A Laetare Sunday Story

So it was last Tuesday that I left my erstwhile home in Iwakuni, Japan for the long-awaited trip back across the Pacific. I was returning to my real home in San Diego, and let me tell you that I'd been looking forward very forward to it. I was supposed to arrive three days ago, but due to the intervention of a little misfortune and happenstance, I was unavoidably detained elsewhere (not that it's all bad, I promise). At this point, I've been traveling for five days - or rather six, since I went from Wednesday back into Tuesday while crossing the International Date Line. Which is a bit strange, I think, the whole having to set the date on your watch back. It makes the concept of continuous and linear time seem kinda silly. In any case, these past six days have brought me up short on Laetare Sunday.

Appropriately enough, it was St. Patrick's Day that I lived through twice, commonly one of revelry in the United States. Now I like St. Patrick quite a bit (being part Irish by birth and all Irish by attendance at Notre Dame), and I'm not averse to raising the odd glass or two in his memory, especially on his dedicated feast day, but sadly this day always occurs during Lent, when I make the habit (or have for several years) of jumping back on the wagon as a form of fasting. That being a big part of Lent and all. So this year, despite having two feast days instead of one, I honored him soberly. I don't think he'll mind--after all, as a Saint the old boy probably did some fasting of his own.

Anyway, it's appropriate that we got St. Patrick's Day twice because the feasting and imbibery therein associated fits quite nicely with the general theme of our recent WestPac. I've mentioned this before, but for a crew of young, healthy, and motivated men and women, taken lately from their loved ones and accustomed society, there's little to do but try to make the best of a new situation the easy way. And that's done primarily with alcohol, with Western Pacific watering holes like Tokyo, Korea, Okinawa, and Australia having in abundance. So without divulging anything too incriminating, I can say only that we made plenty of fun over the course of the deployment, with some parties perhaps even welcoming that particular type of enjoyment all the more for certain stateside restrictions that didn't apply overseas (though of course I personally cannot recall any such individual myself). So though we greeted our impending return home with considerable joy and eager anticipation, we were a bit nostalgic for our happy WestPac fraternity, forged by the trials and drinking games of WestPac, which would soon be broken by the presence of loved ones and the inevitable march of the Marine Corps, and therefore set forth from Iwakuni with the honest intent of making the most of our last days on deployment.

Our chief excitement in this regard was reserved for Hawaii, which by a glorious and unexpected grace the powers-that-be had designated as the site of our "catch-up" day--firstly, for to fix any broken aircraft and allow tardy ones to catch up, and secondly to allow us fragile aircrew to "readjust our internal clocks" and "reset our Circadian Rhythms," because apparently such things were knocked off kilter during the course of transiting seven time zones in two days. Wouldn't want the men with $40 million of high-tech, deadly government property to be tired or jet-lagged. No, sir, that wouldn't do at all. A positively careless gamble with the public purse. So in the interests of prudence and fiscal discipline we gleefully landed at Honolulu International and rushed headlong to the relaxation of Waikiki beach. Not but what the ongoing spring break didn't motivate us a little bit too.

What a fitting end to WestPac! we thought (and gushed to one another). A free evening out on the town, with no required wakeup the next morning, and a whole free day after that--well! what an opportunity for celebration (and perhaps other things as well). It was a perfect situation, really. One final big push, one final memorable night, then at long last, home. And I did make the most of it, soaking up the ambiance and scenery of a popular local restaurant that first night, then visiting the USS Arizona Memorial the next morning (which, I tell you, makes a man right solemn and pondersome), then hiking up the local volcano Diamondhead that afternoon for some famous Hawaiian scenery and a mighty pretty view of the city.

The next morning, my pilot and I started up our aircraft just fine until we realized it required a little extra servicing before it could fly. So we settled ourselves in for a bit of a wait, knowing that we would miss the first launch but certainly would make the second -- no big deal at all. A small hiccup, totally canceled by a timely substitution. Shortly, we taxied out and took off, and finally were on our way!

Now the tanker assigned to us for this final leg was of the KC-10 variety, and it was set up to dispense fuel from two wing-mounted pods. The reason being that some fifty-pound brains (i.e. nerds) had determined that when out around the middle of our route from Hawaii to the US (and some one thousand miles from land in any direction), cycling any more than three jets on a hose could result in a situation where players might not have enough gas to reach terra firma at all, which would be bad, all things considered. Ejection over the middle of the ocean is not conducive to rescue or survival, given that the ejectees are relying on a mere chance that some boat is at hand to pull them out. So the two-hose configuration of our Tanker was required in order to safely nurse all six aircraft home. Unfortunately, said wing-mounted hoses are not altogether reliable. But more on that in a second.

So we had ourselves a plan. And it seemed to be working, too. The first aircraft hooked up to his basket just fine. The second one, however... well, the second aircraft barely got his probe into the other basket when, to our united horror and dismay, the hose bowed ominously. To quick to be countered (but to our wondering eyes seeming quite slow) a wave flicked along the length of the hose, then rebounded from the Tanker's wing and ripped the probe right off our jet. There was suddenly a lot of fuel spraying from the now useless hose, or at least there was for the very long couple seconds it took the tanker guys to shut off the flow. And suddenly we were down to one hose.

So there was to be no homecoming that day for that aircraft, nor (as it turns out) for my pilot or me neither, because The Rules Governing Military Aviation clearly state that all fighter aircraft must travel with mutual support (i.e. another aircraft), and we were lucky enough to be chosen as the escorting aircraft. It was a turn back to Hawaii for our two jets, to await the fixing of one broken probe and the irritating whimsy of the Air Force, from whom we now needed another Tanker.

As you might expect, I use the phrase "lucky enough" with some sarcasm, because after six long months home had started looking pretty nice. Especially the part about not living out of a suitcase. In fact, I'd worked myself up into a considerable state of excitement over the whole homecoming, and well to turn around like that was frankly a disappointment. By the time we touched back down at Honolulu I had worked myself back up into a right foul mood. However, being (still somewhat) young and resilient, and being unable to ignore the increasingly excited company of my fellows (nor the good weather neither), I gradually simmered down and began to enjoy the prospect of some more days on vacation.

And the next couple days exceeded my expectations. We did plenty of sightseeing and even caught some nice Waikiki nightlife -- especially as two of those "couple days" were Friday and Saturday. But wouldn't you know that Sunday always follows quick on the heels of the weekend, and with it the inevitable obligation of Sunday Mass. Of course, by phrasing it that way I don't mean to indicate that I dislike Sunday Mass, but ] after the late weekend of unmitigated Spring Break, it was a little bit more of a transition than usual. Required reorganizing the mind, like.

Fortunately, there was an easily identifiable church not 10 minutes (walking distanc) from my hotel, which looked like one of those rigidly beautiful structures built for worship in the 1950s and 60s. Triangular in structure, with triangular side windows of stained glass, it is aggressively simple and points aggressively upwards. It has a new, modern, and severe feeling--all of which enhances and makes conspicuous the soft, beautiful scenes depicted in the stained glass. The side windows each illustrate episodes of the Gospel, and the entire front of the church is a giant stained-glass picture of the Church's patron, St. Augustine. It was cool and dim inside. It was also relatively full, which I found surprising in a parish that caters mainly to tourists.

Now, like any good Catholic I understand intellectually that Mass is something in which I participate, but which does not require my participation. I've been instructed that the Mass is essentially whole and complete whether or not a congregation is present at all. Likewise, a Mass is not less valuable for the absence of music (or the use of substandard music) nor even for quality of homily preached. All that notwithstanding, I (like many fellow Irishmen) personally hold some rather strong opinions about the whole affair, especially during special season like Lent. Consequently I prepared to cock a rather jaundiced and cynical eye on this event.

But my first impression was one of humility, as I realized I had forgotten what day it was: Laetare Sunday, when in the midst of Lent the Catholic Church calls upon it's members to be joyful in remembrance that past the fasting and penance lies the hope of Easter. More humility was dished up later on when I found my mind wandering during the Gospel reading. Before you go getting all judgmental on me, however, you should know that it was the optional reading provided for integration with an RCIA class, and it was a long one -- but still, that's a pretty poor excuse. It wasn't even boring or anything; it told the (remarkable) story of Jesus curing the blind man on the Sabbath. Perhaps I was a bit petulant in my sub-conscience, given that I am used to (and sort of expect) nice short easily digestible readings. Not that that's any better an excuse, however. I mean, the Gospel is the most important text there is when it comes to Church, and it's pretty sad if I can't pay attention for fifteen minutes instead of five.

In consequence of all that humility, I was pretty sullen when I sat down to hear the homily. My mood was not improved by the fact that the priest has a strong accent. It wasn't that he spoke poor English, mind -- his grammar was correct, his sentences eloquent, and his ideas coherent -- it was that deciphering his actual words required just a little extra concentration. Concentration I'd rather have used berating myself, what with me being the inordinately proud Catholic that I am. So with a barely audible sigh of frustration, I swung my arm back over the pew and and settled in grumpily to listen.

What I heard was surprising. The priest directed our attention to the many references to "sight" or "seeing" in the Gospel, and reminded us that the quick, commercialized modern world offers us an overwhelming stream of images --advertisements, television programs, magazines, movies, music, and books -- all which may conflict with or distract from the image of God. He asked if we were choosing to see the right images, and explained how "the Jews" of the Gospel reading (which occupy the role of Jesus' own people , which essentially means us) had chosen blindness by refusing to see the right image, the sign he worked for them in the curing. There is no blindness, he admonished, like the blindness of those who either refuse to see what they are looking at or who refuse to look at all. He concluded with a twofold mandate: first, that we reject images that distract or detract from God, and second that we actively participate in sacrament and prayer -- thus we might not be blind to God.

Now I was brought up respectful and more often than not will address an older gentleman or lady by "sir" or "ma'am," respectively. It therefore stands to reason that I generally hold priests in esteem as well. But there was something extra worthy about that priest in Waikiki: it took some intestinal fortitude to stand in front of a church full of Spring Breaker and tell them they are looking at the wrong images. I mean, it's a well-known fact that the images of Hawaii are pretty spectacular, whether you're into the natural beauty of the islands themselves or the possibly natural beauty of Hawaiians and/or other tourists. Furthermore, nobody on vacation wants to hear a lecture, especially one that implicitly questions their very reason for being there. Yet I knew as I heard him speak that I needed to hear each word he said, as as far as I could tell the entire congregation had the same reaction: there seemed to be a lot humility and inspiration going around. I guess hearing the truth has that kind of effect on people.

So there's nothing like a bit of good bit of preaching to get you to think about your priorities, and I was painfully aware that I had been a just a mite too caught up in having fun, and rather reprehensibly unconcerned with spiritual and filial duties. And that had been my condition since starting the deployment. There, at the end, it was time to turn around and start working on meaningful relationships like family and old friends, and actually enter spirit of Lent. Which is, after all, partially about fasting and serving others; two things that I pretty much ignored throughout WestPac.

So, Laetare indeed! Our delay, such a disappointment to me at first, has turned out providential. The headlong rush of deployment carried me in some ways far from my values, but inside that stern beautiful church the illusions I had been chasing were exposed and melted, briefly, in the face of holier images. So I will begin both penance and fasting in cheerful earnest -- fasting from the excesses I'd grown used to and penance to correct my previous spiritual lassitude, all in the joyful hope of Easter, when Christ will rise again before me and renew the great promise of heaven.

Limbo (and thereafter)

Limbo occurs every so often. You know, when you aren't really anywhere? In this itinerant life I lead, it happens every so often that I just go and leave my life behind and end up in limbo, or the other way around. Recently it was the latter--my life just picked on up and left, and here I am in nowhere. Nowhere called Iwakuni, Japan. Lately my home.

This happened after college, too, except that it was me leaving then. I walked out of Commencement and suddenly my home wasn't my home anymore. My stadium, my dome, my dorm, my quads and classrooms, all were then suddenly someone else's. I felt like a guest where before I'd been family. I suppose it was my sense of propriety. After all, it was the occasion of an hour-long ceremony that changed my status. But with a diploma in hand I was officially a part of the work force, and no longer a college student. It was kind of sad, really - not in the least "bittersweet." I'd been happy at college. I didn't know if I'd be happy in "real life." Nothing to do, however, but move on out. It's nice to be single, I guess. It makes you mobile. It makes dealing with limbo easier.

This latest movement is kind of sad, too. Iwakuni used to be kind of a special place. Both good and bad, to be sure. But special nonetheless. I mean, here you could really be a part of something unique. Not many people get a second crack at their high school or college years. You know, when your only social prospects are a short walk away from your door? besides your discrete responsibilities, all you have to do is play sports or party together or sight-see, which are pretty much the best three things in the worlds anyway (besides relationships). It's all the more care-free because it happens in a foreign country. You don't have the pressing weight of social conventions all around you to keep you down. You can be just as rude or wild as you want. But it's even better than it was back when you were a teenager, because you can enjoy it more. You can be juvenile AND laugh at your own juvenility.

Sure, I won't miss the weather (though today is restless and breezy, with some fast-moving puffy clouds playing games with the sun). I won't miss the repetetive radio station, or the limited TV channels, or the five fast-food restaurants that make up your choices for dinner. I won't miss the lack of female companionship or the lack of freedom. That all gets kind of wearing after a while. It makes you yearn to drive a car, or crave a particular food (fish tacos, in my case). It makes you suddenly appreciative of the little pleasures of living in the States. But it also highlights what you're missing back in the States.

You see, six months is a long time to be gone. Time for people to get used to not having you around. Time for your friends to get new friends, or new romances. Time for existing relationships to grow fonder from the absence, which is great if you are in one of those relationships but not so much if you aren't. Because the net effect of all this is that you're not just in limbo when your life moves away from you, you move back into limbo when you catch it up. So I guess I'm not that much in a hurry to get out of here. At least now I have time to do those things I miss in a normal work-week, like write emails (blogs?), work out, or eat normal meals.

The problem is that vacation isn't really all that fun. I thrive on stress, apparently, because I get kind of bored after a day of doing nothing. And a routine is boring too. So here I am, stuck on Iwakuni with all it's opportunities available, and I find that even if I avail myself of all of them I still have too many extra hours in the day. So despite the potential limbo waiting in San Diego, I really do want to leave here on timeline. At least it gives me something to do.

It also gives me something to look forward to, of course. I mean, my old life might not be so far gone. With a little grace and effort I might re-integrate rather easily. But that will require growth. When in limbo, with time to be scared, growth seems kind of intimidating. More so than when things are busy, because you only really realize that you've grown after the fact. Like right now, obviously, I am realizing all the ways I grew during WestPac, but I sure didn't realize that I was growing in the moment. I was working too hard or getting yelled at or trying to survive another drinking bout. THAT was easy.

But life moves on. Everyone knows that. It's probably better to jump on board. I'd like to do so, but I have to wait in limbo for a couple of days yet. It seems kind of useless to cling to the "good ol' days" of this now-mostly-past WestPac, but maybe that will make this limbo go by faster. It'll be good when it ends, on the whole. Whatever that brings.

The progress of springtime and the path to Calvary

The nights can be cold in Iwakuni, Japan. I know this well because I often walk home long past sunset. Over the months I have spent out here, I have enjoyed on these occasions only the company of remote and wintry stars, sleet or snow, freezing rain, or occasionally the roar of jets overhead, invisible in the clouds. This nightly walk has become so much of a habit for me that I have come to expect the feel of my leather jacket heavy on my shoulders and close around my waist, the fur collar either cold and wet or warm and comfortable, and the familiar solitary shortcuts through parking lots. Such has been the substance of my nightly relaxation before I reach my room, my bed, and the challenges of tomorrow.

Tonight was different. Though cool, it lacked its wonted bitterness. It seemed young and pleasant, with the full moon rising large and golden in the hazy air and the northern sky perceptibly lighter than I could ever remember. As I passed a drainage ditch, usually silent but for the sound of cold running water, I heard a cheerful cacophany of birds amongst the bushes. Abruptly I realized that springtime had arrived.

There had been other harbingers. Certain days were inexplicably sunny after weeks of freezing rain, only to then disappear behind the frigid clouds. Today, at work, I noticed unconsciously the warmish sunlight and aching clarity of the air. And recently we switched from the green uniforms we wear in wintertime to the tan ones we wear from spring through fall. So I knew it was coming. But I am tonight nevertheless surprised and suddenly excited at the palpable approach of springtime.

It has been a long winter in many respects. The constant movement of the first months of the deployment made for busy days and changing scenery, which partially distracted from homesickness and stress. However, once we moved back to Iwakuni the days became indistinguishable. They all had the same long hours, the same bad weather, the same (now irritating) sights, and a heavy, growing desire to go home. So deep was the winter, in fact, that Ash Wednesday arrived with no warning and I found myself, bewildered and flailing, on the road to Cavalry when seemingly just weeks ago I was rejoicing at Christ's birth.

Plain wisdom tells us that God waits for no man. The cycle and myriad responsibilities of work are absolutely engaging, whether they involve flying, studying, or administrative tasks. But so invested had I become in their accomplishment that I'd nearly forgotten the dues owed to my God and to my soul. Somewhere between the weekly Masses and the occasional Confession I had let the winter and my imposed obligations dominate my life. The first step towards achieving temperance is the weary acquiescence to the demands of Lent, and the second this exciting arrival of springtime.

Lent requires discipline and sacrifice, for both are necessary to break bad habits. It forces me out of my spiritual complacence and pulls my mind away from the trivial things that make up my physical life. The arrival of springtime is, in the context of Christianity, the anticipation and foreshadowing of God's promise; in the context of Lent it is a metaphor promising that our purpose is not to fast and suffer, but eventually to be joyful (in the presence of God). The fasting enables that by weaning us from those false gods that tempt us from happiness: ambition, excess guilt, excess affection, depression, and lust. The fruit borne by our Lenten discipline is mimicked in nature by the process of spring.

It has happened before and it will happen again. Suddenly tonight I am light of heart and optimistic; I have transitioned gratefully from darkness into a brighter world. I have, no doubt, experienced many such transitions and no doubt will experience many more, but nothing can dilute the immediacy of the visceral and sensuous reaction I have to the signs of spring tonight. There is joy ahead. Winter will end. But in order to find that end, I must, like everyone else, purge from their dark thrones the vices and distractions that have grown upon me. The path to summer always lies through Calvary.

My Mistress the Sky

I used to see clouds chiefly from the ground up. In Seattle, that meant mostly looking at a matte gray ceiling, broken up (prettily enough) by tall firs. On clear days, the unexciting clouds were replaced by very exciting mountains and some pretty incredible views. The Pacific Northwest has been described before as "God's Country."

Once, just into my second decade of life, I had an opportunity to see thunderheads. On a week-long canoe camping trip through the Bowron Lakes, I remember one afternoon distinctly when the slanting sunlight of northern climes illuminated large pillars of clouds building over the mountains. I found it (and the fantastically loud and relentless storm that followed) both impressive and exotic. All too soon, however, I returned to mild Seattle and continued my somewhat uninterested relationship with this particular natural phenomenon.

I subsequently spent all but the summers of the next four years in the midwest, followed by one autumn/winter period in Virginia, and found little to change my perspective. But in Pensacola, however, I developed a new appreciation for clouds. There were early winter mornings when I would drive in bad-temperedly for a 5:30 flight brief, only to be stopped in my tracks by the sight of delicate, lacy wisps floating unimaginably high, softly luminous in the approaching dawn. There were tense flights among dark walls of cloud, where my instructor and I would follow the sunlight as best we could, hoping that the field was clear. In late summertime, the evenings were ever heralded by storms arrayed in line-of-battle formation, steadily marching from west to east across the town. Yet I paid but cursory attention to those wonders, for they had much to compete with. My senses were too often busy with the sugary white sand, the unpredictable spring/autumn surf, or the placid and dolphin-graced bayous to contemplate the sky.

San Diego has very little to offer. The desert haze and southern California smog combine to make a pristine blue sky rare even when there are no clouds, and when the sky is obscured it is by a dense and oppressively gray "Marine Layer" of fog that sits about 2000' above the water. The air is clearer in the mountains and over the small airfields I routinely fly through in El Centro and Creech, but it is desert country. There are no clouds there.

But the skies over the western Pacific are a wonderland. Many sunset hours I have spent on long navigation legs, quietly traversing the hundreds of miles between the mainland and Okinawa and contemplating the multi-colored ranges that tower from a mere twenty thousand feet over the water to over sixty thousand, or the broken layers that look like blasted landscapes below the aircraft. On many approaches into MCAS Iwakuni I have seen thick fog lap against the volcanic slopes of Japan's home islands, secretively obscuring coasts, towns, and valley floors. Many evenings in Australia I stood in the entrance tunnel to our operations bunker, watching vast thunderstorms gather the dying sunlight in the distance or watching their fury lash the unsheltered Outback. Occasionally, I had the fortune to fly (warily) in the vicinity of such storms, marvelling at their sheer bulk, the violence of their lightning, and the astonishing density of the rain they visited on the ground.

All in all, I find that I appreciate weather much more than I used to. In all likelihood this is as much to do with the places I've lived or visited as it is with the fact that weather is an actual threat to those in my profession. Recently I had my first experience of "the leans," a sort of vertigo or disorientation wherein what aircrew feels as "straight and level" flight is in fact frighteningly skewed. In my case, I felt that my airplane was tilted up on a wingtip--90 degree angle-of-bank, for the aviation-minded--and dropping like a rock, despite the attitude indications in the cockpit showing me that we were in fact flying as straight and level as possible. More than a source of disorientation, weather in the form of clouds can so thoroughly obscure the ground that an airplane cannot safely descend low enough to see a runway...which makes landing impossible. Certain weather phenomena can actually damage the airplane, such as hail or the ice which forms sometimes when flying through precipitation (built-up ice will actually change the shape of the wing and in extreme cases cause the airplane to lose aerodynamic lift). So it is not surprising that I focus more on things like clouds, given that they can pose a serious threat.

I suppose in some ways I probably view the skies in some wise as sailors view the sea: something to love, something to respect, and at times something to fear. And then the common-sense warnings of innumerable military safety posters emerge from my memory. After all, knowing to fear the sky makes me a safer aviator.

But even at it's most dangerous the sky is a beautiful place.

A Crisis of Character

On August 28, 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. stood in front of the memorial to Abraham Lincoln and addressed the vast crowds surrounding the reflecting pool. He spoke words stirring and inspiring, words that epitomized a piece of the so-called "American Dream," words that we have remembered as a credo. "I have a dream," he said, "that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." Many people in America today have expressed their belief that after 45 long years, that dream is finally realized. A partially black man sits in the White House--judged, apparently, by the content of his character rather than the color of his skin. He is indeed to be admired: when he was born, to be a "half-breed" was to incur derision, insult, and perhaps injury; from that to have risen through the mostly-white society of Columbia University and the Ivy League and made it to the Presidency is a testament to will, determination, intelligence, and charisma.

It has been my luxury to watch the national (and international) euphoria at his inauguration from some distance, stationed as I am on a foreign military base and insulated from the day-to-day zeitgeist that has seized my countrymen. Though I regret not being able to enjoy in person the real hope Mr. Obama's election has given so many Americans, it seems oddly irrational and misplaced, in which it has much in common with the widespread contempt and hatred for his predecessor, George Bush.

Much ink has already been spilled regarding Mr. Bush. He has been portrayed as a tyrant and a dictator both for his part in allowing our government to spy on us in an effort to catch domestically-based terrorists and for his seeming eagerness to go to war; he has also been portrayed as a Paladin, courageously protecting America in spite of the obvious hatred of his citizens. An article in The Economist explained his controversial nature best, I think, positing that he was excessively and fiercely partisan, shutting out quality opposition politicians in favor of "his boys" (good repulicans all)--whether or not they had the talent to do their job well. The best-remembered instance of the resulting and depressingly wide-spread mismanagement was his Defense Secretary's failed plan for post-conflict Iraq, where insufficient American troops were unable to stop growing sectarian violence that nearly tore the fledgling country apart.

There is no question, I think, that this particular criticism of Mr. Bush is justified. Yet I wonder: will no one say a word about his sincerity? will no one give him credit for a demonstrable and unwavering commitment to defending his nation? will no one recognize that despite his many (and perhaps unforgiveable) offenses he tried as America's leader to do right by the world? will no one even applaud his temperance and apparent devotion to his family? He had moral courage: in accordance with his values he opposed abortion and gallantly championed the cause of freedom--even with the lives of Americans. He called fundamentalist Islam by its true name: Evil. He had character and integrity, best demonstrated by the many times visited the men and women he sent in harm's way in order to show his concern for them and tell them face-to-face that he didn't hold their lives cheap but rather truly believed in the cause he had made their own. Sadly, his mistakes show that though he was a good man, he fell short of the greatness that his term as president demanded. I don't, however, think any honest observer could say he lacked the kind of character Rev. King was talking about.

Mr. Bush's very vocal detractors did not judge him on his character, at least not his personal character. They apparently didn't much care about his personal character. What of his character they judged they interpolated from his politics, which disagreed with their own. Their idea of a "good man" was not necessarily one who developed and stuck with convictions, or one who struggled to be a good husband and father, or even one who went out of his way to show his people that he cared about them. Their idea of a good man was one who respected women enough to give them the right to choose abortion, one who made the institution of social justice a top priority, and one who went out of his way to co-exist with neighbors, even at the expense of compromising values. In essence, their idea of a good man was one whose values agreed with their own, and they taught our nation that one's character isn't formed in his or her personal life, but rather in the public life. Mr. Bush's politics were arrogant and bourgeois, and therefore so was his character.

Now, of course, they declare with equal vehemence that the nobility of Mr. Obama's character. His values agree with theirs and he displays in his public life all the indicators of good politics, and for those politics he won the election. Thus Rev. King's words have indeed come true, for between the Presidents Bush and Obama America has made judgment, and found the content of Mr. Obama's character to be greater than that of Mr. Bush. This essay is not the place to discuss the contradictory values of these two men, nor does Mr. Obama's personal character need any defense. But to judge the latter on his politics and call that his character is unfair and deprecating. Surely, despite his politics, we might take heart in his idealism and charisma. Surely, we can see that his apparent success as a community member, husband, and father bodes well for his Presidency. And surely, to disagree with his politics does not preclude appreciating his other attributes.

It is well that so many Americans hope for a better future shaped by the ideas of our inspiring new President. But those ideas are at best the product of his character and not its substance. I also have high hopes for Mr. Obama and his adminstration and yet I mourn the departure of a good, sincere, courageous, and caring man who, despite mistakes, has over the last eight years displayed great "character" in guiding America's unequivocal response to the threatening circumstances of his time.

Rev. King's famous words still reverberate in our souls, the more so because they are not yet realized. We have so far advanced in social justice that we have a mixed-race president, and that is very good. How sad, then, that in our treatment of Mr. Bush we have shown ourselves still very far indeed from Rev. King's idealistic and inspiring dream.

On Country Music and "American" Values

I grew up in an environment very hostile to Country music. Seattle, Washington is known as the cradle of Grunge and maintains today, 15 years after the fact, an "alternative" music identity. I spent my formative college years at Notre Dame, which is mostly stocked with bluff midwestern Catholics and rich northeast Catholics who between them enjoyed a combination of hard rock, punk, and the occasional indulgence in pop music or hip-hop when it came down to dorm parties. My tastes then were nursed on a certain amount of assumed condescension toward Country music--it was, as my friends intimated to me on more than one occasion, the sound of a backwards, conservative, probably bigoted and ultimately embarrassing segment of America. And though I lived my next three years in the South, I maintained this attitude toward country music even if I found that land filled with good people and good values (both of which I miss to this day). It wasn't until I got to California that I suddenly found myself--very surprisingly--craving Country. Clearly, some unconscious comparison between the two disparate pieces of America thrust the issue into focus for me.

There is no doubt that Country music has become more popular of late. I even hear some Country songs on pop radio stations, which is of course appropriate because the odd Country music song (usually sung by an attractive young lady) will break into the mainstream Top 4o. Thus, I am clearly not the only one who is converting to a previously despised genre. Why? I think the reason for this is simple and often overlooked: Country music evokes the image of a happier, simpler time wherein we individually valued rightness over success and could therefore collectively be prouder of ourselves and our society.

The distinction between rightness and success as sources of happiness is one that resonates deeply with me, both because of my religion and (I'll argue) because of our collective understanding of "American Values." It isn't for nothing that the midwest and the south, where people live their lives in contempt of the cosmopolitan coasts and adhere to more ancient values and tradetions, are regarded as the repository of American culture--or at least when it comes to rugged individualism and the frontier ideal. We tend to regard the "settlers" and entrepreneurs who founded and built the states west of the Appalacians and south of the Mason-Dixon Line (excluding most of the West Coast) with idealism: these were the men and women who made something out of nothing; these were the men and women who raised our nation; these were the the people who valued independence, diligence, respect, and love; these were the salt of the earth. Yet that unconscious comparison that triggered my sudden, delicious, descent into Country music was the obvious fact that the people of the south apparent conformed to those idealized values with their own lives.

During my residence in the south I was surprised to see how kind, capable, friendly and even happy the general population was. Everywhere I found southerners from toddlers to great-grandparents acting respectful, respectful, sociable, and pleasantly independent (by which I mean they weren't needy). Near as I could make out, this was due to their lack of pretension. They could enjoy their surroundings without concerning themselves with the presence or attitudes of others. It felt overwhelmingly right and comfortable to me--I was in the curious position of feeling the need to be polite and yet also feeling no burden to be a certain person. Perhaps that sounds like a contradiction in terms, but for all that it is no less true. After all, politeness is simply, well, polite, and has very little to do with the values and perspectives that make up a character.

This lifestyle became suddenly much more noticeable by it's absence in San Diego. The cliche states that Southern California is mostly about image and style--and I'm afraid to say that it's both true and quite painfully obvious in the general unfriendliness of people. Often they are downright rude to each other, especially in restaurants and cafes, on the road, or when assuming a horrible condescending attitude toward waiters and retail clerks. Despite the fantastic weather, stunning scenery, and beautiful people, it was harder to stay happy in San Diego than it was in the rural and humid south for the simple reason that I had to deal with Southern Californians.

This is, of course, a very generalized comparison. There certainly are selfish and pretentious people in the south and kind and sociable people who live in Southern California (some of whom I met shortly after moving there, actually). However, based on the overall quality of society in both places, I would choose the South every time. I instinctively feel that it is easier to be a good man in the South than it is in California. There people's lives recall and present the kind of good, principled men and women who founded, developed, and succored our nation. We remember with pride our struggle for independence from England, our difficult settlement of the West, the idealism and honor on both sides of the Civil War, our conduct in both World Wars, our economic and social invincibility during the 1950s, and our victory over the Soviet Union in the 1980s. Our collective national identity values good Americans for the sake of what they have given us. Such Americans are more explicitly remembered and emulated in the South than in California. They are the characters of Country music and their stories form the themes of the genre.

In addition to enshrining our cherished and idealized memories, Country music also exhorts us morally. It is the most visible media in America that generally suggests the right and good are better than success. The values of country music are traditional and unassailable, and include trust, honesty, commitment, freedom, sacrifice within relationships and for one's country, the intrinsic value of family and religion, and romance. Country music encourages these values, teaching us that happiness is not found in more things, or more status, or in hedonism; it is found in love and dedication and self-respect. And perhaps most refreshingly of all, Country music doesn't proselytize directly but expresses itself entertainingly in stories and ballads. Contrary to the opinion I was raised to hold, Country music is certainly not depressing but rather enjoyable and occasionally stirring. Maybe it's increased popularity is an expression of our collective awareness that such values and ideals are, in fact, valuable, and that they are slowly disappearing.

It is a pity that as a society we idolize Southern California so much. The main theme of our mainstream media (Movies, songs, and TV shows) seems to be success--getting the good relationship, getting the good life, and getting the best of others. More artistic media changes things up by lamenting how hard it is to get those things and often pillories an oppressive external agency. By presenting money, success, ideal relationships, and sex as our rights, pop music supports narcissism and indirectly criticizes those who don't have such things; by presenting bitterness and anger as natural responses to one's lack of happiness, pop music encourages it's listeners to be bitter and angry. In an eloquent example of life imitating art, Southern Californians make an uneasy worship to hedonism, selfish ambition, bitterness, and narcissism. This is certainly a nihilistic approach to life--for selfishness is a hunger that can never be fully satisfied and bitterness a vaccine against all true contentment. The greater pity, however, is that so many Americans continue in contempt for perhaps the one segment of society whose majority has actually seen or found happiness.

What I discovered when I moved out of the South was that the simple, undeveloped, often dumpy south nurtured a culture of greater luminence than the "golden" West. And the art of Country music told the parables of Americanism and enshrined the "American" values that choke us up at the sound of "Taps" or stiffen our backs at the sight of Lincoln's Memorial. Such "American" values have carved for us a great place in the world. Inspired by these values, we have throughout our history reached out in solidarity to give our fellow citizens and other nations hope and freedom. These values are the source of our greatness. So I needed them--and especially their expression in Country music--when I encountered the cold and contracted spirit of Southern California. I almost never knew what I was missing.

Christmas Reflections 2008

Christmas has grown in my estimation since I was a child. Like all of my peers, I feasted on the excitement of my parents, the satisfaction of new things to own, and the rather strange and interesting ceremonies involved (from midnight Mass to Christmas dinner the next day). Yet as my cognitive reasoning increased and I began to comprehend the full Christian meaning of the holiday, it became more and more important to me. I think the change had a lot to do with the consistency between the traditions and the religious meaning of Christmas. Celebrating God's incarnation as the fragile baby Jesus vindicates and elevates the Family, with which tradition dictates we must spend the holiday. The very hopelessness of Jesus' redeeming mission (what with our Original sin and all) is reflected in the stirring and improbable Christmas story--a long, mandated journey for a caring man and his young pregnant wife with the childbirth occurring at the most inopportune time. The custom of giving gifts is a joyful symbol of God's great gift to us of his son, as are the gifts of the Magi after Jesus' birth; their own difficult and faith-directed travels are also a further symbol of our own difficult path to find God. It makes rational sense to me, it is inspiring, and it makes me very glad to celebrate.

I don't share many of my Christian contemporaries' view that the Christmas spirit has been prostituted to retailers. Certainly any greed, acquisitiveness, and unnecessary extravagance are bad. But it seems appropriate for people to truly enter into the spirit of gift-giving and gift-receiving, wherein they practice charity by seeking and sacrificing (time, energy, treasure) to make their loved ones happy and practice humility by acknowledging the love of others. These two virtues are not, of course, only expressed in the exchange of gifts--they should be practiced throughout the whole of our holiday traditions, as when hosting or attending parties, decorating houses or places of work, or traveling to visit others. And though many people who celebrate Christmas don't really attach religious significance to the holiday, I am actually quite happy that they join in the spirit of my religious celebration. Naturally I hope that one day all the world accepts the truth that I believe is right, namely that which is held and taught by the Holy Catholic Church, but as that is manifestly not the state of things right now I don't think non-believers should be excluded from the celebration itself. It wouldn't be charitable at all, and certainly the mark of us Christians should be our uncomplicated and all-embracing practice of that virtue. Furthermore (as St. Paul and St. Francis notably observed), all we can do to evangelize, really, is humbly set the example without, if at all possible, making others uncomfortable. So why not celebrate Christmas as best as we know how, and hope that our actions might be a vehicle of God's grace?

Unfortunately, I won't be spending Christmas with my family. I am deployed military at the moment, which means I must stay "in theater," which is far enough away from home to exclude a visit from family. At least I won't be spending the holiday alone--35 of my comrades (among which are some of my closest friends) will be there to share Christmas day with me. Also, I am living comfortably right now in Okinawa, Japan, which enjoys moderate weather and none of the dangers of the Middle East. It is with a twinge of homesickness, however, that I notice nearly all my friends' Facebook pages testify that they are home with their loved ones. Unfortunately, that also means they will have little time to send me messages, which I read eagerly whenever they arrive. But when I begin down this path of self-pity, I am brought up short by the fact that my parents are taking this current separation much harder than I am. It has been their great struggle over the years to forge a tight, happy nuclear family, and as we all get older I know they worry that we are falling apart. There is small comfort to be found anywhere in this situation--after all, the horrible thing about spending Christmas alone is that even God had His family on Christmas. At least on Easter, we celebrate God's singular redemptive act in all it's pain and glory, and we can rejoice alone. But on Christmas we celebrate family, and all the carols and traditions support this. There is little recourse for my parents' loneliness this year, and even less for the men and women who are deployed like me, but in more dangerous places and/or with fewer comrades. I ask you who are reading this to remember these servicemembers and pray for them.

Probably the most wonderful thing about Christmas is that it recognizes the pain and brokenness of our world and yet still manages to celebrate a conquering beauty. The hardships of Joseph and Mary fade in comparison to the arrival of the Christ child, the singing choirs of heaven, and the pilgrimage of shepherds and Magi. The winter, which must have been a season of great suffering and darkness in the long ages before central heating, electric lights, and an abundance of fresh food, is yet marvelously transformed by a new snow and the untouchably clear and starry skies of the extended darkness. The songs of Christmas are more dramatic in darkness, and the presence of others is more satisfying when it helps banish the cold and darkness. And with these beautiful images I must leave you and put on my coat for the short walk home. At this solstice-time Okinawa nights carry a hint of real winter cold, which I enjoy very much. I pray that all of you who read this receive all the blessings this season has to offer, and wish you all a very Merry Christmas. There is no better time or thing to celebrate.

The Magic of WestPac

As time grew short in San Diego last summer, and my squadron's WestPac deployment loomed, it was hard for me to work up much excitement. That I would miss spending the holidays with family and friends, the long list of things to accomplish (related both to my job and my personal life), and the knowledge that I would be leaving my familiar and good life in the states for six months of unknown places and constant movement all weighed heavily on me. In that frame of mind I couldn't truly listen to those who had experienced such a deployment before, all of whom spoke of WestPac with an indefinable longing--for some it seemed like the highlight of their career (which, seeing as how most of them had flown fighter aircraft in direct support of troops in conflict, is saying a lot). Yet nearly three months into the trip I am beginning to understand.

Being abroad as a part of a group of young, capable comrades induces a carefree and deliciously arrogant sensation. Though our personal and professional burdens are heavy and the hours we work long, we are conscious of our collective freedom from the social restraints of home and proudly aware that should war erupt in the Western Pacific we will be the first to enter the fray. Robbed of the traditional cues of passing time (such as holidays and seasons) both by the tropical weather of our deployment locations and by our constant movement from one place to another, we happily find ourselves living mostly in the present--and when we do look to the future, we tend to care more about tomorrow or next weekend than next month or next year.

I could truthfully describe the time we spend here as frustrating, boring, hectic, exciting, and fun. There is an increased workload for us all that stems equally from the constant packing and unpacking of the squadron itself as we move around and from the extra time spent learning how to fly in new, strange locations. Yet for the young guys like me, many additional hours are spent after the normal working day studying for the Section Lead qualification. This is really the first career step for pilots after they arrive in the fleet, and it means (when they achieve it) that they are capable of leading another aircrew in combat, to include any of the many air-to-air and air-to-ground missions of which the F/A-18D is capable. It requires both extensive knowledge and a lot of flight preparation to complete the course of 11 "work-up" flights in which we demonstrate to instructors that we are qualified as a Section Lead, and the techniques they require us use for briefing, conducting, and debriefing such flights are specific and often "written in blood," a half-euphemism we use often to identify those procedures that were developed as a result of some forgotten mishap years ago. Moreover, the criticism of our conduct in these "work-up flights" is accordingly strict, and can last several hours or more while the entirety of our preparation, in-flight decisions, and post-flight debriefing are examined, discussed, and if necessary corrected. Though it makes for long days, we are all grateful for it--this winnowing process makes us harder, leaner aircrew, forces us to develop the necessary habits of safe flying, and trains us to focus our flights on actual combat rather than mere administrative procedures.

Of course, the best part of deployment has more to do with squadron-mates than actual flying. Living together, far from our homes, with no one else to occupy our time, we "relax" by finding things to do together. Often that is having several drinks at any number of O'Clubs and bars in the places we visit. But tourism is also fun, especially when there is the chance of finding something authentically foreign and yet undiscovered (by tourists) in the unfamiliar places we visit. Prompted thus, I have so far enjoyed a unscheduled and unguided bike tour through the compact and industrial city of Iwakuni to see the medieval Kintai Bridge and Iwakuni castle, stopping along they way back to enjoy being the only American in an (apparently) popular sushi restaurant. One weekend morning on Okinawa some comrades spent the morning driving to the island's rural and beautiful northern portion to find a beach with adequate surf, and another evening there we headed into the colorful and cheerfully dilapidated city of Naha to enjoy sushi at the touristy and famous Yoshi's restaurant. More recently I headed into the Outback to climb some waterfalls and dive into the fresh-water pools below at an Australian national park. Some places have yielded better times than others, such as the concrete pavilion behind our barracks at Kadena Airbase, Okinawa. The cookouts and drinking bouts, the songs sung drunkenly--particularly, nostalgically, "Country Roads" by John Denver--together under the stars in the heavy jungle air, the stumbling trips across the street aboard Kadena to pick up more beer all contributed to the most comradely nights of the deployment so far. Likewise the Officer's mess in Australia, scene of mustache competitions and three-man lifts, of cowboy- and 70s-themed parties (which we attended with the most flamboyant and outrageous costumes we could think up), of the creation of drinking songs, and of friendly carousing with RAAF pilots is now also a place invested with good memories.

There is something about the places themselves that is exhilarating--it has roots in their unfamiliarity and exoticism, but is also comes from our collective attitude of wonder and excitment at simply being on WestPac. I've already written of the indefinable pleasure of being catered to in Osan, Korea, and other places have their own intriguing characteristics. Okinawa is distinguished by the bright, Caribbean, almost third-world appearance of Naha city (with laundry hanging from lines strung between concrete apartments), the pockets of dark, noisy jungle squatting undiminished amid the sloppy civilization scattered across the island, and the sunsets riotous with color spreading each evening over a golden ocean horizon. Australia is a place where only Orion and Scorpio familiarly stride the night sky amongst the strange southern stars, where the reddish outback is rendered curiously bright by the slender, undersized trees that provide the vast majority of the scrub, where the large bats (alone of their species) sense the world through their vision and darken the evening sky with their great numbers, and where the thunderstorms are huge, swift, and violent. Many flights my pilot has spent circumnavigating the towering and dark cumulus clouds (whose tops reach higher than our high-performance aircraft can fly), and I have watched from above the dense rainshowers moving across the floor of the Outback and the terrible lightning striking all around my little vessel from cloud to cloud and down to the earth. In the evenings, when storms reach their climax after building all afternoon, I have stood in the entrance to the tunnel leading to our bunker with other squadron members working late, quietly smoking cigarettes and watching the thunderstorms flicker brightly, every couple of seconds, in the darkling sky. One night, watching the storm rage, lightning struck the airfield control tower merely several hundred yards away, causing us all to involutarily jump back and cry out.

There is more to see over the next months of deployment. There will be more nights of drinking and visits to new places in Okinawa, Japan, and Korea. And after that we will be moving ourselves one last time, from Iwakuni back to San Diego. No doubt when the time comes to go home it will be welcome indeed. But for now I am glad that date remains comfortably in the vague future, because despite the increased stress and strain of constant deployment (not least of which is the irritation attendant upon living in close quarters with the same people for an extended period of time) I am enjoying myself much more than I did in San Diego. This is perhaps the best-kept secret of the naval service--this is WestPac.

Christ the King and the Four Last Things

Today is the feast of Christ the King. It is a celebration of a central tenet of Christian faith. Our hope of redemption is in Christ, and our hope for eternal life lies in His Kingship, ordained over the world by its Creator, His Father. There are many things to celebrate about Christ as King. We may in wonder recall His incarnation. We may solemnly remember His great sacrifice for us, the shameful death on the cross. We may rejoice in his triumphant resurrection and the promise that holds for our own future. Or we may consider His inevitable judgment on the Last Day.

Judgment. The role of Christ as the judge of mankind is frightening. We often pray at Mass, “Oh Lord, look not on our sins but on the faith of thy people,” and indeed how much we would have to fear if our God justly considered our sins. For the exhortations to righteousness found in the Old Testament are strict indeed, and moreover the lives of the just are often fraught with adversity. Think of Job, or Daniel. These men were destroyed for their faith and righteousness, and only received in recompense a reward not even fully promised unto humanity until Jesus spoke through the Gospels. Think of the prophets—exiled by their own people for speaking the truth and chastising in the name of the Lord. Think of Moses, whose failure in faith erased all the great work he did at the bidding of God and caused him to be denied entry into the Promised Land.

Jesus exercises judgment in the Gospel that foreshadows the judgment of the Last Day. He tells his disciples he comes to bring fire and the sword. Will we, thinking ourselves pious, be beaten out of the temple by our Lord as the moneychangers were? Will Jesus dismiss us, like the rich young man, for a hesitation to give up our earthly goods (remembering that the rich young man was noted for his diligence in keeping the commandments)? Are we to be found among the five virgins who wait for their Lord with the trimmed lamps, instead of among the five lazy virgins who have no oil? And are we keeping our house in order like the good steward? We belong to the Lord whether we like it or not—He created us for himself, and sustains us with His grace; it is His prerogative to adjudge whether or not we have truly loved Him in our often half-pious, half-kind, and (perhaps) mostly-selfish worldly life. How much worse will he judge if we ignore his commandments?

He clearly communicates these commandments, so we cannot plead ignorance. First, the Ten Commandments were handed to our predecessors, the Israelites, through the prophet Moses. Later, Christ Himself further enunciated their meaning, explaining to the Pharisees that “The first commandment is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your strength, and with all your mind. The second is to love your neighbor as yourself.” Theologians and clergy across all sects of Christianity almost unanimously agree that “your neighbor” refers to all other people, not simply those close to us. It is a provocative statement. How do we love ourselves? indulgently? obsessively? do we “love” ourselves by setting high standards (so-called “tough love”)? Some of us, maybe, do not love ourselves enough. But then how exactly are we to love our neighbor?

Christ provides guidance in the Gospel reading for today’s feast. He previews His final judgment thus:

“[He] said to his disciples: “When the Son of Man comes in his glory…all the nations will be assembled before him. And he will separate them one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will place the sheep on his right and the goats on his left. Then the king will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father… For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me… whatever you did for the least of my brothers you did for me.’ Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you accursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels… what you did not do for the one of these least ones, you did not do for me.’” (Matthew 35:31-46)

Today at Mass, emphasizing Jesus’ role as the King of kings, first among all in justice, we are powerfully reminded that righteousness is properly and merely keeping the commandments. Faith, Hope, and Love are virtues to be sure, and without them, as St. Paul writes, we cannot do anything well. Yet simply having those virtues are not enough. We must do good things. We must love our neighbor, for when we fail to do so and allow ourselves to fall in to selfishness and self-indulgence--whether it takes the form of avarice, lust, spite, or greed--we are inviting damnation. Christ calls us to be vigilant against this temptation: we must gird our loins for our journey, purchasing a rod and a cloak; we must wait up for our Lord, even into the second and third watches of the night; we must keep our lamps trimmed. Only thus will we be ready to meet our King and Lord. For “as gold in the furnace he proved them” (Wisdom 3:4), and “the just man, though he die early, shall be at rest. For the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time, nor can it be measured in terms of years…[it is] an unsullied life” Wisdom 4:7-9).

Today someone close to me died. He was young and promising, and his early death brings to mind these “Last Things:” Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell. I grieve for him, and yet I cannot simply isolate the tragedy to him alone, for that would minimize it. John Donne wrote, “No man is an island, entire to himself… Therefore send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” Accordingly, it is important that my comrade’s life and death leave a small legacy in my own soul: his death occurring on the terrifying feast of Christ the King reminds me that I live at the pleasure of God and His providence, and that His coming judgment of me is inevitable.

How much more important now is the impending season of Advent, when I will join with fellow Christians to wait and prepare for the final coming of our Lord as the Israelites waited for His first coming. As I put my spiritual and earthly life in order this year perhaps I will better remember the Last Things and Christ’s imperative to righteousness.

First Impressions of the "Land Down Under"

During the month of November 2008 the Green Knights of VMFA(AW)-121 (my squadron) support Aces North, a war exercise with the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF), flying out of Tindal Air Base in the Northern Territory of Australia. On the fifth of the month we began our transit down, stopping the night in Guam and then proceeding to our destination. My own trip down under was little disappointing because instead of flying in the backseat of a Hornet, I rode in the passenger cabin of the tanker. While it was interesting to see refueling from the tanker’s perspective, and the seats were much more comfortable than a Hornet cockpit, I would have liked to see Indonesia and Papua New Guinea pass by the canopy, and to have flown myself in country (in a manner of speaking). However, it was significant for two reasons: first, I crossed the Equator for the first time; second, I got to spend a night in Darwin.

Darwin is on the northern coast of Australia; Tindal is about 300 km (115 miles) inland to the south. The tanker I rode carried most of our squadron’s gear, and had to stop at the port city so our pack-up could be inspected by AQIS, the Australian Quarantine Inspection Service. Everything was opened up and sprayed with pesticide; the inspectors checked for any organic material like wood, tobacco, food of any kind, dirt, and so on. We had been forewarned of the inspection, so we had made sure our stuff was clean and it passed though the inspection quickly. Since the road to Tindal is poor and not very well lit, we decided not to try to negotiate it that night and found billeting aboard the RAAF airbase at Darwin in preparation to drive to Tindal the next morning.

Our accommodations were terrible—closet-sized rooms with two bunk beds, two wall-lockers, one electric socket, and an air conditioner that would only work if the room key was plugged into the face of the unit. There were the bathroom area was a separate building, as was the "common room" which had a single television, drinking fountain, and wireless internet available for $8.00 an hour (Australian). I did get to watch Australian news coverage on the U.S. Presidential election, which was amazingly detailed (and optimistic!) for a foreign news organ. I already knew the results by the time I arrived at my lodging, however, as the AQIS inspectors told us the result of the election when we landed. It seems indeed like the rest of the world thinks our elections a pretty big deal. Due to the lodgings and the suffocating post-election obsession of the news, I was not eager to spend too much time on base. So, shortly after "settling" in, three of my comrades and I took a rented vehicle into downtown Darwin to see the sights.

Darwin has something of a legendary status among American servicemembers. Apparently the locals are quite friendly (in every interpretation of that word) to Americans in general and the city offers enough nightlife and sight-seeing to keep tourists interested. As it is only 12 degrees south of the Equator, it is also very tropical. I was astonished by the many kinds and many colors of foliage around the base and city area. Also, much of the base is built on stilts to account for the flooding that typically occurs during the rainy season. Mindful of the early wake-up in the morning, the four of us settled for a quiet dinner--I enjoyed some savory kangaroo meat, which tasted a bit like steak and a bit like lamb--and a few beers before heading home. Our waitress was also a foreigner to Australia, having emigrated from Scotland, and explained that many Darwin inhabitants are transplants who encounter the city on a vacation or hear about it from friends and decide to move there; essentially, it's Australia's version of San Diego (though it is quite a bit smaller). The most striking thing about our first look at Australia was the fact that aside from the funny accents and the driving on the left side of the road, it seems just like America. The people especially look and act like Americans--and I don't mean that in a pejorative way.

The next day we took the (bad) road into Tindal. It took several hours, and once out of Darwin it proceed roughly straight south through the Outback. The land is flat, reddish, and bare except for short trees with bright green foliage that seem to grow no taller than 12-15 feet in height. Overhead stretches the biggest, clearest sky I have ever seen—clear blue scattered with brilliant white clouds. The temperature climbs through 100 degrees by nine in the morning, and sunlight feels scorching on bare skin. It is amazing: a bit like El Centro; a bit like Eastern Washington; but hotter and palpably more remote than either. In the late afternoon, the heat produces towering cumulous clouds that make sunsets a riot of color. At night, the temperature stays well above 90 degrees, and the constellations are foreign and confusing. I have not yet indentified the Southern Cross; apparently in this month it is very close to the horizon. But that is one of my sightseeing priorities around here.

RAAF Tindal lies southeast of Katharine, Australia, a small town of about 10,000 people. It isn’t a very exciting social scene off base, but the Australian squadrons present for Aces North have so far been very friendly and welcoming. The base facilities are pretty nice—for example, the Officer’s Mess here is much better than a chow hall. Rather than cafeteria-style dining, we order from a menu that usually includes three to four options. The food is excellent and there is always fresh fruit and salad available. The living area is a little more Spartan. We live two to a room in prefabricated housing with a shared bathroom and common room. I was surprised to note that the SINGLE bathroom area contains no urinals and the stalls are all partitioned off by full-length doors. This is because there is no separate facility for males and females (which is apparently standard for the Australian military… when in Rome, and all that), so the male aircrew will share toilets and showers with our three female aircrew. Fortunately, and perhaps unsurpisingly, this has not been an issue - so far everyone has enough common sense and professionalism to spend all their time outside the stalls clothed.

Speaking of bathrooms, I had an odd experience with our bathroom in our classfied, "operations" bunker. Our squadron spaces are divided between two bunkers which are buried, and like our living spaces they have co-ed toilets. The first day I was there, I went to use that facility, and after I was finished I realized that there was a frog at the bottom of the bowl staring up at me. He was about the size of my fist and a very bright green. It was very startling and not quite welcome, as he hadn't been there when I first entered the stall. However, I gather that it isn't all that rare to find animals in the sewage system--apparently the residents of certain areas of base are warned of snakes coming into the toilets (this is especially disturbing considering that the twelve most deadly snakes in the world are indigenous to Australia). And there is certainly an abundance of other, less dangerous wildlife on base: the resident squadron's mascot is the ubiquitous magpie; there are trees filled with thousands of bats the size of small cats (no rhyme intended), looking like large unhealthy fruits in the daylight; and the mini-kangaroos called wallabies congregate on the base parade ground during twilight hours.

Despite the exotic nature of our environment, probably the biggest challenge of this deployment is the flight schedule. The first “go” briefs at 0100 (1:00 AM) for a 0300 takeoff, the second “go” briefs at 0600 for a 0830 takeoff. This kind of schedule makes for some odd hours: aircrew flying the first “go” will go to bed at 1300 (one in the afternoon) for a 2300 wakeup (11:00 AM). The missions look to be very tactical, however, as Aces North is the graduation exercise for the RAAF Weapons School (think Top Gun), and we should get some really good training and experience out of it. There is no doubt that it will be a lot of work, and hopefully we’ll have some time to do some sightseeing as well.