Time-Speed-Distance

It's a simple equation. Speed x Time = Distance. In its simplest form, how long it's going to take you to get where you're going. Solve for any variable. Or substitute and solve for two; pick the better solution. Master the basic equation, internalize it, I was told, and someday, you'll be a successful Operations Officer.

It's true. The equation never escapes you. Calculate an intercept. Open CPA (closest point of approach). Develop tracklines and meet up with other ships for replenishment at sea, slowly closing and maintaining stand-off distance while the elements nudge you irregularly. Conduct formation steaming. Launch and recover helicopters during "lily pad" operations (flying a helo back and forth between two ships). Figure fuel burn rates and balance fuel economy with operational need. Plan the day's events. Track targets, calculate maximum effective range, engage the enemy, fight the ship. Time-Speed-Distance.

Eventually you're thinking it without even using the math, internalizing it, knowing it, living it. I race my watchstanders, to their endless frustration and my eternal satisfaction - they work it on paper, on the computer, the calculator, on the maneuvering boards and the radar scope; I think it. The numbers become beings to me, take life, become tangible. This is the math I love, the kinetic, real-life, applicable calculations. Multi-variable equations to model, without theorems or proofs, the seemingly unpredictable movement of a ship buffeted by an array of elements. The books, the theories, the 3-minute and 6-minute and radian rules: they only get you so far. The math of shipdriving is an art as much as a science, and I struggle to explain it, to talk as well as do, to coach; it simply is.

As we steam onward, westward, time melts away under us. Time zones fail to catch us, but the sun and stars and moon are constant in their paths about us, our path about them. Time is measurable, is real; it is at once always the same time, always Zulu, always the time of the sun overhead at local apparent noon; and yet "back home", wherever that is, while we bake at mid-day, it's dark and colder and a whole other day of the week. Time ceases to flow linearly, elastic, inextricable from speed and distance.

You never get a second chance, except going west, on those interminable 6-turned-7-hour midwatches, where the one-o'clock hour is so much sweeter the second time around. And with day following day undistinguished, with sliding six-hour watches that refuse to allow you a set schedule, with operations, planned and unplanned, at all hours of the day and night, there is no day, no date, no distinction; only an unceasing routine and the regular tolling of ship's bells to regulate and to cling to.

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls...

A visit from the Commandant

Before we got underway for our epic journey, the Commandant came to see us off. He spoke briefly, then took a handful of insightful questions from the crew before touring the ship with the command cadre. Local news media was also on hand to capture our thoughts and reactions before casting off.

Here's the link to Admiral Allen's post.

A public affairs specialist is making the patrol with us; he will be posting pictures and other updates in a variety of places, including Military.com and Facebook. More to follow.

That do business in great waters

Somewhere betwixt and between the busyness of rushing past the people close to me tantôt vers la droite, tantôt vers la gauche, somewhere I stop, and pause, and I wonder. I wonder.

Perhaps it is an email, or a Christmas card, or an unexpected visit during a fortuitous port call, where I come face-to-face with the vectored, linear time that slips by me so silently as I glide, day after day, through the deep blue. I fool myself that everyone else's lives sit static while I sail past; but I realize, panged, the concurrent motion is deceptive, and it's really I who flail endlessly in Never-Never-Land while everyone about me rushes past: grows up, moves on, marks the standard rituals of life. Marriages, births, deaths, graduations, anniversaries, an endless string of birthday candles flickering off into the horizon. Holidays. Celebrations. Families. Tradition. Generations. Time passing.

I mark time by the ship's bell. Eight bells and the watch relieves. Eight bells and day and date have slipped past; the seas are the same, the sky is the same, the cold-blown watches in red-lit, windowless rooms are the same; different and new and challenging but yet familiar, changing and unchanged, ever and the same.

There is that pang of regret that I have no hometown now, no one place to which I can return, no rootedness. It is both easier and harder that way, a life without an afterlife, present and past but no future. The sea is my home, salt spray and rushing wind and rocking wave. She is loath to release me and jealous for my return. Even in the welcome arms of a port call, the sea is calling, whispering for me to gaze out at that deceptive line between sea and sky, the ever-receding horizon beckoning me onward, tugging at my eyes, straining through binoculars.

I offer my relief. I stand relieved. Another watch, past.

Tales of a Traveller

All the officer patients in the ward were forced to censor letters written by all the enlisted- men patients, who were kept in residence in wards of their own. It was a monotonous job, and Yossarian was disappointed to learn that the lives of enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers. After the first day he had no curiosity at all. To break the monotony he invented games. Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective. The next day he made war on articles. He reached a much higher plane of creativity the following day when he blacked out everything in the letters but a, an and the. That erected more dynamic intralinear tensions, he felt, and in just about every case left a message far more universal. Soon he was proscribing parts of salutations and signatures and leaving the text untouched. One time he blacked out all but the salutation "Dear Mary" from a letter, and at the bottom he wrote, "I yearn for you tragically A. T. Tappman, Chaplain, U.S. Army." A. T. Tappman was the group
chaplain's name.

When he had exhausted all possibilities in the letters, he began attacking the names and addresses on the envelopes, obliterating whole homes and streets, annihilating entire metropolises with careless flicks of his wrist as though he were God. Catch-22 required that each censored letter bear the censoring officer's name. Most letters he didn't read at all. On those he didn't read at all he wrote his own name. On those he did read he wrote, "Washington Irving." When that grew monotonous he wrote, "Irving Washington." Censoring the envelopes had serious repercussions, produced a ripple of anxiety on some ethereal military echelon that floated a C.I.D. man back into the ward posing as a patient. They all knew he was a C.I.D. man because he kept inquiring about an officer named Irving or Washington and because after his first day there he wouldn't censor letters. He found them too monotonous.

--Joseph Heller, Catch-22

One prolonged blast

After some last-minute alibis, underway at last. It seemed like forever until we cast off that last line and waved goodbye to the families, co-workers, and other assorted well-wishers clustered, cameras raised, on the pier. I wanted to cheer as the ship's whistle boomed out, but was advised, delicately, against it.

I'm not good at drawn-out farewells and it seemed so odd to have days and days to wrap up my last loose ends at home. The hours seemed endless, even as the remaining tasks and chores kept me out late and up early. One last night on the town, a round at the tiki bar, even a couple beers on the back porch of my apartment - yeah, it all sounded good, but in the end I couldn't quite muster yet more adieux; and anyway, I was busy. Special Sea Detail couldn't come early enough.

Before I left, I guinea pigged for a co-worker's career counseling grad school project, where the subjects (including me) took a series of personality and work interest assessments, culminating, as advertised, in recommended paths for higher education and career fields. I'm always leery of these sorts of inventories, not least because rarely do I come out strongly in favor of one "type" or another; and because often, I'm a radically different person in different situations. For example, in my private life I'm a confirmed introvert, but in most work environments my heart's emblazoned on my sleeve. Which creates strange eddies when the two mix - at a port call, or a promotion ceremony. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to leave it at my abhorrence of categorization and strenuous acts to defy pigeonholing or stereotyping.

Still, I've always been curious what career paths were "meant" for me, because my job history has been so spotty, my career destiny so indirect. Since when does an Oxford graduate scoop ice cream and join the military? So I took the test, and in its haughty wisdom, the test told me my top ten career choices were Computer & IS Manager (blech), Biologist (maybe in biotech or microbiology), Architect, Attorney (red tape!!!), University Professor, Chemist, Physician, Forester (park ranger?), Geologist, and Military Officer (aha...). I admonished the grad student who delivered my results that the test failed to take into account the kinetic nature of my learning and working. Most of these white-collar jobs would drive me absolutely nuts, because I couldn't be up and about, away from a desk and computer, facing down the mercurial elements of nature and people and circumstance, every day newly challenged both physically and mentally, defying what and who I was raised to be...

Where on the list was "ship captain"? I teased the researcher. First mate? Salty sailor of the deeps? I know I belong underway, I thought to the uneven lilting of the seas.

Hey, Mr. Postman

Here's how to reach me while I'm underway the next several months:

(my name)
USCGC BOUTWELL (WHEC-719)
FPO AP 96661-3902

All parts of this address are important. Without my name, it probably won't get delivered. The basic 5-digit ZIP code will get it to our group, but it is the "plus 4" and the ship name that get it to BOUTWELL. "FPO" stands for Fleet Post Office and "AP" for Armed Forces Pacific.

Packages can't exceed 70 lbs or 130 inches combined length and girth (drat, no new flat-screen). The US Postal Service must be used - i.e., not UPS, FedEx, etc. And, any package over 16 ounces must have a customs form 2976 or 2976-A attached. Under the heading "Description of Contents", write “Certified to be a bona fide gift, personal effects, or items for personal use of military personnel”. Priority Mail is recommended for packages. Alcoholic beverages, hazardous materials, and weapons can't be shipped.

I should still be able to post to and read this blog, although our connectivity will be severely limited underway. Using an internet cafe at port calls like Hawaii is great, but who trusts the internet at port calls after that? I'll be suspending service on my cell phone until I get back, so don't bother calling. I won't be able to access my standard Coast Guard email address, although I'll have a different one aboard ship, and that will probably be the best way to reach me. Just take my normal CG email, and add the number 2 in between the end of my last name and the "@uscg.mil", i.e. (myname)2@uscg.mil. Facebook and web-based email like Hotmail are restricted websites aboard ship, so you won't see me there either. Bottom line: snail mail or CG email. If you're sending email to my CG address, be aware that due to severely restricted connectivity (think 28k modem), any large emails or attachments will get rejected. If you want to send me a document, try cutting and pasting into the text of the email. Pictures take up too much room and won't go through regardless.

So that's all the do's and don'ts. I really hope to hear from you! Profundity, profuseness, and/or creativity are no requirements - just remind me that life exists outside our steel bulkheads. Mail call is the highlight of any patrol.

Wading in

I was onboard BOUTWELL most of the day. I've been there on and off the past several days, playing reality-TV Tetris as I cram 6 months' worth of stuff into two tiny lockers and a broom-closet of a stateroom. (I'm in 2-man chiefs' berthing, because there's only one female chief, and I'm the only female officer.) I might well be flying straight from BOUTWELL to JARVIS, and it may be months before all my belongings catch up with me out in Hawaii, so I have to take everything I need for the patrol...AND everything I might need for the first several months of my new assignment. With the caveat that somehow I have to squeeze all these things into suitcases to fly out from some foreign port call, just in case.

Since we're doing so many "meet-and-greets" with foreign Coast Guards and other VIPs, we have to pack every uniform item imaginable, which takes up considerable space. On top of all that, I'm bringing skirts AND pants AND pumps AND oxfords AND stockings AND socks. More space.

That aside, today was a day of meetings.

In one of the meetings, an Iraqi professor affiliated with the Navy postgraduate school program presented a seminar on the history, political and religious background, and culture of the various Middle Eastern nations (in particular, Iraq). A similar seminar (which I was not able to attend) was presented last week by an Iranian professor. While the professor had resided in America since his mid-twenties, he had also completed compulsory service in the Iraqi army as a young man, and maintained ties to the region. It is not often that we, as Americans, are afforded a relatively unvarnished view of Middle Eastern life, and I found the professor's viewpoint refreshingly insightful, nuanced, and rational. So much of what we receive through the media is packaged for mass American consumption, much too crude, simplistic, sound-biting, and jingoistic to reflect the true "facts on the ground".

My day was almost over by the time I was able to depart the ship to start my second job - at the ISC. I feel like I'm moonlighting, except I'm only earning one salary.

Plans to give you hope and a future

It is uncanny how things have fallen so neatly into place this past year. A year ago, I was going through the motions, living on borrowed time, certain against hope that all this rush of good luck was all much, much too good to be true. A last desperate fling at a "wetting down" (promotion party) I refused to postpone, overshadowed by a preliminary diagnosis I whispered to no one but the nagging doubts in my head. Maybe it won't be, maybe it won't...

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

It was, of course, all much too good to be true; and it vanished suddenly, irrevocably, one cold March afternoon in a sequence of phone messages, less than two hours apart, blinking at me in blatant violation of secure-space policy from a silenced phone. Dissolved around me as I sat, sobbing, locked in my car in the parking lot of Navy Surface Warfare Officer School, frustrated, exhausted, spent. What had seemed so limitless now choked in around me. This had been my chance, my golden ticket, my unrealistic and unexpected top pick, my way out, my validation that a born-and-bred intellectual with a degree in medieval English and 15 years of classical violin training could really, against all odds, in defiance of nature, nurture, and family expectations, be at heart a salty sailor, a shipdriver. My payback for sacrificing pride and personal life watch after watch, week after week, patrol after patrol, two boards and thirteen months later, all for a qualification letter and a captain's trust and a hard-earned recommendation. And now, all at once, all gone.

But from the beginning, things fell into place. My command urged me to tell the detailer where I wanted to go for treatment, instead of letting HQ pick. Unbelieving, I picked the Bay Area, and to my shock ended up back on the West Coast, centrally located between family members, and, incredibly, living just an hour's drive from my best friend, whom I'd lived far away from since high school. I went to one of the top civilian hospitals and received top-notch care. The first people to respond to my house-rental ad have been fantastic renters: my house looks better now than it ever did when I lived there. I ended up in a job - intended to be nothing more than a holding pen while I recovered - which was ideally suited to me, where I could draw on my experience, knowledge, and connections and really make a difference at a critical juncture. My command was exceptionally supportive of me. I was able to take large chunks of leave, including an unforgettable trip to South Africa. I landed this irreplaceable deployment opportunity. My latest PET/CT scan came out completely negative. I've seen more of my family in the past several months than in the five years previous. I had few lasting side effects, none seriously disabling. The Coast Guard paid for every penny of my treatment. And, to top it all off, somehow two captains who barely knew me negotiated to get me my top pick this summer, an assignment twin to last year's canceled orders.

Why?

The whole series of uncannily fortunate events has conspired to make me wonder what manifest destiny awaits me. I am certainly no perfect and upright person. There are undoubtedly those far more perfect and upright than me who were touched by far worse. And I wasn't just spared; I was blessed; I've been returned tenfold.

Why?

What burden now must I carry, what torch do I bear, for those who failed to make it this far? What debt must I pay?

Why?

IGTNT

I Got The News Today. Coined to refer to someone answering the door to a sharply uniformed soldier bearing an ominous telegram, today, to me, it means something else: learning of another person's cancer.

Used to be, I thought cancer was for old people. You know, the disease of an industrialized, modern society that eventually catches you up after you've outlived everything else. Old folks and those kids with leukemia whose pictures graced jars of change at supermarket checkouts. I knew a couple people with cancer, here and there. Tragic cases, people whispered, and turned away.

Then when I was in my early twenties, a friend of mine, married with two young kids and pregnant with a third, was diagnosed. The desperate race against time to save both mother and baby didn't make it. The loss opened a gaping hole.

Since then, my father and mother both survived cancer. My grandmother still struggles. And now I've joined the ranks. Since then, it seems cancer is everywhere, particularly cancer of the young. At first it was strangers, stopping me on the street to share stories of their similarly bald-headed nephew, or cousin, or sister. Beautiful, talented, bright, promising young folk - or young adults with kids of their own - snatched away in the flush of their bloom.

And the stories abound of overwhelming costs, of insurance denials, of fundraisers and bake sales and donation funds, of lost jobs and houses, of inadequate care, of outdated techniques, of delayed service. Of lasting, crippling side effects. Of depression, frustration, abandonment, futility.

That is not my story.

I had tremendous support from friends, family, and my employer. I was paid, and encouraged, to relocate anywhere in the US I wanted to go. I was sent to the top civilian doctors, where I received cutting-edge treatment. I continued to work throughout my treatment, but I didn't have to - I still would have received my full salary. I received sizeable housing, food, and cost-of-living allowances, which made it possible to live comfortably in the heart of San Francisco, one of the most expensive cities in the country. I was allowed as much recovery time as I needed, which I used to visit friends and families on the weekends during chemo. And I didn't pay a penny for my treatment - not for the medications, doctor visits, infusions, transfusions, radiation, scans, blood work, or checkups. Not for anything. No insurance hassles necessary. Most importantly, I had a very treatable form of cancer, caught early.

So it breaks my heart every time I "get the news" and hear of someone else broadsided by cancer in the prime of their life, haggling with insurance, stressed by bills, leaving behind young children and a promising future.

When I was in college, I used to wonder how I'd been so lucky as to win the "birth lottery", finding myself in a middle-class American family, instead of a slum in India, a war zone in Africa, a frozen apartment block in Russia, or maybe abandoned in a dumpster in China, just for being a girl. It's part of why I joined the Coast Guard, to repay my gratitude to a country which had unconsciously invested me with so much.

These days, I find myself wondering how I've been so lucky as to win the "cancer lottery", if I can describe it in such crude terms. I've done nothing more meritorious than the little girl with leukemia, or the young man with pancreatic cancer. How do I lay my worth against the parent who passes on after a short but valiant struggle, leaving behind three young children?

Is there a message? Is there a reason? For what greater purpose have I been saved? What debt do I owe to those who didn't make it? What burden do I bear?