MEET YOUR SON (Part 6-final)

Certain moments in life change you forever, you can’t and won’t forget.  My wife and I would have two more healthy sons over the next four years; thankfully she would never have to go through it alone again (though I’m not sure I was ever much help), as I would be home and in the delivery room for both births.  Each one of those experiences were different and unique and had their own special moments of emotion, wonder, and meaning for me.  The experience of childbirth is much better in person, and also more overwhelming.  But hearing that squawky baby’s voice over a satellite phone line from over 10,000 miles away as I watched the time counter hit zero is something I’ll never forget.  I had experienced what it was like to become a father.  Long distance, but now I knew. 

The small island of Diego Garcia could scarcely contain the celebration--I believe it was sheer good fortune that there wasn’t some kind of law enforcement involvement.  We returned to the ship the next day as planned. 

In April, the ship began the long journey eastward--with stops along the way scheduled in Australia and the Philippines.  Returning homeward during the last month of a deployment, the focus shifts from being ready for anything that might come up, to a more subdued, cautious approach.  Pilot currency is maintained ‘just in case’ something flares up in any given world hotspot, but often entire fly days are cancelled as the ship is forced to keep a steaming schedule, and prevailing winds would force the carrier to turn westward for flight ops, delaying the trek home.  The last portcall before heading home, the ship and squadrons will send its ‘early detachment’ folks back via airlift--personnel with impending orders changes and moves, to get home early and set up the homecoming.  

About two days prior to getting to the Philippines, the duty officer said the CO, Meatball, wanted to see me in the Ready Room early on a no-fly day.  A Junior Officer out of the rack before noon on a no-fly day is a rarity to begin with, so I quickly shaved over the protests of my sleepy roommates, got into a uniform, and went to see what was up.  

Meatball greeted me with a smile: “You want to go home early?”  Ah, surely a trick question.  Often to break up the monotony of the return from deployment, pranks, tricks and practical jokes are common--even from the CO.  Before I could answer, he said, “We don’t usually consider first-cruise nuggets for the early det--but with the new baby and all, and not much flying between now and the end, we think you’re the right guy to leave from P.I. and set up the beach det.”  Skipper, are you kidding?  I was floored--another unexpected human act of kindness and generosity from the CO. 

Commanding Officer of the squadron, Meatball was a true character--and despite his hopeless sense of social decorum, he showed me two remarkable acts of kindness my first cruise.  We are throwing paper wads at him and his pilot in a ritual known as the 'Arena.'  Meatball on the right in this photo.

The next two days onboard were a blur--packing and leaving some kind of passdown for those who would temporarily take my ‘ground job’ responsibilities.  

We pulled in Subic Bay, the day before an early morning C-5 flight from Cubi Point to Hickam AFB in Honolulu, change crews, then on to Travis AFB near San Francisco.  I would be home in a little over 18 hours once the flight started.  I had thought I would stay on the ship that night in port and quietly make my way to the terminal the next AM.  My squadronmates had other plans.  Liberty call, liberty call, Olongapo City.  

Streets of Olongapo not far from the Naval Base. 

Inside view of the famous and infamous Cubi Point O'Club.  Aviators who have been there know the power of the Thermonuclear Cubi Special tropical cocktail.  I am not sure how many I had that night, but it was several more than necessary.

I scarcely remember that night, or how I got to the terminal.  It certainly wasn’t through my sense of what time it is was.  I do remember Meatball telling one of my JO mentors, ‘Peachy,’ “You’d better make sure he makes the airlift, or it’ll be your ass, because I’ll get an earful from the wives’ club.”  At show-time for the airlift, Peachy handed or poured me over to the C-5 crew; I vaguely was aware of him helping me sit down in the passenger area of the cabin, next to a window.  I fell asleep (or more likely passed out) shortly thereafter, expecting to see palm trees and Hawaiian sands in a few hours.

C-5 Galaxy, similar to what took me home...at least part of the way.

Inside a C-5.

I awoke abruptly when the wheels touched down, completely disoriented for several seconds.  Where am I?  Oh yeah, C-5!  Airlift, going home.  The excitement rose quickly despite my pounding headache, and I rubbed my eyes to look out the window.  What I saw gave my heart a cold jolt.

What I expected to see out the window...

I expected palm trees; my disbelieving eyes were seeing snow-covered mountains.  I looked around, confused, bewildered, close to panic--did Peachy put me on the wrong airlift?  How is that possible?  

...and what I actually saw out the window, with less snow on the ground.

I asked the Sailor sitting next to me where we were; he answered “Osan, Korea.”  Osan?  Korea?  He saw my confusion, and offered, “You were asleep the whole time--must not have heard the announcement shortly after takeoff the flight was being diverted to medevac an injured servicemember to Alaska.”  Alaska?  A crewmember heard the conversation, and confirmed--there would be a crew picked up here in Korea, so after stopping in Alaska for the medevac, the C-5 would continue to Travis AFB near San Francisco, as planned, with the new crew.

Whew.   Secure from panic drill.

After a couple of hours on the ground, we were in the air again.  But now, I couldn’t sleep; my head still hurt fiercely (damn Cubi specials) and I was still residually traumatized from waking up in Korea, unexpectedly.  Time went by at a torturously slow pace for that 10-hour flight.

Elmendorf AFB, Anchorage, Alaska.  

When the aircraft finally landed at Elmendorf AFB, in Alaska, I felt a little better--at least I was in the US.  That optimism was soon crushed by an announcement we all needed to deplane for a maintenance issue with the tires; cargo would need to be unloaded as well.  As we were waiting alongside the aircraft for our bags, one of the co-pilots came up and said, “Bad news--the aircraft broke an axle on landing.  This jet’s not going anywhere.  You folks can hurry over to the air terminal to find out how to re-route your flight.”  

My bag came out of the cargo hold almost last--I watched the throng of folks starting to run toward the terminal, who would all be ahead of me in any line for any flight to California.  I looked down, exhausted, numb.  The co-pilot who had broken the bad news saw my lack of motivation and said, “what, not in a hurry to get home?”  I looked up, not smiling at his attempt to make small talk.  “No, I’m in a hurry alright--I’m trying to get home from deployment to see my newborn son.”  His demeanor changed immediately.  “Well, Lieutenant, I sure am sorry about this.”  He looked across the apron at a C-141, already loaded and getting ready to start, being preflighted by the crew.  He paused for a minute, then said, “All those folks running to terminal will find it’s too late to get on that flight right there.  That flight is headed to Travis AFB in a fe minutes--but if you walk over and tell the crew your story, you might get lucky.”  I thanked him and hit a full sprint to the C-141.  

C-141 Stratolifter--the next step on the way home.

The crew was doing a walk around and stopped when they heard the sound of flapping feet headed in their direction; between breaths I told my story, and how the C-5 had just broken down.  The crew chief smiled and said, “Lieutenant, just so happens we’ve got room for one more.  We’ll just need to add you to the manifest.”  

The C-141 flight was also sleepless.  By the time the jet landed in Travis AFB near San Francisco, I was over 24 hours into the evolution, having slept for only about four hours on the first leg of the flight; between the jolt of Korea, the big night in Olongapo hangover, and the coffee throughout the day, there would be no sleep the rest of the way.  Once in Travis, I felt energized for a bit--on California soil.  I felt close, and felt like I could walk the rest of the way if I needed to. 

Travis AFB, near San Francisco-Oakland area

From Travis, there was no flight to San Diego; I contemplated calling a cab to take me to the civilian airport and buying a plane ticket.  As I was asking whether there were any ground shuttles to the airport, an airman at the desk told me ‘not tonight--but there’s one to Naval Air Station Alameda.‘  It was already late at night, so likely there would be no civilian flights available until the morning; and Alameda was near Oakland, on the way to San Francisco International from Travis.  And, there just might be a Navy space-‘A’ flight to San Diego.  I was in.

NAS Alameda.  The beginning of the last leg.

The shuttle ran a group of about a half a dozen travelers to Alameda; when I got to the air terminal after midnight, I was exhausted, and needed sleep, a shave, and a shower--badly.  Being in the same uniform through nine time zones and a dateline crossing while sweating out an international hangover, a sprint across the apron at Elmendorf with a seabag, and the standard discomforts of military airlift flights--I had the sense if I stood next to a goat, I thought it was highly likely the goat would smell better than I did at that point.  But upon checking into the terminal, the watchstander told me there was a Navy C-12 headed for NAS North Island at first light--right in the heart of San Diego.  I elected to wait it out in the terminal, and went off to find some yummy vending machine coffee.

This goat would have been more pleasant to sit next to than me,
by the time I was in the Continental US.

Torturous hours finally led to the early morning light; when the day watchsection came in, I asked about manifesting on the C-12.  The Sailor said the flight was on their schedule, but wasn’t taking any passengers; it had been a training hop for one of the pilots.  I asked if I could speak with the mission commander when the crew came in.  About an hour later the two pilots showed up; I told them who I was (Navy F-14 pilot returning from cruise early to see my newborn son), made the argument that as a winged Naval Aviator, I was qualified to ride with them on a training flight as an observer.  The Lieutenant Commander agreed to let me hop on for the final leg home.  

The C-12 might just be the most uncomfortable Navy aircraft to fly in; poor air conditioning, slow and low-flying, loud, vibrating, and this one had seen a lot of mileage, and needed TLC on the inside.  I eagerly hopped in.    

During that two-hour flight, I reflected on the journey, and the strange twists and turns it had taken, the against-the-odds breaks, the emotional highs and lows along the way.  It might have been the sleep deprivation, but I started to sense some parallels between that journey home, and my journey to fatherhood.  Strange twists and turns.  Disappointments and unexpected elation.  Against-the-odds occurrences.  All culminating in a meeting that I had been moving toward for well over the last 36 hours.     

San Diego was clear, sunny, and beautiful.  I was home.  The C-12 pulled up and stopped at the terminal; I felt the raw emotions rising within me, hurried along by the exhaustion.  I was out of the aircraft; with bag over my shoulder, I walked toward a familiar crowd of people.  There was my wife...and there was my boy.  

It doesn't look like I'm having trouble here, but I was nearly overcome with emotion as I walked up to my family.

I felt elated, and overwhelmed; my sight became blurred, and I needed to take my time to keep on the edge of composure.  As I walked up, my beautiful wife came towards me; she smiled, and said simply:

‘Meet your son.’

"Meet your son."

With that, I became a completely quivering mass for several seconds.  It was all I could do to hug them and hold on, for what seemed like forever.  She handed me that squawking bundle; and in that moment, I truly became a father.  After that long journey from the bitter wreckage of a former life, through Sadie Hawkins' Day and Nostradamus, a shotgun wedding and a 10,000 mile phonecall from an island shaped like a footprint, to that moment on the tarmac outside of NAS North Island Base Ops, I became whole again.  I was finally home.  

23 years later, I still am.

First time holding my boy....

Finally knowing what it meant to feel like a dad... 

...and finally home.

MEET YOUR SON (Part 5)

I flew off in the back seat of an S-3 making a mail/parts run, piloted by a good friend of mine from flight school.  We launched early in the morning; by 1400, I was on the island, headed for a telephone.  The base had a trailer in which commercial satellite phones were set up.  The phones were like ordinary payphones, but operated with a credit card-like key; you bought increments of time from a nearby office, loaded onto the key, plugged it in, dialed a country code, and the phone number.  A little red numerical display on the phone counted down the minutes.  Satellite phones were a rarity then and expensive; a ten-minute block of time cost $100.  Though the phone trailer was open 24/7, the office to purchase time for the key cards was an 8-4 operation.

Satellite phone similar to those in the MWR trailer.  I was staring at the little red numbers in the display as the time counted down.

I bought a ten-minute card and called San Diego.  It was about 0300 there.  As I dialed, I thought it likely that the birth had already happened; I would just be catching up to the news, news delayed by the difficulties of getting word to the ship.  And besides, she would have her hands full with a newborn, explaining the delay.  The ringing phone was answered, to my surprise, not by my wife’s voice, but by her birth coach’s.  At 3 AM.  “Paul?  Oh my gosh, we’re on the way to the hospital--she’s going into labor RIGHT NOW!”  I nearly fell off the bench.  The coach held the phone to my wife’s ear, we spoke briefly.  She was in mid-contraction, which I’m told is not much fun.  A couple brief ‘I love you’s,’ and she was reduced to panting “Hee-Hoo-Hee-Hoo-Hee-Hoo,” at ten bucks a minute.

Going into labor.  Coaches and good friends were there at 3AM to take my bride to the hospital, and stay with her through delivery.  Navy families pull together in times of need  (though the wonderful friend pictured here was my wife's old roommate, and maid of honor at our wedding).

I spoke to her coach again briefly; she agreed she would talk to the hospital and tell them I would be phoning from overseas, so they would release information/progress about the labor to me over the phone, when I checked back later.  They had to go, now. 

As I hung up, I did some math.  A mother’s first pregnancy; we had been told to expect a long labor, and the figure, ’20 hours’ stuck in my head.  I looked at the clock--a little after 1500.  That meant around 1100 the next morning would be the heart of the envelope.   With the seven minutes I had left on the card, I would call back  to the hospital before going to bed to check in; I would expect to hear the final news the next morning, as we were preparing to get to the airfield for the flight back to the ship.  If I needed to get a second card in the morning, the office would open up at 0800.  Perfect.  

Now what?  Well...O’Club.

  

On back deck of Diego Garcia O'Club during a port call a few weeks prior to the birth.

It the days before routine deployment of carriers into the Arabian Gulf, Diego Garcia was the way-station for folks flowing to and from the Carrier Battle Groups in the IO.  On any given day there were a couple dozen personnel coming and going; transferring to or from the ships and squadrons in the Group, or technical experts sent to fix stubborn systems, or occasionally, official visitors on some important errand.  When they discovered they were seated next to a Sailor off the ship awaiting news about the birth of a child, they were very generous.  I couldn’t buy a drink.  By the time the club closed down at 2300, I may have been slightly overserved.  But...I was clear-headed enough to know I needed to stop by the phone trailer and see how it was going.

The first time I dialed the hospital and explained who I was and why I was calling, I was put on hold.  Click, six minutes left.  Click, five minutes.  I hung up and re-dialed.  Different operator, but this time she seemed to know who I was; it sounded like she said she’d connect me right away.  Well, that’s odd.  The phone began ringing, and I thought there must be a mistake--I was just looking for the operator to pass me info.  I hung up, and dialed again.  Click, four minutes.  Same operator, recognizing my now-irritated voice, and said she she’d put me right through to the delivery room, they were waiting for my call.  While my bourbon-addled brain was trying to make sense of that, a short ring, followed by the voice of the birth coach.  “Paul?  Oh my god, the baby is coming RIGHT NOW!”  

What?  In the background the sound of a mother working hard in childbirth, the sounds of doctors and nurses and coaches exhorting her to push! push! and the ‘Hee-Hoo-Hee-Hoo’ of her breathing in between the contractions and pushing and grunting and yelling.  Next the phone, held up to her ear--my gosh, if this doesn’t top all those heart-wrenching AT&T commercials about calling loved ones back at home, I don’t know will.  ‘I-love-you’s’, ‘I-miss-you’s’, and ‘wish-we-were-together-for-this’s,’ and Click, three minutes left.  The doctor was saying the baby had crowned, he could see the head, ‘one more big push to go,’ and she was at it again. Click, two minutes.

Now, we didn’t know whether the baby was a boy or girl during the pregnancy.  My mind raced ahead a bit--this was close, but I thought maybe it would be best to stop this call with a little bit of time left, and call back after a few minutes, so I would know, son or daughter, and we could talk after the birth was over. Focus.  Explain this fast and efficiently.  “Honey?  I’m calling from a satellite phone,” I started; "there’s less than two minutes left on the card, and the office doesn’t open back up until the morning...”

My wife misunderstood my intent--not sure why, as it’s not like she was focused on something else more important at the moment.  But she thought I telling her to hurry up, that I was giving her a two-minute deadline.  “HONEY,” in an exasperated voice from someone who is at the limit of her ability to make any sort of accommodation about anything, “I AM PUSHING AS HARD AS I CAN!” 

I laughed, and straightened out what I meant to say in a few words, and hung up.  

New arrival, a few minutes after I had been on the phone, listening from over 10,000 miles away.

When I called back about 15 minutes later, a lot of news passed in the two minutes left.  I was a father of a healthy son, who I could hear protesting noisily from time to time in the background as the nurses fussed over him, subjecting him to all the obligatory ‘welcome to the outside world’ indignities. 

My good friend Tyler, visiting in the hospital the next day.  He was the Michigander responsible for me meeting my lovely bride.

Certain moments in life change you forever, you can’t and won’t forget.  My wife and I would have two more healthy sons...

New dad in stateroom aboard ship, upon receiving the first photo of the new arrival in the mail, several days after the phonecall.

MEET YOUR SON (Part 4)

As deployment approached, we made the best of knowing we would be apart for the birth.  Several squadron spouses rallied around the newest Navy Wife in the squadron; one would act as Kelly Ann’s coach through the process.  We owe them all thanks we’ll never be able to adequately express; but as I’ve spent time in seven squadron tours since that one, it’s almost always the same.  Hardship of service and burdens of separation are eased by those sharing the same experience.  

Just prior to deployment

Leaving for cruise, flying-on

Communications were challenging in the late 80‘s between Sailors on deployment and their families.  The primary method was the same as in the 40’s--letters via the US Mail.  No ‘Sailor-phones’ on the hangar bay, no email, no Skype, no Facebook, no internet at all (didn’t exist yet, at least not to the general public).  Letter mail, chasing your ship around the globe, subject to any of a myriad of delays and hazards.  Savvy cruise veterans and their families would number the letters on the outside of the envelope--that way you would know which letter to start with when they caught up in bunches, or it if they arrived out of order, or if you missed one.  In the event of urgent matters you could pay for a telegram-like message called a ‘Class Easy‘ message--a few words, sent via satellite comms via the ship’s Communication Center.  I recall the limit being about 15 words, and there was no assumption of privacy.  We planned that she would communicate through the Red Cross message system at the hospital when she went into labor, and delivered; we would use the Class Easy for any other significant development.

Pile of US Mail; mailbox onboard ship

That first cruise was busy, exciting, challenging, and at times, a little overwhelming.  I worked hard to learn the business of Naval Aviation; I thought often of my bride back at home, and our child, on the way.  In general I think I balanced the emotions as well as can be expected.  Aviators are taught early on they have to find a way to ‘compartmentalize,’ a technique to put all emotions and concerns into a mental ‘box,’ taking them out later, after the flight, or after the task at hand, is complete.  

How we spent our Christmases apart, 1988

As the due date approached, the carrier was in the Indian Ocean.  I felt I was compartmentalizing pretty well, at least at first.  The due date came...and went.  I stayed busy, flying every day for a few days, sometimes twice--I knew it was not unusual for first children to be late, no big deal.  Two days late turned into four days late, then into six.  Still nothing.  The compartmentalization during the day began to be a problem at night--I would lay in my bunk at night for increasingly longer hours, taking the emotions and concerns out of the box, until I found I couldn’t sleep at all.  I wasn’t necessarily scared; it was as much the excitement and anticipation of being a parent.  Was it a girl or a boy?  Would he/she grow tall and true?  What would life hold for him/her?  Would I be a good father?  How soon could I teach him/her to throw a football?  Was my wife in labor that very minute?  Was she okay?  Why wasn’t I there, again?

After a few more near-sleepless days, as six turned into nine days late, I knew I had no business flying.  I was a chocolate mess.  I went to the Ready Room, found the Ops O, and told him what was going on.  He asked if I had heard anything at all from home, if I was worried; I said no, and no, I just couldn’t sleep.  The Ops O told the Skipper, as was his duty.  The Skipper was a short, squat, swarthy Naval Flight Officer of Sicilian descent, his callsign was ‘Meatball.‘  Meatball was just about as politically incorrect as they came back then--he would be downright shocking to people today.  He rolled his eyes when he heard, spat out some expletives about how the FNGs (‘FNGs’ stood for “F***ing New Guys,” a term of endearment for new aviators) were a bunch of pansies (he may have used a different word) these days, who couldn’t take it.  He sneered with great disdain, and walked out of the Ready Room.  I felt about an inch tall.  The Ops O told me not to worry about it, I did the right thing by taking myself off the schedule.  I went to bed at noon and overcome by exhaustion, finally slept-- for about 16 straight hours.  

I woke up the next morning, felt great.  Looked at the flight schedule, slid under the door during the night, found myself on the schedule for a low-stress day CAP hop as a single.  I bounded down to the Ready Room.  No Red Cross message, no Class Easy telegram--oh well, put that topic back into the box.  Quick brief, just enough time for a quick bite, and off we went.  It was good to be airborne--small puffy clouds like cotton balls all around the bright blue sky in the warm Indian Ocean air.  After the flight, debrief, and paperwork, still no word from home--but Skipper was there in the Ready Room, and wanted to talk to me.

I wasn’t the news I expected.  “I talked to CAG--we’re going to fly you off the ship to ‘D-Gar’ to make a phone call home and make sure everything is alright.”  I was shocked at this unexpected act of kindness by my CO.  He must’ve sensed it too.  Before I could manage thanks, he added, “You’re pretty much worthless to us here, anyway, in the shape you’re in...”.  Well, okay, at least I knew where I still stood. 

Island of Diego Garcia, British Indian Ocean Territory.  The air station is located on the northwest segment of the coral atoll. 

In the days before DESERT SHIELD/STORM, a typical Pacific fleet deployment stayed in the Western Pacific (WESTPAC) and Indian Ocean (IO), with short forays into the North Arabian Sea, south of Pakistan, east of Oman, always outside the Arabian Gulf (DESERT SHIELD changed everything).  My first deployment included port visits to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii; Subic Bay, Philippines; Hong Kong; Pattaya Beach, Thailand; Singapore; Perth, Australia; Karachi, Pakistan; and the island of Diego Garcia, or ‘D-Gar’, in the Indian Ocean.

In my mind Diego Garcia is akin to Gilligan’s Island.  It’s a perfect little tropical island paradise, but a long way from anywhere, and easily overlooked.  Only 14 miles long, this footprint-shaped coral atoll is a few hundred miles south of the equator, just about on the opposite side of the world from San Diego, CA.  Through the miracle of today’s internet, about 10,500 miles away.  Part of the British Indian Ocean Territory, Diego Garcia was discovered by Portuguese or Spanish explorers (there’s debate) in the 1500’s.  In the 1600 and 1700‘s, French traders and slaveships moving between India, Southeast Asia, and Madagascar used it as a way station to strand lepers, and eventually the French established a small coconut plantation using slave labor.  After losing the Napoleonic Wars, the French ceded Diego Garcia to the British Empire in 1814.  Its natural lagoon served as an Allied seaplane base during WWII, patrolling against Japanese and German submarines and ships; there is still wreckage of a PBY Catalina on the island today (there was in the late 80‘s at least) from that time.  In the 70‘s, the US government entered into a leasing/basing agreement, and today operates a port facility and military air base on the island.  Why would I care about this seemingly insignificant speck on the map, in the middle of nowhere, on the other side of the world?  This is the place I flew off the ship to, to make my phonecall; I was standing on this place when I finally experienced what it was like to become a father. 

I flew off in the back seat of an S-3... 

MEET YOUR SON (Part 3)

In the days and weeks that followed, we talked about 'when.'  Despite my ‘leap of faith’ on leap year day, I was a little apprehensive about setting a date.  In March I reported to my first fleet squadron.  In the back of my mind, I wanted to wait until after our first deployment together as a couple to plan the wedding.  A six-month deployment seemed daunting at the time--it was a big unknown for me, and there were many voices advising me to wait until after deployment, to make sure it was right.  That advice seemed like good sense to me, and calmed the angst I was feeling from residual past bitterness.  I’m not sure I ever said this to my intended, though...it seems simple and logical now that I should have just told her, but I think I feared hurting her by making her think I didn’t trust her.  She was fine--it was the past I didn't trust. 


I got busy in the new squadron right away.  In April I would go to my new home-at-sea, USS CONSTELLATION, two separate times; as the newest pilot in the squadron, the Commanding Officer wanted to be sure I got as much practice at landing and operating around the ship as I could get.  My reputation was I was not a ‘natural‘ pilot--I had to work hard at the craft, learning through multiple repetitions--what’s known in the industry as being a ‘plumber.’  


The squadron went on a detachment to El Centro, CA, in May and June.  El Centro was a smaller Naval Air Facility (as opposed to Air Station) located east of the Laguna Mountains in the Imperial Valley of the Colorado Desert, about 30 miles south of the Salton Sea, about a two-hour drive from San Diego.  It is ideal for aviation because of its predominantly sunny weather, superb training facilities, and proximity to southern California and Arizona weapons and training ranges--fantastic stretches of mostly unpopulated land where noisy jets can do their business without bothering many people.

A-4 SKYHAWK near the front entrance to NAF El Centro, CA.  It looks like desert, because, well, it is desert.

NAF El Centro from the air looking south.  Don't be fooled by the green fields--the miracle of irrigation.  It's desert. 

It just so happened that the month of May 1988 was mentioned in a 1981 film called ‘The Man Who Saw Tomorrow.’  The film stated that medieval sage Nostradamus had predicted a major earthquake that would devastate "the new city" one May when certain planets and stars moved into a precise alignment.  "Fire from the center of the earth, the great Earthquake shall be in the month of May..." is the way it was presented in the movie; the passage from Nostradamus’ book Prophecies is alleged to read,  “...a very mighty trembling in the month of May...”. 

Poster from, "The Man Who Saw Tomorrow."  Never saw it, but  it  had a significant impact on my life.

Californians in general are a little off-balance from the rest of the country; nothing like a movie based loosely on 400-year old prediction about cataclysmic earthquakes to bring all the crazies into full bloom.  Despite her solid Midwestern roots, my bride-to-be got caught up in the nonsense.  I knew it was serious when she matter-of-factly described the ‘mass death, mass destruction’ that was coming, to a friend one day.   As the May detachment approached and the lunacy reached a frothing crescendo, she didn’t want to be left alone to endure whatever might happen while I went to the desert.  It may have been irrational, but she was legitimately worried about it.


I took a deep breath...and she took some vacation time from work and came ‘over the hill’ to meet me.  I endured no small amount of grief from my squadron mates--most of it justified--but she felt reassured and safer, and when the week came and went with no armageddon, she went back over the hill.  I finished the detachment and flew back home with the squadron a couple of days later.  Turns out there had been an alignment, of sorts, and a ‘very mighty trembling’ which did occur during that detachment...just not quite what Nostradamus had predicted.  On the next detachment in July in Fallon, NV, I got a phone call...Kelly Ann was expecting our first child.  

At that moment, everything changed for me.  Inexplicably, all the doubts and reservations, all my fears and concerns about the past, about commitment and marriage, simply vanished. Vanished as if never there.


We set about arranging a short notice wedding.  I would get home after the first weekend in August; after a week, we were scheduled to begin field carrier landing practice FCLP, or ‘bouncing,’ repetitive landing practice at the field to a lighted box on the runway the size of an aircraft carrier landing area, in preparation for the last major at-sea period before deployment.  It was a narrow window, but after some quick phonecalls and a visit with the Air Wing Chaplain (one of the best I have ever known--thanks again, Larry), the date was set for 14 August--the Sunday after Tomcat Ball.

Tomcat Ball was the F-14 community’s annual formal awards dinner.  It would take a whole story to explain the gravity of this event in the 80‘s: dinner dress uniforms and formal gowns; community camaraderie and fellowship mixed with intense squadron rivalries and one-upmanship; trophies for the ‘best’ and trophies for the most spirited; poignant remembrance of those lost, combined with good humor and no small amount of unapologetic drunken hijinks and chicanery; dignified presentations interrupted by sporadic outbursts of thrown dinner rolls.  

On the night of Tomcat Ball, 1987.  Not my car, but convenient backdrop.

We expected the wedding ceremony to be sparsely attended because it would fall the morning after the biggest night of the year for the Tomcat community; we booked the small chapel for that reason.  I got my first real glimpse of the true ‘family’ nature of a squadron that Sunday; despite the number of people with clinical hangovers who had better things to do, the chapel was packed to the rafters, standing room only.  Every member of the Ready Room was there, some wobblier than others, but they were there.  Every single one.  I was genuinely touched. 

Small chapel at NAS Miramar, booked because we thought most folks wouldn't come.  Standing Room Only.  I learned that day the squadron is like your family.

Wedding day.  Despite my hesitation leading up to this day, it is without a doubt the best thing that has ever happened or will ever happen to me in my life.

The fathers of both bride and groom got lost on the way to the chapel and delaying the start, but aside from that, the wedding was perfect.  Perfect day, perfect setting; the reception would be a barbeque held in the courtyard of my apartment building on the boardwalk in Mission Beach.  It couldn’t have been better.  

Reception at our first apartment on the boardwalk in Mission Beach.   It was a matter of convenience because of the short notice wedding; I can't imagine a better place to have held it.  Low stress.

But I was needed back at work the next day, and on the flight schedule by Tuesday: ‘bouncing’ to get ready for the challenge of the next at-sea period, the last work-up before deployment, nearly two months long.   Honeymoon, delayed.  And as it worked out, it would be nearly seven years, three deployments, three sets of orders, and two children, later, when my wife and I had time for a real honeymoon, in Hawaii, after we had already been stationed there for a tour.  Life is unpredictable, and sometimes won’t yield to your plans.

In the minutes after my bride had phoned me in Fallon with the news that she was expecting, I did the math.  In about thirty nine weeks from my personal interpretation of Nostradamus’ ‘mighty trembling,’ it would be around the end of January--just about in the middle of a six month deployment that would start right after Thanksgiving.

Service in uniform implies many things; among them is missing key events in your family members’ lives--birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, weddings, funerals, even the birth of your children.  Yep, the wicked irony would continue--I would miss the birth of my second child.  The difference between the first and second was profound, though, for me--there was no doubt I was the father.  I would approach the date knowing I was about to become a father.

As deployment approached, we made the best...