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.
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| Just prior to deployment |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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...
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