertain, but to teach and communicate something of the human condition; in these the author attempts to reveal the depth of human goodness and evil; to document the human ability to strive, to suffer, to hurt, and to love; and to show the final virtue of individual goodness, and through it the goodness of nations. It is a masterful work. In a recently written forward to the books, Mr. Wouk compares the struggle of America in World War II to the current "War on Terror":
"As I write these words late in October 2001, a new war is just beginning, global again in scope but totally different in character. In the last global war, before VE day and VJ day came, there befell the collapse of France, the Bataan death march, the fall of Singapore, the seige of Stalingrad, bloody Tarawa and bloodier Guadalcanal; and at the hidden heart of that global war, concealed by the smoke of battle, there burned the holocaust. That eternal benchmark of barbarism, let us remember, was set not by a Third World country, not by Orientals, not by the Muslims, but by the Germans, an advanced European nation. The evil in human heart knows no boundary, except the deeper, stronger human will to freedom, order, and justice. In the very long run, that will has so far prevailed.
"Now it is the destiny of America -- for all its faults and weaknesses, the greatest free society in history -- to lead the world against a new grim outbreak of evil, a savage stab at the core of freedom on earth, a dark shocking start to a new millenium. May the Father of all men prosper our arms in the new fight, as He prospered -- in the end -- the cause of men of good will in World War II."
The "destiny of America" is something felt keenly by many in this country. There is no greater expression of it than in the young men and women who serve in the military. We have been involved in this conflict since 2002, and thus for five years every person who enlisted has done so in the full knowledge that they are supporting this effort with their lives. In fact, the loudest voices against this "war on terror" and its campaigns, though they can be quite reasonable, are often from those people most removed from it: college students and professors, living lives insulated from the rest of the world on university campuses; correspondents and journalists paid to cover politicians in circles of power; and relatively idle wealthy young professionals concern themselves with political issues as a sort of hobby. This is not a bad thing, since our country has consistently prevented the rise of fascism in this country by subjecting our military to the will of our civilians and our civilian government. Yet it seems that such arguments revolve not around prudence, but fear disguised as prudence: fear that we will lose face with the world, fear that we invite more Islamic antipathy and terrorist attacks, fear that we will suffer the embarrassment and manpower drain of another Vietnam. According to these arguments, prudence is avoiding such sacrifices in the first place. I disagree. I believe true prudence is eliminating the breadbaskets of hate, the places of evil, oppression, and poverty in this world. Those hate-filled places are where terrorists breed and become strong.
We are proud that we did not suffer dictators like Hitler to bring destruction and totalitarianism upon the world. We should be likewise proud not only of deposing the evil regimes of the Taliban and Saddam Hussein, but proud also to continue this work and bring democracy, as best as we can, to the shattered countries they left behind. If we endure the sacrifice of servicemen in this mission, then we should remember that they were unafraid: they volunteered to defend and carry our values to other nations; they supported America and its promises to the world with their lives. They represent our best, and we should take heart from their idealism, for to turn away from this opportunity to help a poor part of the world might seem prudent, but is in fact foolish, dangerous, and wrong. We, "for all [our] faults and weaknesses, the greatest free society in history," are especially able to make a difference in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. It seems right, therefore, that we should be the first to champion "freedom, order and justice." Whether we want it or not, it is our responsibility and that of all the good men and women in the world.
It is not the first time American has seen such debate. Between 1 September 1939 and 7 December 1941, similar opinions were voiced and similar decisions were made. On 1 September, Hitler's Germany provoked war with our ally Britain by invading Poland, and on 7 December we were pulled into the war ourselves after Japan, Germany's ally, attacked Hawaii. Between those two dates, FDR -- a controversial American President who had alienated many with his "socialist" domestic policies -- attempted to support freedom and advance our interests by taking the British Side and providing them resources against much righteous criticism that such actions were useless, foolish, arrogant, and dangerous. There are, of course, differences between FDR and George Bush, such as the fact they hailed from different parties and different political ideologies. But both were accused of warmongering, both faced vile opposition from journalists and opposing politicians, and both were loudly accused of ruining this country with their policies. Certainly their most important similarity is that they both claimed to stand up for freedom and democracy, and protect America's interests abroad.
History has endorsed out FDR's actions. The Nazi regime stands exposed as guilty of perhaps the greatest and most significantly evil endeavor in human history, the industrial and industrially cruel murder of some 11 million persons, six million of which were Jews. Additionally, in their quest for economic and military dominance, they wrought destruction upon the entire continent of Europe by (among other atrocities) demolishing and starving Warsaw, brutally conquering peaceful Denmark and Norway, plundering France, and relentlessly bombing civilian London. Yet through 1940 and 1941, all this was merely unpleasant to America, the unfortunate effect of another petty European conflict. In those dark years, FDR used deceit and presidential powers to the utmost of his ability to aid our old democratic allies against their enemies, against the will of his constituents.
George Bush is attempting to do something of the same thing. Our enemies now are guilty of great evil, from the use of ethnic Kurds as test subjects for Saddam Hussein's chemical weapons, to the cruel and systematic oppression of women under the Taliban. Therefore, deposing them was a good thing. Furthermore, though perhaps Iraq and Afghanistan (and, it seems, Iran) are not explicitly allied with the terrorists who destroyed the World Trade Center and Madrid subway cars, the simple fact that these countries turned a blind eye to terrorist training they knew was directed against their hated enemy, the United States, establishes an implict connection. Al Qaeda may be stateless, but that does not mean states do not make them welcome. And according to our laws, harboring a criminal is criminal in and of itself.
Herman Wouk, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author, wrote a two-volume work on World War II. The Winds of War and War and Remembrance follow the experience and growth of Victor Henry, a U.S. Navy Officer, his family, and the many people they meet (American and otherwise) in the events of that War, and their parts in the struggle against America's fascist enemies. As with all great novels, these books are not meant merely to entertain, but to teach and communicate something of the human condition; in these the author attempts to reveal the depth of human goodness and evil; to document the human ability to strive, to suffer, to hurt, and to love; and to show the final virtue of individual goodness, and through it the goodness of nations. It is a masterful work. In a recently written forward to the books, Mr. Wouk compares the struggle of America in World War II to the current "War on Terror":
"As I write these words late in October 2001, a new war is just beginning, global again in scope but totally different in character. In the last global war, before VE day and VJ day came, there befell the collapse of France, the Bataan death march, the fall of Singapore, the seige of Stalingrad, bloody Tarawa and bloodier Guadalcanal; and at the hidden heart of that global war, concealed by the smoke of battle, there burned the holocaust. That eternal benchmark of barbarism, let us remember, was set not by a Third World country, not by Orientals, not by the Muslims, but by the Germans, an advanced European nation. The evil in human heart knows no boundary, except the deeper, stronger human will to freedom, order, and justice. In the very long run, that will has so far prevailed.
"Now it is the destiny of America -- for all its faults and weaknesses, the greatest free society in history -- to lead the world against a new grim outbreak of evil, a savage stab at the core of freedom on earth, a dark shocking start to a new millenium. May the Father of all men prosper our arms in the new fight, as He prospered -- in the end -- the cause of men of good will in World War II."
The "destiny of America" is something felt keenly by many in this country. There is no greater expression of it than in the young men and women who serve in the military. We have been involved in this conflict since 2002, and thus for five years every person who enlisted has done so in the full knowledge that they are supporting this effort with their lives. In fact, the loudest voices against this "war on terror" and its campaigns, though they can be quite reasonable, are often from those people most removed from it: college students and professors, living lives insulated from the rest of the world on university campuses; correspondents and journalists paid to cover politicians in circles of power; and relatively idle wealthy young professionals concern themselves with political issues as a sort of hobby. This is not a bad thing, since our country has consistently prevented the rise of fascism in this country by subjecting our military to the will of our civilians and our civilian government. Yet it seems that such arguments revolve not around prudence, but fear disguised as prudence: fear that we will lose face with the world, fear that we invite more Islamic antipathy and terrorist attacks, fear that we will suffer the embarrassment and manpower drain of another Vietnam. According to these arguments, prudence is avoiding such sacrifices in the first place. I disagree. I believe true prudence is eliminating the breadbaskets of hate, the places of evil, oppression, and poverty in this world. Those hate-filled places are where terrorists breed and become strong.
We are proud that we did not suffer dictators like Hitler to bring destruction and totalitarianism upon the world. We should be likewise proud not only of deposing the evil regimes of the Taliban and Saddam Hussein, but proud also to continue this work and bring democracy, as best as we can, to the shattered countries they left behind. If we endure the sacrifice of servicemen in this mission, then we should remember that they were unafraid: they volunteered to defend and carry our values to other nations; they supported America and its promises to the world with their lives. They represent our best, and we should take heart from their idealism, for to turn away from this opportunity to help a poor part of the world might seem prudent, but is in fact foolish, dangerous, and wrong. We, "for all [our] faults and weaknesses, the greatest free society in history," are especially able to make a difference in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. It seems right, therefore, that we should be the first to champion "freedom, order and justice." Whether we want it or not, it is our responsibility and that of all the good men and women in the world.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
First F/A-18 Flight and the Great Southwest
This past weekend I climbed into an F/A-18D Hornet for the first time. From Friday to Sunday I completed five flights. The loss of my weekend was well worth the opportunity to "go on the road," as the say here, because I got to explore a part of the country I had hitherto only read about.
Friday morning my instructor and I manned up the jet to fly out to Scottsdale, AZ and the to Albuquerque, NM. We had five flights to do, so we started by flying north to Fresno, and then southeast to spend that night in Scottsdale. The first flight is mostly an introduction, so we took time to explore the aircraft capabilities offshore. Part of that is demonstrating turn rates, acceleration, and climb capabilities (all of which are important to know and use when fighting). There, for the first time in my life, I broke the sound barrier. It was actually much smoother than I expected--no more than a slight bump passing Mach 1.0, and then again decelerating. Since it has been six and a half months since I've aircrewed a jet, I experienced a little nausea during the maneuvers and some difficulty counteracting the G forces. I was also a bit nervous. But all went according to plan and I didn't actually get airsick, so all was well. We flew directly over Los Angeles and got to see the entire city from the west hills to Irvine and Burbank, then passed over the inland desert. My attention for most of the rest of that flight was held by the Sierra Nevada in the distance, floating and snowcapped.
We spent about two hours on deck in Fresno, refueling with pizza and Gatorade, and then got on the way to Scottsdale. Our original intention was to fly over the Grand Canyon, but since the sun was westering and we wanted to make it to Scottsdale while it was still light, we decided to scrap that plan and turn to our destination. Having seen it twice from the air (once in a commercial jet), I still have a hard time comprehending just how barren the Southwest is. Our visibility from the jet was unlimited, and nowhere did I see anything but brown, bare, rugged desert. Occasionally a dry lakebed would emphasize the essential lifelessness of the place. It was beautiful, though. It was a place of immense and magnificent solitude. As an interesting bit of trivia is that the Space Shuttle uses one of the dry lakebeds as a place to land - it essentially extends from the end of the normal runway for another three or four miles.
The land becomes more mountainous in the Phoenix area. Small ranges or single mountains grow at random from an otherwise flat desert. Phoenix airspace has become very busy, and my instructor demonstrated the Air-to-Air radar for me by locking up "shooting" other aircraft. We got Scottsdale airfield in sight just as the sun set, and performed a 7.5 G break over the field - far more Gs than I had previously pulled in any jet. That is, incidentally, the maximun for the F/A-18. It was a very exciting, high-performance maneuver and it was a suitable end to an exciting (almost overwhelming day).
The next morning we took departed the Phoenix area to the north. This time we had plenty of daylight, beautiful weather, and were going to see the Grand Canyon if we could. On our way there we passed both Sedona, with its incredibly red gorges and rocks, and Flagstaff mountain, which stands as a solitary snow-capped beacon over the desert. With the canyon in sight, Air Traffic Control (ATC) asked us if we wanted the "canyon tour," then (unusually) cleared us to deviate right or left as necessary to see the whole thing. Probably only those reading this who have actually visited the Grand Canyon can understand how awesome an experience it is. The terrain around it is 6,600 feet above sea level (and incidentally, was lightly dusted with snow). The Canyon walls themselves plunged alarmingly into a seemingly infinite set of alternate gorges and peaks. It was very colorful, but the most distinct element was simply how vertical the rock formations were. Spires and ridges of stone reared thousands of feet nearly straight up in the air. At the bottom of the canyon was no valley; the Colorado river wound through what was purely a trough of stone. The whole edifice covered hundreds of miles of desert. There are literally no words to adequately describe it, but it was good to fly lazily mere thousands of feet over the canyon and drink in its majesty.
Once we were sufficienly overwhelmed, we called ATC and told them we were heading to Albuquerque. We had a lot of fuel left, so we cruised pretty quickly over there. The Albuquerque airport sits at 5,355 feet above sea level (higher than Denver), and the air is thin enough that the jet takes a lot longer to slow down before landing and a lot longer to stop once touched down, which was interesting and just a bit hairy. We met my instructor's mother at the terminal, and decided to see the sights of the city. Albuquerque sits on the high desert, with mountains (Sandia peak) towering to the east. There is a famous tram that runs to the top (really more a gondola), which claims to be the longest in the world. We decided to go up, check out the view, and have lunch. It was an amazing ride - the west slopes of the mountain are bare and vertical, with stunted little firs growing trained by the constant wind. Toward the top, three and four feet of ice were plastered horizontally on the boughs. At the top itself, the temperature was 16 degrees fahrenheit. I never knew the southwest could get so cold! Furthermore, the altitude up there is 10,300 feet above sea level. To give you some perspective on how high that really is, in naval aircraft we are required to be wearing oxygen masks above 10,000 feet in order to prevent hypoxia, or dangerous oxygen depletion. The three of us sat up there in the restaurant and drank down tea and coffee to stay warm, and admired the 100-mile views out to other mountain ranges. Around us sat skiiers and snowboarders who ride the tram up and ski down the east slopes of the mountain, which is serviced by three lifts and has long, beautiful, powdery runs--which is something else I didn't know was in the southwest. The desert sunset from the top of the that mountain was an incredible spectacle. When our ticket finally got called to ride down, we froze in the now four degree air and forty mile-an-hour wind blast until the tram arrived, wondering if we'd ever been colder in our collective lives. I certainly hadn't.
That night we flew back to North Island Naval Air Station, which is on the island of Coronado in San Diego. Technically still on cross country, it was nice to sleep in my own bed again. Flying at night is peaceful, because the radios are quiet and the spread lights look very peaceful from above. After our ordeal on the mountain top and our tour of the Grand Canyon, we welcomed the relatively stress-free flight back home. The next morning (Sunday morning), we drove back to the jet and took off for the extremely short trip back to Miramar. Fortunately, we had fuel and time so we went back out over the water to maneuver the jet again, and I got to fly up to 48,000 feet and see the curvature of the earth along the horizon, then unloaded (put the jet into 0-G flight) and pushed the airspeed up to 1.38 Mach. My instructor practiced some Air Combat maneuvering at high Gs (which has left my legs quite sore), and we returned to the field in time to debrief and get home for the Super Bowl.
Now, back on the ground, I am tired. My body needs to get used to flying again - the pressure changes, the G forces, the mental strain of operating systems and talking on the radio. But it was definitely fun--I still revel in the fact I am flying in a plane that can accidentally break the speed of sound if the pilot isn't paying attention, and I welcome the opportunity to see new places. It is good to be here again.
Friday morning my instructor and I manned up the jet to fly out to Scottsdale, AZ and the to Albuquerque, NM. We had five flights to do, so we started by flying north to Fresno, and then southeast to spend that night in Scottsdale. The first flight is mostly an introduction, so we took time to explore the aircraft capabilities offshore. Part of that is demonstrating turn rates, acceleration, and climb capabilities (all of which are important to know and use when fighting). There, for the first time in my life, I broke the sound barrier. It was actually much smoother than I expected--no more than a slight bump passing Mach 1.0, and then again decelerating. Since it has been six and a half months since I've aircrewed a jet, I experienced a little nausea during the maneuvers and some difficulty counteracting the G forces. I was also a bit nervous. But all went according to plan and I didn't actually get airsick, so all was well. We flew directly over Los Angeles and got to see the entire city from the west hills to Irvine and Burbank, then passed over the inland desert. My attention for most of the rest of that flight was held by the Sierra Nevada in the distance, floating and snowcapped.
We spent about two hours on deck in Fresno, refueling with pizza and Gatorade, and then got on the way to Scottsdale. Our original intention was to fly over the Grand Canyon, but since the sun was westering and we wanted to make it to Scottsdale while it was still light, we decided to scrap that plan and turn to our destination. Having seen it twice from the air (once in a commercial jet), I still have a hard time comprehending just how barren the Southwest is. Our visibility from the jet was unlimited, and nowhere did I see anything but brown, bare, rugged desert. Occasionally a dry lakebed would emphasize the essential lifelessness of the place. It was beautiful, though. It was a place of immense and magnificent solitude. As an interesting bit of trivia is that the Space Shuttle uses one of the dry lakebeds as a place to land - it essentially extends from the end of the normal runway for another three or four miles.
The land becomes more mountainous in the Phoenix area. Small ranges or single mountains grow at random from an otherwise flat desert. Phoenix airspace has become very busy, and my instructor demonstrated the Air-to-Air radar for me by locking up "shooting" other aircraft. We got Scottsdale airfield in sight just as the sun set, and performed a 7.5 G break over the field - far more Gs than I had previously pulled in any jet. That is, incidentally, the maximun for the F/A-18. It was a very exciting, high-performance maneuver and it was a suitable end to an exciting (almost overwhelming day).
The next morning we took departed the Phoenix area to the north. This time we had plenty of daylight, beautiful weather, and were going to see the Grand Canyon if we could. On our way there we passed both Sedona, with its incredibly red gorges and rocks, and Flagstaff mountain, which stands as a solitary snow-capped beacon over the desert. With the canyon in sight, Air Traffic Control (ATC) asked us if we wanted the "canyon tour," then (unusually) cleared us to deviate right or left as necessary to see the whole thing. Probably only those reading this who have actually visited the Grand Canyon can understand how awesome an experience it is. The terrain around it is 6,600 feet above sea level (and incidentally, was lightly dusted with snow). The Canyon walls themselves plunged alarmingly into a seemingly infinite set of alternate gorges and peaks. It was very colorful, but the most distinct element was simply how vertical the rock formations were. Spires and ridges of stone reared thousands of feet nearly straight up in the air. At the bottom of the canyon was no valley; the Colorado river wound through what was purely a trough of stone. The whole edifice covered hundreds of miles of desert. There are literally no words to adequately describe it, but it was good to fly lazily mere thousands of feet over the canyon and drink in its majesty.
Once we were sufficienly overwhelmed, we called ATC and told them we were heading to Albuquerque. We had a lot of fuel left, so we cruised pretty quickly over there. The Albuquerque airport sits at 5,355 feet above sea level (higher than Denver), and the air is thin enough that the jet takes a lot longer to slow down before landing and a lot longer to stop once touched down, which was interesting and just a bit hairy. We met my instructor's mother at the terminal, and decided to see the sights of the city. Albuquerque sits on the high desert, with mountains (Sandia peak) towering to the east. There is a famous tram that runs to the top (really more a gondola), which claims to be the longest in the world. We decided to go up, check out the view, and have lunch. It was an amazing ride - the west slopes of the mountain are bare and vertical, with stunted little firs growing trained by the constant wind. Toward the top, three and four feet of ice were plastered horizontally on the boughs. At the top itself, the temperature was 16 degrees fahrenheit. I never knew the southwest could get so cold! Furthermore, the altitude up there is 10,300 feet above sea level. To give you some perspective on how high that really is, in naval aircraft we are required to be wearing oxygen masks above 10,000 feet in order to prevent hypoxia, or dangerous oxygen depletion. The three of us sat up there in the restaurant and drank down tea and coffee to stay warm, and admired the 100-mile views out to other mountain ranges. Around us sat skiiers and snowboarders who ride the tram up and ski down the east slopes of the mountain, which is serviced by three lifts and has long, beautiful, powdery runs--which is something else I didn't know was in the southwest. The desert sunset from the top of the that mountain was an incredible spectacle. When our ticket finally got called to ride down, we froze in the now four degree air and forty mile-an-hour wind blast until the tram arrived, wondering if we'd ever been colder in our collective lives. I certainly hadn't.
That night we flew back to North Island Naval Air Station, which is on the island of Coronado in San Diego. Technically still on cross country, it was nice to sleep in my own bed again. Flying at night is peaceful, because the radios are quiet and the spread lights look very peaceful from above. After our ordeal on the mountain top and our tour of the Grand Canyon, we welcomed the relatively stress-free flight back home. The next morning (Sunday morning), we drove back to the jet and took off for the extremely short trip back to Miramar. Fortunately, we had fuel and time so we went back out over the water to maneuver the jet again, and I got to fly up to 48,000 feet and see the curvature of the earth along the horizon, then unloaded (put the jet into 0-G flight) and pushed the airspeed up to 1.38 Mach. My instructor practiced some Air Combat maneuvering at high Gs (which has left my legs quite sore), and we returned to the field in time to debrief and get home for the Super Bowl.
Now, back on the ground, I am tired. My body needs to get used to flying again - the pressure changes, the G forces, the mental strain of operating systems and talking on the radio. But it was definitely fun--I still revel in the fact I am flying in a plane that can accidentally break the speed of sound if the pilot isn't paying attention, and I welcome the opportunity to see new places. It is good to be here again.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Driving the Pacific Coast Highway
I write this just having returned from Centrifuge training at NAS Lemoore, and it turns out to be a tale worth telling - in fact, it is the first really interesting thing I have done in the past five months. My orders out of Pensacola directed me to report to NAS Lemoore on my way to Miramar, which is a nice little detour north of San Diego to the Fresno area. Centrifuge training has been a requirement since 1998 or so for tactical aircrew, and is designed to accustom new pilots and WSOs (I'm a WSO) to the dynamic "G" forces they will endure while flying high-performance fighter and attack aircraft. These aircraft are designed to turn very quickly through the air in order to either gain an advantage over another aircraft in a dogfight, or run away from an attacking enemy. These aircraft turn so quickly, in fact, that their crew are subjected to several times the force of gravity (a multiple of the force of gravity is called a "G," so that one G is the force of gravity; two Gs are twice the force of gravity, etc.). Since the human body is designed to operate perfectly under the influence of only one G, the effect of excessive Gs is to cause blood to pool in the lower extremities (away from the head) causing in extreme cases a total loss of consciousness. Obviously, a loss of consciousness on the part of the aircrew renders their jet ineffective in a fight, and may cause the jet to crash for lack of human control. To combat the effect of Gs, naval aviators are exposed to these G forces in a giant centrifuge, where they learn to flex certain muscles and control their breathing in order to stay conscious during this type of flying. The F/A-18 - my future jet - can be flown up to 7.5 Gs.
I left San Diego on the 6th of December. Lemoore is located roughly a third of the way up the length of California, forty miles south of Fresno. With careful attention to timing so as to avoid the worst traffic in the Los Angeles area, I drove the "straight" route up I-5. That freeway is huge - at least eight lanes wide from San Diego to well north of LA. It hugs the coast for a while, affording sporadic views of the Pacific, but turns inland in LA and slows down. I fought traffic for a while before reaching the Santa Monica mountains north of the city, which are beautiful, barren, and high: the freeway climbs to over 4000 feet of elevation between rugged ridges before dropping suddenly off into the San Joachin valley, between the coastal mountains and the Sierra Nevada. When I say "drop suddenly," I mean it. Around a bend in the road I suddenly saw the valley floor far below me, spread out to the horizon and covered with a pall of smog.
The San Joachin valley is much like Eastern Washington. It is an irrigated desert and filled with huge crop fields and huge stockyards. Coming up on the latter you notice a foul stench several miles before you actually get to the compound. Lemoore itself smells the same way, including the tap water, which is...unpleasant. The freeways are so straight here that there is an actual vanishing point in front of the car - the road literally proceeds for hundreds of miles without changing direction at all. The towns themselves are small and provincial; apparently one has to go to Fresno (which has a university) in order to find a bar that stays open past midnight. Last night I went to a party in Lemoore where the chief entertainment was a bonfire made from throwing together all the beer case boxes and pizza boxes left over, dousing it with two gallons of gasoline, then lighting it. In relating this, I don't mean to reflect poorly on the partygoers. As far as I'm concerned, they are make the best of their situation. But there is literally nothing else to do in Lemoore.
The centrifuge itself was painful. There were seven other aviators in my class. We completed our run through the centrifuge one at a time, and got to see videos of each other struggling against the increased G forces on our bodies. I blacked out twice, though I didn't lose consciousness. It is strange to experience your field of vision draw inward to a mere point of focus, and then have everything turn slowly black...and even stranger to find that, after straining to flex the large lower body muscles, your vision comes rushing back. All that flexing, however, has its price. I am still very sore, and the effect of blood pooling in my lower extremities has left little red welts across my waist and legs. This is normal. The Centrifuge run was fun in the sense that a certain camaraderie developed amongst the members of the class - we laughed at each other a fair amount, especially watching the funny faces we made fighting to keep from passing out. It was a short day; we were out by noon. I took the rest of the day off.
The drive back was certainly the most memorable part of the trip. Having heard much about the beauty of the California coast, I proposed to drive from Lemoore to the coast via California Highway 41, then down the Pacific Coast Highway. I will say at the outset that it is the most beautiful drive I have ever done. Highway 41 cuts southwest across the valley floor and through the coastal mountains, which start as a series of barren rolling hills that gradually become more fertile as one gets closer to the coast. About halfway to the ocean occasional vineyards appear straddling ridges off to the left and the right, the terrain gets more rugged, and trees begin to appear. Amazingly, many were still wearing autumn colors, so I was paid back richly for all I missed in Pensacola. At higher elevations there are numerous sharp curves and switchbacks that required me to slow the car significantly. Every so often the road would crest a hill and the land would fall in humps and mountains and ranches and rivers as far as the eye could see. Storm clouds scudded thickly and quickly across the sky, laying their shadows fitfully on the ground. Several times I drove through localized rainstorms, and there was often a view of a rainbow. I paused at a rest stop shortly before reaching the coast, and when I got out of the car I was struck by a delicious, cold, wild scent. After that I drove with the windows open.
I reached the coast at a small town called Morrow Bay. Though I turned south on California Highway 1, which runs down the coast, I had to wait fifteen or twenty minutes for a sight of the Pacific. I passed many small surf towns characterized largely by an absence of chain restaurants, near-uniformly white buildings, and waving palm trees. The ocean was always to my left, its breakers throwing up visible foam in the sunlight. The road would intermittently detour through wet fields, from which the fragrance of cilantro and would seep into my car. This continued for many miles, broken only by the larger town of Santa Barbara, which appeared first as sporadic houses clinging to the hills over the sea and grew into a large beachside city. Afterwards, the highway wound through mountains again before rejoining the coast at Point Mugu.
The terrain was steeper now, and there were more houses. There were also surfers dotting the water off the beaches. The evidence of unbelievable wealth appeared...I saw my first Ferrarri south of Point Mugu, my first Aston Martin north of Santa Monica, my first Bugatti in Santa Monica itself, and I would later pass a Lamborghini and a Lotus dealership while driving into Los Angeles itself. There were probably more beautiful cars than I remember, but I was distracted by the scenery. The sun was setting now amid the storm clouds, lighting up the water and diffusing in the spray of the surf. At times the road would climb very high, affording a panoramic view of the coast and the water, then it would dive down to beach level. I don't need to explain how expensive and impressive the houses were. What amazed me was the apparent lack of crowding. Even in Santa Monica itself there were pleasant clumps of buildings that enhanced the scenery instead of obscuring it. And the diversity of trees and flowers was beyond my appreciation. Palm trees were the most recognizable, but there were others equally impressive - strange bright kinds of firs, beautiful tall trees with white bark, and an astonishing array of colored shrubs. The sun finally set as I drove under the Santa Monica pier and entered the huge metropolis surrounding Los Angeles.
There I paid for my beautiful drive. I found the Pacific Coast Highway, which had intended to follow until it rejoined I-5 north of San Diego, disintegrated into a series of boulevards chopped up by traffic lights. I finally gave up that plan and found a way to the interstate - after the wide wild roads I had driven earlier, the city seemed crushing and frustrating. As if to emphasize the change, the rain began to fall in earnest, and continued all the way back to San Diego.
I am still recovering in awe from that drive. I have little more to say, except that I check in to my unit at Miramar tomorrow, and there isn't room to be nervous at all - not after today. It feels like all the relaxation I needed to get ready for the next phase in my training--learning to fly the Hornet--was provided by that single trip. I'm going to love living here.
I left San Diego on the 6th of December. Lemoore is located roughly a third of the way up the length of California, forty miles south of Fresno. With careful attention to timing so as to avoid the worst traffic in the Los Angeles area, I drove the "straight" route up I-5. That freeway is huge - at least eight lanes wide from San Diego to well north of LA. It hugs the coast for a while, affording sporadic views of the Pacific, but turns inland in LA and slows down. I fought traffic for a while before reaching the Santa Monica mountains north of the city, which are beautiful, barren, and high: the freeway climbs to over 4000 feet of elevation between rugged ridges before dropping suddenly off into the San Joachin valley, between the coastal mountains and the Sierra Nevada. When I say "drop suddenly," I mean it. Around a bend in the road I suddenly saw the valley floor far below me, spread out to the horizon and covered with a pall of smog.
The San Joachin valley is much like Eastern Washington. It is an irrigated desert and filled with huge crop fields and huge stockyards. Coming up on the latter you notice a foul stench several miles before you actually get to the compound. Lemoore itself smells the same way, including the tap water, which is...unpleasant. The freeways are so straight here that there is an actual vanishing point in front of the car - the road literally proceeds for hundreds of miles without changing direction at all. The towns themselves are small and provincial; apparently one has to go to Fresno (which has a university) in order to find a bar that stays open past midnight. Last night I went to a party in Lemoore where the chief entertainment was a bonfire made from throwing together all the beer case boxes and pizza boxes left over, dousing it with two gallons of gasoline, then lighting it. In relating this, I don't mean to reflect poorly on the partygoers. As far as I'm concerned, they are make the best of their situation. But there is literally nothing else to do in Lemoore.
The centrifuge itself was painful. There were seven other aviators in my class. We completed our run through the centrifuge one at a time, and got to see videos of each other struggling against the increased G forces on our bodies. I blacked out twice, though I didn't lose consciousness. It is strange to experience your field of vision draw inward to a mere point of focus, and then have everything turn slowly black...and even stranger to find that, after straining to flex the large lower body muscles, your vision comes rushing back. All that flexing, however, has its price. I am still very sore, and the effect of blood pooling in my lower extremities has left little red welts across my waist and legs. This is normal. The Centrifuge run was fun in the sense that a certain camaraderie developed amongst the members of the class - we laughed at each other a fair amount, especially watching the funny faces we made fighting to keep from passing out. It was a short day; we were out by noon. I took the rest of the day off.
The drive back was certainly the most memorable part of the trip. Having heard much about the beauty of the California coast, I proposed to drive from Lemoore to the coast via California Highway 41, then down the Pacific Coast Highway. I will say at the outset that it is the most beautiful drive I have ever done. Highway 41 cuts southwest across the valley floor and through the coastal mountains, which start as a series of barren rolling hills that gradually become more fertile as one gets closer to the coast. About halfway to the ocean occasional vineyards appear straddling ridges off to the left and the right, the terrain gets more rugged, and trees begin to appear. Amazingly, many were still wearing autumn colors, so I was paid back richly for all I missed in Pensacola. At higher elevations there are numerous sharp curves and switchbacks that required me to slow the car significantly. Every so often the road would crest a hill and the land would fall in humps and mountains and ranches and rivers as far as the eye could see. Storm clouds scudded thickly and quickly across the sky, laying their shadows fitfully on the ground. Several times I drove through localized rainstorms, and there was often a view of a rainbow. I paused at a rest stop shortly before reaching the coast, and when I got out of the car I was struck by a delicious, cold, wild scent. After that I drove with the windows open.
I reached the coast at a small town called Morrow Bay. Though I turned south on California Highway 1, which runs down the coast, I had to wait fifteen or twenty minutes for a sight of the Pacific. I passed many small surf towns characterized largely by an absence of chain restaurants, near-uniformly white buildings, and waving palm trees. The ocean was always to my left, its breakers throwing up visible foam in the sunlight. The road would intermittently detour through wet fields, from which the fragrance of cilantro and would seep into my car. This continued for many miles, broken only by the larger town of Santa Barbara, which appeared first as sporadic houses clinging to the hills over the sea and grew into a large beachside city. Afterwards, the highway wound through mountains again before rejoining the coast at Point Mugu.
The terrain was steeper now, and there were more houses. There were also surfers dotting the water off the beaches. The evidence of unbelievable wealth appeared...I saw my first Ferrarri south of Point Mugu, my first Aston Martin north of Santa Monica, my first Bugatti in Santa Monica itself, and I would later pass a Lamborghini and a Lotus dealership while driving into Los Angeles itself. There were probably more beautiful cars than I remember, but I was distracted by the scenery. The sun was setting now amid the storm clouds, lighting up the water and diffusing in the spray of the surf. At times the road would climb very high, affording a panoramic view of the coast and the water, then it would dive down to beach level. I don't need to explain how expensive and impressive the houses were. What amazed me was the apparent lack of crowding. Even in Santa Monica itself there were pleasant clumps of buildings that enhanced the scenery instead of obscuring it. And the diversity of trees and flowers was beyond my appreciation. Palm trees were the most recognizable, but there were others equally impressive - strange bright kinds of firs, beautiful tall trees with white bark, and an astonishing array of colored shrubs. The sun finally set as I drove under the Santa Monica pier and entered the huge metropolis surrounding Los Angeles.
There I paid for my beautiful drive. I found the Pacific Coast Highway, which had intended to follow until it rejoined I-5 north of San Diego, disintegrated into a series of boulevards chopped up by traffic lights. I finally gave up that plan and found a way to the interstate - after the wide wild roads I had driven earlier, the city seemed crushing and frustrating. As if to emphasize the change, the rain began to fall in earnest, and continued all the way back to San Diego.
I am still recovering in awe from that drive. I have little more to say, except that I check in to my unit at Miramar tomorrow, and there isn't room to be nervous at all - not after today. It feels like all the relaxation I needed to get ready for the next phase in my training--learning to fly the Hornet--was provided by that single trip. I'm going to love living here.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Wings of Gold
I did it. I earned my Wings today. I capitalize it because it is such a big deal to me: it has been my goal for the last 18 months. I am the Marine Corps’ newest Naval Flight Officer / Weapons System Officer. I completed two flights today, and shortly thereafter I was doused with champagne and ice water to celebrate. The Flight School Adventure is over. What makes this even more memorable is that I winged with a classmate who was also in my company at TBS. He crewed the other aircraft - since our last events are BFM, or "dogfighting" events, we always go up in pairs - and though I got the best of him in our engagements today, neither of us would have made it this far without workign together. Tomorrow another classmate gets winged, and we are looking forward to celebrating together this Friday after the ceremony.
Perhaps I should back up. When I transitioned from the T-39 to the T-2, I my remaining events comprised three different kinds of flights. FAM flights came first, designed (through a simple air navigation mission) to give me the time to get comfortable in the new cockpit and aircraft. WEPS flights are low-level air-to-ground flights meant to provide practice operating as a section, or as two aircraft in one flight. For the rest of my career, almost every single flight will have at least two aircraft in it. The third kind of flight is BFM, which stands for "Basic Fighter Maneuvering." These are the most fun. We depart the airfield as a section, head out over the water, fight each other until we get low on gas, then come home. Today I completed my final BFM flight first, then flew my final WEPS flight. Experiencing both kinds of missions made for a fitting wrap-up.
The T-2 is perhaps the ugliest aircraft ever built, at least when sitting on the ground. In the air it seems much more aerodynamic. It is also, literally, a vintage aircraft. It was designed in 1957, and the last modification we have was probably completed in the late ‘60s. We still fly it with genuine ‘60s flight instruments, too…no computers here, whcih can be frustrating. For example, the instrument which shows our aircraft heading and navigational information actually drifts over time, and requires constant correction off an old-fashioned wet compass. Every 10 minutes of flying—less if there has been any kind of maneuvering—we must readjust our navigation displays. It is ironic that this instrument is so unreliable, considering how important it is to fly the right heading, especially when a) flying in very busy airspace (so you don’t hit another aircraft), b)flying in clouds (when you can’t see) and c) when flying an approach (so you actually find the runway). Another crazy feature of the T-2 is the Electrical Disconnect Switch. Since the T-2 was designed as a pilot trainer, somebody thought it would be a good idea to enable the Instructor (presumably in the back seat) to simulate a total electrical power failure. So they installed a switch that actually shuts off the generators and the battery - so it doesn't so much simulate an Electrical failure so much as cause one. Then, of course, you become an emergency aircraft with no way of navigating or communicating…and oh by the way your engines may fail without the electrical spark plugs, which means you either have to airstart one of them or eject. Brilliant.
Idiosyncrasies notwithstanding, the T-2 is a pretty perky little jet. We routinely pull up to 6 Gs during turns and Aerobatics, and it low over the ground it flies really well. During WEPS flights hug every curve of a road at close to 400 mph, then execute a high-performance pull, roll inverted, dive in at our “target” to deliver weapons, then pull hard up and away again. It is fun, dynamic, and physically draining - imagine trying to keep your head up looking around and your arms moving around a cockpit when they weigh five times more than usual! Yet BFM flights are the most fun, not only because you are fighting a buddy, but also because you continually operate the aircraft in high-G, high-performance flight. You might pitch up to arc over the top of your opponent or slice around in a max-performance turn to get behind him, or (if you're in trouble) you might “unload the jet” (go to zero-G flight) so as to accelerate quickly. In this kind of flying, the only instrument you watch is the altimeter, because you are upside down as much as you are right side up, and the only thing that matters is not hitting the ground. It is extremely exciting flying. It is what I signed up to do. But before I could get there, I had to complete the obligatory aviation simulations.
T-2 Simulator Events are pretty low-key. The instructors are all former military pilots who work for Lockheed and have a contract with the Navy. Some of them have fought as long ago as Korea , and many have ejected at least once from their aircraft. One of my instructors flew the now-obsolete F-8 Crusader, now distinguished as the last American fighter jet designed with guns as its primary weapon system. It was fast, though, and my instructor told me that a peer of his was flying around at Mach 2.4 when the wind blast sheared his canopy right off the aircraft. Desperately trying to slow his jet down, the pilot was pulling the throttles to idle and putting out the speed brakes when the wind pulled his upper ejection handle out from the top of the seat, and ejected him at Mach 1.7. He was hopelessly out of position and slammed by wind traveling over 1,000 mph, which caused his knees to break so badly that his feet were slapping against his helmet visor while he parachuted down. The pilot lived to fly jets again, though my instructor had this comment: “that man does not walk like you or me anymore.”
Despite the sea stories, sim events are graded and can be stressful. My last sim was with an instructor who I had flown before. Though he is widely regarded as one of the nicest instructors around – in the lingo of flight school, a “Santa Clause” - I have always peformed poorly with him. He wasn't mean to me or anything, but for some reason I never, not once, had a good flight with him. Remarkably, he only failed me once. At my Intermediate Graduation, where I graduated first in my class, he pulled me aside afterward to ask incredulously, “How, out of all of these students, did you graduate first?” Anyway, when he walked into the T-2 student lounge to pick me up for my final sim, he stopped in his tracks, looked at me appraisingly with a funny little smile and said, “So we meet again.” Fortunately, I had a fairly decent event (though certainly not my best), and afterward he handed me my gradesheet, saying, “Well, you’re free of me forever.” We had a good laugh about that.
One little side adventure I had during this phase was a trip to Washington, DC. This took place during my three FAM flights. It is nice to do them "cross country," because not only do I get experience flying outside of Pensacola (which I am very familiar with, but I can travel to cool places for the weekend. The flights themselves are pretty low-key, too: I am only responsible for basic navigation, a skill I have been working on since the first phase of training. Friday we flew to NAS Oceana (at Virginia Beach), and then my student partner and I rented a car to drive to D.C. We had a good timeI spent an entire afternoon in the National Gallery, saw a bunch of old friends, and generally relived the days of TBS when I visited DC every weekend. Sunday morning we drove back to Oceana and took the two quick flights home. Travel is one of the benefits of Aviation.
And now, this upcoming Friday, I will officially receive the Wings of Gold. I am near the end of my time in Pensacola , and that makes me just a little sad. I have grown to love it – everything from the beautiful white beaches to the friendly dumpy dive bars has made this an interesting and entertaining cultural experience. I will leave some good friends behind as I move on, but that’s part of a military life – and it isn’t really new. My old room-mate John has gone to California ahead of me, though not to San Diego, and another old room-mate will shortly move from Jacksonville to Whidbey Island, and yet a third has deployed to Iraq. I was nervous when I first moved down here - I only really know one of the guys I would be living with, and practically no one else in the greater Pensacola area. But shortly after moving in, my other room-mate approached me in a bar and said, "I don’t know how to say this, but I really wasn't sure if living with you was going to work out or not. I didn’t really get along with you at Notre Dame. I’m pretty surprised it has gone so smoothly so far.” I guess that sounds like a mean thing to say, but I had felt the same way. And now I have many good friends from this Pensacola experience.
But enough reflecting. Tonight it is time to celebrate my newly-earned Wings of Gold.
Perhaps I should back up. When I transitioned from the T-39 to the T-2, I my remaining events comprised three different kinds of flights. FAM flights came first, designed (through a simple air navigation mission) to give me the time to get comfortable in the new cockpit and aircraft. WEPS flights are low-level air-to-ground flights meant to provide practice operating as a section, or as two aircraft in one flight. For the rest of my career, almost every single flight will have at least two aircraft in it. The third kind of flight is BFM, which stands for "Basic Fighter Maneuvering." These are the most fun. We depart the airfield as a section, head out over the water, fight each other until we get low on gas, then come home. Today I completed my final BFM flight first, then flew my final WEPS flight. Experiencing both kinds of missions made for a fitting wrap-up.
The T-2 is perhaps the ugliest aircraft ever built, at least when sitting on the ground. In the air it seems much more aerodynamic. It is also, literally, a vintage aircraft. It was designed in 1957, and the last modification we have was probably completed in the late ‘60s. We still fly it with genuine ‘60s flight instruments, too…no computers here, whcih can be frustrating. For example, the instrument which shows our aircraft heading and navigational information actually drifts over time, and requires constant correction off an old-fashioned wet compass. Every 10 minutes of flying—less if there has been any kind of maneuvering—we must readjust our navigation displays. It is ironic that this instrument is so unreliable, considering how important it is to fly the right heading, especially when a) flying in very busy airspace (so you don’t hit another aircraft), b)flying in clouds (when you can’t see) and c) when flying an approach (so you actually find the runway). Another crazy feature of the T-2 is the Electrical Disconnect Switch. Since the T-2 was designed as a pilot trainer, somebody thought it would be a good idea to enable the Instructor (presumably in the back seat) to simulate a total electrical power failure. So they installed a switch that actually shuts off the generators and the battery - so it doesn't so much simulate an Electrical failure so much as cause one. Then, of course, you become an emergency aircraft with no way of navigating or communicating…and oh by the way your engines may fail without the electrical spark plugs, which means you either have to airstart one of them or eject. Brilliant.
Idiosyncrasies notwithstanding, the T-2 is a pretty perky little jet. We routinely pull up to 6 Gs during turns and Aerobatics, and it low over the ground it flies really well. During WEPS flights hug every curve of a road at close to 400 mph, then execute a high-performance pull, roll inverted, dive in at our “target” to deliver weapons, then pull hard up and away again. It is fun, dynamic, and physically draining - imagine trying to keep your head up looking around and your arms moving around a cockpit when they weigh five times more than usual! Yet BFM flights are the most fun, not only because you are fighting a buddy, but also because you continually operate the aircraft in high-G, high-performance flight. You might pitch up to arc over the top of your opponent or slice around in a max-performance turn to get behind him, or (if you're in trouble) you might “unload the jet” (go to zero-G flight) so as to accelerate quickly. In this kind of flying, the only instrument you watch is the altimeter, because you are upside down as much as you are right side up, and the only thing that matters is not hitting the ground. It is extremely exciting flying. It is what I signed up to do. But before I could get there, I had to complete the obligatory aviation simulations.
T-2 Simulator Events are pretty low-key. The instructors are all former military pilots who work for Lockheed and have a contract with the Navy. Some of them have fought as long ago as Korea , and many have ejected at least once from their aircraft. One of my instructors flew the now-obsolete F-8 Crusader, now distinguished as the last American fighter jet designed with guns as its primary weapon system. It was fast, though, and my instructor told me that a peer of his was flying around at Mach 2.4 when the wind blast sheared his canopy right off the aircraft. Desperately trying to slow his jet down, the pilot was pulling the throttles to idle and putting out the speed brakes when the wind pulled his upper ejection handle out from the top of the seat, and ejected him at Mach 1.7. He was hopelessly out of position and slammed by wind traveling over 1,000 mph, which caused his knees to break so badly that his feet were slapping against his helmet visor while he parachuted down. The pilot lived to fly jets again, though my instructor had this comment: “that man does not walk like you or me anymore.”
Despite the sea stories, sim events are graded and can be stressful. My last sim was with an instructor who I had flown before. Though he is widely regarded as one of the nicest instructors around – in the lingo of flight school, a “Santa Clause” - I have always peformed poorly with him. He wasn't mean to me or anything, but for some reason I never, not once, had a good flight with him. Remarkably, he only failed me once. At my Intermediate Graduation, where I graduated first in my class, he pulled me aside afterward to ask incredulously, “How, out of all of these students, did you graduate first?” Anyway, when he walked into the T-2 student lounge to pick me up for my final sim, he stopped in his tracks, looked at me appraisingly with a funny little smile and said, “So we meet again.” Fortunately, I had a fairly decent event (though certainly not my best), and afterward he handed me my gradesheet, saying, “Well, you’re free of me forever.” We had a good laugh about that.
One little side adventure I had during this phase was a trip to Washington, DC. This took place during my three FAM flights. It is nice to do them "cross country," because not only do I get experience flying outside of Pensacola (which I am very familiar with, but I can travel to cool places for the weekend. The flights themselves are pretty low-key, too: I am only responsible for basic navigation, a skill I have been working on since the first phase of training. Friday we flew to NAS Oceana (at Virginia Beach), and then my student partner and I rented a car to drive to D.C. We had a good timeI spent an entire afternoon in the National Gallery, saw a bunch of old friends, and generally relived the days of TBS when I visited DC every weekend. Sunday morning we drove back to Oceana and took the two quick flights home. Travel is one of the benefits of Aviation.
And now, this upcoming Friday, I will officially receive the Wings of Gold. I am near the end of my time in Pensacola , and that makes me just a little sad. I have grown to love it – everything from the beautiful white beaches to the friendly dumpy dive bars has made this an interesting and entertaining cultural experience. I will leave some good friends behind as I move on, but that’s part of a military life – and it isn’t really new. My old room-mate John has gone to California ahead of me, though not to San Diego, and another old room-mate will shortly move from Jacksonville to Whidbey Island, and yet a third has deployed to Iraq. I was nervous when I first moved down here - I only really know one of the guys I would be living with, and practically no one else in the greater Pensacola area. But shortly after moving in, my other room-mate approached me in a bar and said, "I don’t know how to say this, but I really wasn't sure if living with you was going to work out or not. I didn’t really get along with you at Notre Dame. I’m pretty surprised it has gone so smoothly so far.” I guess that sounds like a mean thing to say, but I had felt the same way. And now I have many good friends from this Pensacola experience.
But enough reflecting. Tonight it is time to celebrate my newly-earned Wings of Gold.
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Key West Experience / Pensacola Reflections
Last February, my training squadron went on a detachment down to Naval Air Station Key West. We did this for two reasons: to give us a break from flying around Pensacola ; and to get a lot of flights done, since February weather is generally very good down there and we are on vacation from our domestic personal lives. Since we all lived together (two to a room) in a dormitory-like setting, we were easily available to fly, but that also contributed to significantly collegiate atmosphere. Combine that with the social opportunities of Key West itself, and well, things got pretty exciting. It was a good trip.
Flying/training in Key West is an eye-opener. We worked with Air Traffic Control agencies that weren't used to our missions or expectations, and we flew unfamiliar routes. The pilots and instructors from Pensacola flew in that area so long that they pretty much had all routes and airfields memorized. As a student, it is easy to rely on their obvious but unshared knowledge—you feel that if you get lost or get in trouble, your instructor or pilot will know what to do. This all came crashing down in Key West . For the first time, I found that my pilot and instructor were often as clueless as I was. Well, maybe not that clueless, but you get the idea. At first it was scary, especially since during my first event I almost had a mid-air collision and later actually hit a bird. On subsequent flights, however, I began to feel more like a contributing member of the aircrew, instead of simply a student being tested.
For all that, however, flying wasn't the most "dangerous" part of Key West . The island is the self-proclaimed poster-child of American tropical hedonism. Filled with upscale shops jostling cheek-by-jowl with tawdry souvenir joints selling racy or off-color T-Shirts, and liberally sprinkled with bars and clubs, the actual town of Key West can be a lot of fun. It is quite small, too, so my friends and I ran into our instructors partying as often as we ran into our classmates, and pretty much everywhere. It was like a huge playground. Many stories and legends emerged from the two weeks we spent there—students spending upwards of $800 at bars in one night, students getting in fights and being picked up by (and tended by) shady middle-aged guys, students getting lost and spending the night on the beaches. Fortunately (or unfortunately) I was not involved in any stories, since I spent only four days there. But it sounded like good times.
In addition to the social scene, the island and city of Key West themselves are pretty amazing. US Highway 1 runs all the way down the keys, often on bridges that span more than seven miles of water. Flying approaches around the airfield yielded beautiful sights of white sand beaches and turquoise water and green-sprinkled islands bustling gently with small towns and buildings. It was all very relaxing, even while trying to land an aircraft. Like most young people, I joined the military to see exotic places, and I think Key West qualified.
Unfortunately, as my squadron took off to Key West for a flying "vacation," my room-mate left to go to Iraq. Flight school is often an insular world (a "bubble") due to the concentration requred in each flight, and when we have time off we usually spend it relaxing and not thinking about military issues. We don't (at least, I don't) spend much time thinking about what our military is doing and where I might be sent. So it is sobering to say goodbye to my room-mate. On one level, he trades in the luxury of America (and things like trips to Key West) for a more rigorous life within the American military effort in that country, but he also is going to do the job he signed up for. Many of my friends from TBS and college have been to Iraq or Afghanistan already, and are either there for the second time or preparing to go back. That's where my job is. With them. And while I certainly believe that it sucks over there, and that it's dangerous, I want to be there.
But I have at least another year of training before I am even able to go. Pensacola, meanwhile, continues to treat me well. I have been able to spend a lot of time at the beach, running, reading and studying. Even during chilly winter months, the beach provides solitude and beauty, especially during sunrise and sunset. The nights are beautiful and clear. Though I hear a lot of my peers complaining about Pensacola and its dumpy buildings, poorly designed roads, and lack of nightlife, I am very fond of it. I have grown to love Gulf Coast style seafood,the beach lifestyle, the friendly people, and the inexpensive living. There are few other places in the world where you can waterski in October and go swimming in the ocean in early March. I shall be sorry to leave.
Flying/training in Key West is an eye-opener. We worked with Air Traffic Control agencies that weren't used to our missions or expectations, and we flew unfamiliar routes. The pilots and instructors from Pensacola flew in that area so long that they pretty much had all routes and airfields memorized. As a student, it is easy to rely on their obvious but unshared knowledge—you feel that if you get lost or get in trouble, your instructor or pilot will know what to do. This all came crashing down in Key West . For the first time, I found that my pilot and instructor were often as clueless as I was. Well, maybe not that clueless, but you get the idea. At first it was scary, especially since during my first event I almost had a mid-air collision and later actually hit a bird. On subsequent flights, however, I began to feel more like a contributing member of the aircrew, instead of simply a student being tested.
For all that, however, flying wasn't the most "dangerous" part of Key West . The island is the self-proclaimed poster-child of American tropical hedonism. Filled with upscale shops jostling cheek-by-jowl with tawdry souvenir joints selling racy or off-color T-Shirts, and liberally sprinkled with bars and clubs, the actual town of Key West can be a lot of fun. It is quite small, too, so my friends and I ran into our instructors partying as often as we ran into our classmates, and pretty much everywhere. It was like a huge playground. Many stories and legends emerged from the two weeks we spent there—students spending upwards of $800 at bars in one night, students getting in fights and being picked up by (and tended by) shady middle-aged guys, students getting lost and spending the night on the beaches. Fortunately (or unfortunately) I was not involved in any stories, since I spent only four days there. But it sounded like good times.
In addition to the social scene, the island and city of Key West themselves are pretty amazing. US Highway 1 runs all the way down the keys, often on bridges that span more than seven miles of water. Flying approaches around the airfield yielded beautiful sights of white sand beaches and turquoise water and green-sprinkled islands bustling gently with small towns and buildings. It was all very relaxing, even while trying to land an aircraft. Like most young people, I joined the military to see exotic places, and I think Key West qualified.
Unfortunately, as my squadron took off to Key West for a flying "vacation," my room-mate left to go to Iraq. Flight school is often an insular world (a "bubble") due to the concentration requred in each flight, and when we have time off we usually spend it relaxing and not thinking about military issues. We don't (at least, I don't) spend much time thinking about what our military is doing and where I might be sent. So it is sobering to say goodbye to my room-mate. On one level, he trades in the luxury of America (and things like trips to Key West) for a more rigorous life within the American military effort in that country, but he also is going to do the job he signed up for. Many of my friends from TBS and college have been to Iraq or Afghanistan already, and are either there for the second time or preparing to go back. That's where my job is. With them. And while I certainly believe that it sucks over there, and that it's dangerous, I want to be there.
But I have at least another year of training before I am even able to go. Pensacola, meanwhile, continues to treat me well. I have been able to spend a lot of time at the beach, running, reading and studying. Even during chilly winter months, the beach provides solitude and beauty, especially during sunrise and sunset. The nights are beautiful and clear. Though I hear a lot of my peers complaining about Pensacola and its dumpy buildings, poorly designed roads, and lack of nightlife, I am very fond of it. I have grown to love Gulf Coast style seafood,the beach lifestyle, the friendly people, and the inexpensive living. There are few other places in the world where you can waterski in October and go swimming in the ocean in early March. I shall be sorry to leave.
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