– Belayed Hope –
The deployments I’d experienced up to this point were not what you would describe as a positive experience. I recognize this is akin to saying a visit to the dental office for a root canal isn’t a particularly enjoyable spa day, yet this time I was determined to fix my mindset. Miserable or no, I could still choose to have a better attitude and make the most of it. There is no wasted breath, no moment that can’t be used for God’s will, I reminded myself for the millionth time, unsurprisingly changing nothing about how I felt. Still, I would do my absolute best to see this as a chance to honor Him, knowing He must have put me there for something. I just hoped it wasn’t another lesson in learning to find peace in a state of misery, something which, regardless of anything else, the Coast Guard had been excellent at providing me.
The weeks preceding the departure for a deployment always were a chaotic and stressful time. The one silver lining being the workdays were short to allot time to get your affairs in order. This is actually how it was phrased to us, and the irony was not lost on most.
By this point I knew how important some items were to bring in comparison to others. On my first deployment I took hardly any food, thinking they would feed us a decent amount. Turns out when the ship doesn’t hit a port in a couple of weeks to restock, a full dinner might consist of a chicken bone and some frozen peas. This time I had an entire case full of protein powder, nuts, dried fruit, and oatmeal. Sounds plain, but that was what sustained my time on a ship far more than the galley. Shower shoes were worth their weight in gold, I’d rather walk on hot coals than in a ship’s bathroom barefoot. Along with it, my boonie hat and my kindle were my most precious possessions. When the empowered equator sun blared down on the exposed flight deck of a ship and burned my skin in what felt like seconds, my hat was my only real defense. As for the kindle I would normally read around 10-20 books on a deployment, the stories the only thing keeping my soul intact. Of course, that didn’t stop a crewmate on a previous outing from berating me about how I was “wasting my life away on books.” I never found out what he was doing that was so worthwhile in his off time on a ship with no internet and no real connection to the outside world. We can only assume he was conducting research into solving the cold fusion problem with a personal chemistry set.
This time I also managed to bring decent civilian clothes. This was a well-learned lesson after the grievous mistake I’d made on my first deployment when I only brought military gear. When we finally hit our first port call my pilots insisted I not wear anything that would give away the fact I’m military (because it was really hard to spot the white guys all wearing board shorts, sunglasses, and graphic tees traveling in small groups in South America). Thus I found myself in the middle of Cartagena wearing nothing but my pajamas. Arguably the bravest and most effective “i’m not in the military” outfit ever attempted. One of my associates was so impressed they felt it necessary to point out how “no woman in their right mind would ever marry a loser who dresses like you!” (Providentially was actually the same man who told me I was wasting my life on reading so much. I lament the fact I haven’t seen him in years, so lost I am without his advice).
After going through my checklist to get ready (shop, pray something happens that prevents me from going, take out the battery in my car, say goodbye to everyone, realize I’m not getting out of it and debate breaking a leg “on accident”, and finally packing again for the tenth time), I found myself at the airport lugging enough bags to make Taylor Swift seem modest.
Once we flew to Dallas with our team (consisting of six people), we left the plane and walked about ten feet before command called and informed us that the ship was delayed and we were to return to Jacksonville. After discussing this problem with the Southwest Airlines representative, they promptly found us a flight home that left 12 hours later.
Being back in Jacksonville so soon left a sour feeling, especially after mustering up the determination to leave in the first place. It was like trying to date an ex you had broken up with just a week prior, knowing the same fate awaited you again. Sure enough, three days later (just long enough to undo a decent amount of packing) we were sent back out. This time there was no problem getting out of Texas, instead we were stranded in Mexico City for a day thanks to overbooked flights. Eventually we got on the plane to Huatulco, Mexico, where the ship waited for us in the small coastal town. Some small fool part of me actually looked forward to getting to the boat, if just to get it over with .
The small domestic plane taking us to Huatulco wasn’t what anyone would accuse of being luxurious. At least the plane had seats and actually flew. Still, having worked in aviation maintenance at this point for almost 4 years I knew enough to see the plane was about as air worthy as the Dumbo ride at Disney. This proved a great distraction from the real threat, a young man who sat next to me occasionally coughing and sniffing. It’s always the thing you least expect.
After sitting on the tarmac for an hour after our departure time—no doubt the pilots were arguing with the maintenance crews about whether or not the three hundred miles would be too much to ask from the plane, which no doubt was already years past its service date—we did eventually take off and make it to Huatulco. The pleasant view of the coastal town and the beach full of families enjoying the water was marred by the big ugly white Cutter that was to be our home for the next few months sitting in the harbor.
Now I need to get something important out of the way here: yes, I know the Coast Guard is a maritime branch of the military and I joined of my own free will. Yes, I know that many people love ships and life at sea and my words risk merited anger on their behalf. So I hope you will accept, dear reader, with my most heartfelt sincerity: I don’t care.
Coast Guard ships are a perfect representation of the branch as a whole, especially this ship. Freshly painted white hulls bearing a red stripe presented an air of threatening power without being overly militaristic. Underneath that paint lay decades of rust and damage held together by the hard work of any poor sap who called it home station. This ship is known as a Famous class Cutter, which is news to me since we all just called it a 270 (its length being 270ft) or more commonly a giant POS. There is a legend that says that the ship was originally designed to be much longer, but the Coast Guard went over budget and the back end was cut off to save money. While I can’t find any proof this actually happened, one could see how it’s possible. It’s a very top heavy ship with a superstructure that doesn’t seem to fit its main hull. In layman’s terms: its rides like complete garbage no matter the sea state. It wasn’t all bad though of course, it did have all the modern amenities you would expect for a ship made in the 80s.
Hard metal covered every surface, and every edge was sharper than you’d expect. Every space, even the mess deck (cafeteria), is a cramped exercise of an introvert’s worst nightmare. Nowhere is an inch of privacy or space to unwind. Heads (bathrooms) contain bacteria unknown to science, decades of exhausted and unkempt sailors each contributing a piece of the puzzle. Desalinated water gives everything a strange taste and not a single space was absent a thousand smells only a forty-year-old ship can give. Seemingly every few minutes an announcement or alarm would blare through the sound system declaring every level of benign news or drastic emergency, and all at a volume designed to ensure anyone foolish enough to attempt sleep or have a peaceful moment would be reminded blatantly that the ship owned every fiber of your existence.
There is a strange relationship between air-dales (those who worked with aircraft and not boats) and boaties (you’ll never guess) in the Coast Guard. By strange, I mean ‘strong mutual dislike’ if not open hatred. Six months after arriving at their first unit, a new Coast Guard member decides on what rating (job occupation) they want to join. When someone decides to join one of the aviation ratings, they sign up for the school and have to wait for an opening while stuck at their first unit as a non-rate (the lowest level of enlisted rank), a tedious grind that can take years if the list is long, which it often is for aviation (the average amount of time to get in being roughly 2 years). There is an unwritten rule somewhere that at this point every single BM1 and salty Chief2 needs to treat them poorly. If they still end up going into aviation after being bullied for a while, well at least they were taught an important lesson. What that lesson is I’ll never know, but most coasties agree it has a lot to do with them regretting their life choices and wishing they went into aviation instead of having to work on horrid boats the rest of their careers (the fact that by most coasties I’m referring exclusively to the opinion of air-dales, we won’t dwell on). Someone, certainly not me, once said they think it’s simply that many BMs have the collective intelligence of a microbe. As for Chiefs, I think the less we think about the leadership failings of one Chief or another, the better.
Out in the fleet, the two worlds divided by sea and air rarely interact. In fact, aside from the occasional radio interaction on a search and rescue case or odd training exercise, I suspect each side would gladly forget the other exists. Still, the Brass3 knew we existed, and mothers always seem to find ways to force siblings that don’t get along to work together. All this to say, when an unfortunate cutter finds itself with a helicopter aviation attachment for its deployment, not a soul onboard is happy about it. Well, other than the Captain chasing the flag4 of course.
You can feel this animosity in the air the second you step foot on the accursed ship. The golden wings on our uniforms might as well be little neon signs blasting obscene words about sailors and their mothers. Knowing you will be spending months trapped in a floating prison with the role of “scapegoat” and “Social Enemy #1” is a glorious feeling. Still, when shown your accommodations you almost miss those first few ignorant moments on the ship.
I have a suspicion that the worst beds are saved and prepared for aviators. I have no proof save personal experience, and frankly that is more than enough for me. This time I was given a rack (a “bed” the size of a coffin stacked in shelves of three attached to the walls) in the non-rate fore berthing. Sleeping at the front of the ship, where the waves were felt the harshest, was always a nice treat. But the real prize was having to share it with more than a dozen people (in a room the size of a New York city closet), all of whom were subject to the leadership of the entire boat, including every single BM. You may struggle with your boss, and their boss as well, but imagine living in a steel box where every single person you saw was your supervisor. Now imagine many of them feeling the need to uphold that aforementioned unwritten rule (the unwritten rule to treat potential aviators poorly, tended to be extended to all lower enlisted if perhaps in a lesser state, subject to change depending on the mood of said administer). Understandably, non-rates have little energy for such things as “cleanliness” for their berthing room. Still it could have been worse, at least this time my rack had a privacy curtain, and joyfully I found no used socks in it either. Just a layer of white substance dusted on the top of the thin pad boldly called a mattress. Seeing that it was something that was falling off the ceiling, I wondered if it was lead paint or asbestos. I decided it didn’t matter—neither would kill me fast enough.
After quickly making my bed and stowing my gear, I was directed to the hanger to introduce myself to the MH-655 we were to care for on the journey. I’m not sure which is more presumptuous, calling the thin pads on the racks “mattresses” or calling the awkward space with its ancient extending bay walls a “hanger.” Still, by some miracle, it was large enough to fit the bright orange helicopter that I will henceforth refer to as the “drama queen”. Each deployment was a game of roulette to see if you ended up with a bird that would actually function or would decide it would rather nap. This particular drama queen was certainly doing its best to earn its spot as the most hated piece of equipment on the ship.
Leaving the port, the ship began its unending, incessant, and unyielding rocking and swaying with the ocean swells. Every ship has a mean sense of humor, but this one especially seemed to know when your head was close to a sharp edge or you were carrying something spillable. Complete rogue waves would heave the ship up or sway it to one side, even the most salty of sailors thrown off balance. I gave up counting the number of times I hit my head on a low ceiling or fell into a bulkhead (ship wall). Mystery bruises were so common I didn’t even bother to check as long as I wasn’t leaking.
Now out in the open ocean, it was time for the worst part of every day: taking the drama queen out of the hanger and unfolding the blades. Earning our part as the most hated people on the ship, we had to ask for help as the helo had to be pushed by hand. Sometimes I imagined what a drug runner would think if they could see us undertake this process. Retracting the old hanger bay doors, screeching from age, while men formed a rugby scrum against the orange monstrosity and pushed it out inch by inch, looking every bit like a broken down carrot-colored SUV on the highway. During this endeavor I was directed by the pilots that I would be a brake-rider, which meant I sat in the cockpit with my feet on the brakes ready if anything should go awry. Observant readers will realize that this means I was dead weight to those who had to push the roughly eight thousand pound vehicle around while the ship decided to increase its pitching and rolling as much as possible. Indeed, I was easily the most hated of those present, sitting in my chair feeling every bit the moron wearing my full flight gear (big helmet included) as the pilots insisted it was needed for “safety.” Helicopters are known for taking off unprovoked after all.
Once it was in position, heavy chains were attached to the flight deck and fastened to tie down points all around the drama queen. Then I jumped out of the cockpit and promptly removed all my gear, careful not to look any of the boaties in the eye lest I make their tempers boil. Being the wrench monkey of the flight crew, I had—nay, was bestowed—the great honor of climbing on top of the bird to unfold the blades. This was by far the thing I hated doing the most, as it required very precise work while balancing on a slippery helo that wasn’t nearly as short as it appeared. All while the ship gave everything it could to throw me off, with every boatie present doubtlessly rooting for it to succeed. The rest of the aircrew unlocked each blade from its position attached to the tail, then lifted them up using long poles (the Coast Guard is on the bleeding edge of military tech) to then position them in their flight orientation. My job was to pull the retaining pins out, lube them up with a special grease, and ensure they were reinstalled just right when the blades were in the correct position. This special grease was so good at its job it would somehow get on everything within 5 feet, including my actual feet, to the great delight of the ship and watching boaties. I’ve never been to the rodeo, but I feel surprisingly well-equipped for a complete novice.
Still, I managed to get it done and the blasted ship lost that round. When my greasy boots hit the flight deck again at last, it would be time to complete routine maintenance. Fighting a losing battle with the salt air in attempts to prevent corrosion on the most corrosive machinery ever built by man. We did this of course by opening compartments on the drama queen and inspecting and cleaning them.
”But wait,” you say to your screen, as if I could hear you, “doesn’t that mean you are just opening up compartments to expose them to more salty air, making the corrosion worse?”
Now you’re getting it.
Cleaning and inspecting, inspecting and cleaning. We layered every known chemical in existence all over the fragile components, cleaned every inch and washed down the whole helo every day, and still, it wasn’t a question if there was corrosion or not, rather how much (if at all) our attempts prevented it getting worse. Once, on a previous deployment, a critical piece became corroded past the limit and we had to request special supplies to fix it. The piece was flown out to us in the middle of the ocean and air dropped in a parachute from a CG fixed wing aircraft. I have no doubt its crew looked down at the suckers stuck on the ship thankful they could sleep in a real bed that night. Not for the first time, I questioned how I ended up on the ‘sucker’ side of that exchange.6
After this was dinner time, a joyous experience in which everyone gathered in the galley to subject themselves to food unfit for a prison. Customs at sea are a strange thing, many of which come from—of all things—the British Royal Navy. You would think after kicking mom out of the new digs Americans would’ve gotten rid of silly rules like “no elbows on the dinner table”, but I guess old habits die hard. Still, these things matter a great deal to a number of sailors. There seemed no end to the rules I broke with each step, every one of them broken with the pompous disrespect only a rotor-head could have from their viewpoints. Ways to eat certain foods, places for gear, right and wrong ways to walk. I have no doubt some were made up just to give me a hard time.
Since this was my first meal on the ship I naturally went and sat at the only table with open seats. It wasn’t long before I realized the rest of the table had all stopped what they were doing and were looking at me like I had spit on each of their trays (which admittedly wouldn’t have affected the quality much).
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” one of them asked.
I looked down at the tray and the fork in my hand and wondered what asinine thing I had done wrong now. “Uh…eating?”
“This table is only for first classes and their guests. I doubt anyone here would have you as a guest.”7
I looked around. Seeing that there wasn’t another free seat in the entire galley yet this table could easily fit another five people, I looked at the man sneering at me—a BM, no doubt—and debated what level of animosity I was willing to deal with. Surely they could handle an ounce of an honest response…
Instead I stood with my tray and made a slight bow to show my respect for my clear superiors. Moving to a corner of the galley I stood watching for a seat to open up, every negative stereotype about boaties screaming in my head. The battle raged on within. That tiny (ok, ok, VERY tiny) side of me that could see the love of God in every person was disappearing with every minute on that cursed ship.
Suddenly, a loud noise brought me back, “Now set Flight Condition one, set Flight Condition one.”
Every single member on board save perhaps the pilots (and the Captain of course) dreaded hearing the call to prepare for flight operations, a massive undertaking for practically the entire crew. Yet more gasoline poured onto the fire of our accursed presence on the ship. Whoever decided when to set the time for flight ops was a sadist, as it always seemed to be right in the middle of dinner. It was very effective at ensuring that nobody got to finish anything they didn’t scarf down, leading me to believe that somehow the cooks were responsible lest we would have a chance to actually taste any of it (or worse, have an opportunity to tell them what we thought of their cooking abilities).
I dumped my food in the bin, hunger pangs the only thing that kept me from simple gratitude for having been spared from the experience and rushed out of the galley.
At this point the pilots would have their preflight brief with the captain up in CIC8, while us peons would preflight the aircraft and ensure it was ready. Surprising no one, this mostly consisted of inspecting and cleaning the drama queen and checking that everything was where it was supposed to be, the fuel especially. A strange but pivotal test was to ensure no water contaminated the fuel within the aircraft. Crawling underneath the helo, enjoying the sandpaper non-skid grinding on our backs, we used a metal syphon to eject a small amount of fuel out of each fuel cell into a clear mason jar. Upon inspection, if water contaminated the fuel it would show up in bubbles on the bottom of the jar, and we would then attempt the process again to see if we could get a clean sample.
Yes, you heard me right: we were trying to obtain a water-free fuel sample on an exposed flight deck on a small ship in the middle of an often-chaotic ocean. It went as well as you would expect.
The pilots of course seemed not to consider this, and upon hearing of the slightest sign of water in the fuel, would demand we do the process again and again. I lost count trying to get a clean sample from each fuel cell after attempting it more than ten times, each attempt taking minutes and leaving more and more of my shirt and back on the non-skid. Eventually we discovered that there was water in the metal syphon itself that was contaminating the fuel. I surprised myself by not throwing it overboard.
Once the pilots finished their meeting with the captain, they would join us and all the rotor-heads would have a small meeting where we would discuss the plan. It was all standard stuff, but the pilots wanted everyone to be in on the course of action since we would all be flying sooner or later. Then the pilots conducted a shorter preflight with the crewmember flying with them. The flight deck would fill up with sailors all dressed in fire retardant gear (in bright colors that made them look sponsored by skittles). It’s a strange sight seeing the deck scramble with so many people, so much effort and manpower, all for what amounted to a familiarity flight for the pilots and the gunner.
Donning our helmets, we would stand off to the side of the ship while the flight crew started the drama queen up, hoping and praying for no faults. The blades would begin to spin and I knew by the time the ear-splitting whine (caused by the tail rotor) would begin that the bird had a good chance. I watched for a few minutes more just in case, knowing if something were to have an issue I would be called over with my fellow fixers to solve it.
After going through most of the flight checklist (designed to ensure everything worked before it became a much bigger problem if it didn’t) the pilots would give a thumbs up and the deck flight captain (a sanctimonious title for the guy who waves his arms to let the pilots know they are cleared for flight) would signal them off. The plane would slowly lift off, then rocket away as the pilots pushed it to ensure clearance from the superstructure of the ship. I watched the plane fly away and knew it was the first of many to come.
Flight ops normally ranged from two to five hours long, and if I wasn’t flying I was glad for the time to go eat some real dinner from the bag I’d packed and get some reading in. The ship was made for operations and utility first and humanity last so there was hardly a square inch that wasn’t taken up by some piece of equipment or another. But I would tie myself off the bow, face to the elements like Leonardo DiCaprio before I would go back into the galley and subject myself to more scrutiny or hateful stares. Not one day on the ship and my social tank was in the negative.
Having spent time on a 270 before, I did know of a few corners that weren’t too popular. I kept my e-reader in my pants cargo pocket, another big no-no for the sailors as those pockets were “just for show” (who this “show” was for I can only surmise was the ship herself, as even the Captain could be seen using his cargo pockets), for any chance I could claim for my own. I sat and squeezed myself in the oddest of places, content as long as I could read.
Those hours tended to pass quicker than any other, given what the end of that time held for me. As the helo’s return was announced over the intercom I would make my way back to the flight deck, watching the horizon for the moving shape and blinking lights. After it landed and shut off, the race for bed began. We hosed off the whole plane and scrubbed it with soap as fast as possible, while others postflighted the bird to see if it had decided to break something unannounced to the instrument panel. We finished our work quickly and I resigned myself to the top of the rotor head yet again to fold the blades.
Hard as it was in the daytime, at night it was downright laughable. Mercifully, the process went as well as it could and I climbed down the side of the helo while the muscle gathered around looking as excited as I felt to put the stupid thing to bed. Donning the flight gear, I jumped back into the pilot seat and they heaved the hunk of junk back into the hanger. Every night it had to “sleep in the hanger or else it risks being subjected to too much salty air”, or at last that’s what I was told every time I dared to question the process. Given the “hanger’s” level of shelter was about the level of protection offered from a highway underpass, I tried not to think about how much labor lay ahead of us under the guise of “every little bit counts” in the doomed war against corrosion.
As the hanger door came to an ear-splitting screech closed, I was finally allowed to begin the process of going to sleep. Thankfully, by this point most of those in my berthing room would have already gotten ready for bed so I had a good chance to have a shower without a wait. Showering on a ship provides its own form of entertainment, essentially playing a whole-body game of Operation, where the ship tossed you around and you did everything in your power to keep your exposed body off whatever grew on the sides of the shower, gripping the handle on the wall as tightly as possible. This game had extra levels as well, such as drains that never worked properly and sloshed the contents of the day around your feet as you incorporated “the floor is lava” into your game of Operation. Of course, nothing beats the ‘water conservation’ bonus content where you are expected to take a “sea shower.” This consists of turning on the shower and once you feel the water, turn it off, put the bare minimum of soap on and scrub it hard, then turn on the shower once again just long enough to pretend like something washed off. It was a great way to ensure that nobody was clean.
Thankfully there was enough water I could actually get rid of some of the smell. Then I made the awkward climb up to the top rack, glad I had made my bed already.
The first night on a ship always leaves a lasting impression. Somehow each time I would have forgotten just how tiny the racks really are. I stood my study bible vertically on the top of the bed and realized it nearly hit the ceiling and it truly dawned on me the luxurious accommodations I was to enjoy for the foreseeable future. It also dawned on me that my first day was over and already I saw my internal war to be positive and somehow manage to honor the Lord was looking grim. Still, tomorrow was a new day to try again…
That night I slept fitfully for any number of reasons you could choose. First was the constant phone alarms going off informing sailors of an upcoming watch rotation they had to wake for, always on full blast regardless of anyone else in the room. Then there was the head door on the other side of the bulkhead of my rack. I enjoyed hearing it slam all through the night, and every conversation in the bathroom was overheard by yours truly, willingly or not, with such fascinating discussions such as wondering why farting occurred so often after peeing and much worse. The thing about sailors having a bad mouth is honestly an understatement, but can you blame them? It’s a wonder it’s limited to words if you ask me.
Still, when I finally did sleep I woke to an omen worse than anything thus far. Sickness affects us all differently, but for me it begins with waking up with a sore throat. This time it wasn’t just any average sore throat though, as I struggled to speak, drink, or do much of anything mouth related. I remembered the sick man next to me on the flight and I cursed my past self for not being more careful. Careful of what, Lord only knows, but anything would be better than to be sick on a ship.
I did my best to ignore it and drank as much as I could, and began the day. Since flight ops were almost always held until late into the night, the mornings were relatively light for me. I always took the opportunity to drink green tea, eat oatmeal, and read my book in the comparatively-empty galley. Of course, this being during the work day for the boaties, passerby’s would give me the stink eye as I confirmed every lazy “ship rider”9 stereotype bestowed upon the air crew. When I saw the looks I wished I could adopt the mindset of my fellows, who took the hatred in stride, some even seeing it as a challenge to see how many people they could anger during the deployment in passive aggressive warfare. Empathy, grand a spiritual gift it is and all that, always seemed to get in the way of any sort of peace I could find amongst those in the military. In ten years I never figured out how to co-exist with it, but maybe that was the point. Mysterious ways and all that.
I usually was the first in the hangar, and the first to look the stupid drama queen in the face and curse its gaudy hide for the labor ahead of me that day. But I didn’t feel much hatred then, instead it was fear. For as much as I tried to ignore it, the feeling of a horrible sickness growing in me by the hour was becoming impossible to lie to myself about. I shoved it down and pushed through the process of getting the bird out and managed to get the wings unfolded without falling off somehow. After all this, my head was spinning and I laid down in the empty hanger deck, forcing myself to drink as much water as I could. This was going to be a bad one, even if I had been in the comfort of my own home. I desperately searched through my options ahead of me and watched within as every avenue closed, every door shut, all except the inevitable. I was stuck. No way out. Nobody else who could cover my job. Nobody else who would care.
I felt the hope evaporate out of me like the last sip of water in a desert. I slowly sat up and looked out at the horizon, ship heaving itself around as if dancing in celebration, and I knew what this was. Yet another blasted test. I had challenged myself to find a way to honor God in a situation I knew I would loathe, but—like always—I underestimated the odds. The enemy never did play fair, and he wasn’t going to start now.
Screw it, I thought. If I could just make it to the end of the damned trip without losing my love for God and for people (never my strong suit at the best of times I’ll admit), then I would count it as victory. Even with the bar set so low for myself I knew it wouldn’t be easy, and Lord knows it wasn’t.
Endnotes
- Boatswain’s Mate (BM) is the rating (job) for those who drive the boats, also known as the self proclaimed “leaders” of the branch from a technicality in which they are the only enlisted rating granted command positions. It’s essentially the same nonsense you see in every branch where if you don’t do the most common job (aka the one that is typically the most regrettable) you are accused of not being legitimate. Such as the Army and its infantry. ↩︎
- Chief in the USCG is the title for an E-7 regardless of their rating. Chiefs are the virtual leaders of the enlisted ranks amongst the entire Coast Guard, the key word there being “virtual.” ↩︎
- Coast Guard high command. Each region is overseen by something called a sector, which is then overseen by district command, which itself is overseen by USCG command in DC. It’s a long chain of command that bogs down operations but allows us more of the claim of being a “legitimate branch of the military.” I’m still not sure what that means, nor who they think they are fooling. ↩︎
- Officers have a very competitive job if they wish to advance, but it becomes exponentially harder the higher up you go. Officers who “chase the flag” are trying to claw their way up the chain to make it to the upper echelon of officers called Flag Officers in the Navy and Coast Guard (also known as Admirals). Certainly not always, but many times those who chase the flag need a way to stand out from their peers, and will go to great lengths to do so, those great lengths traveled by the strained efforts of those unfortunate enough to be found under their command. ↩︎
- MH-65 stands for Military Helicopter 65 Dolphin. It is a variant of the French-built Eurocopter AS365 Dauphin. It’s been used by the Coast Guard for the last 30 plus years. Its small size makes it the only suitable aircraft for the CGs smaller ships. We often joked that the French have tiny hands because many of the compartments and maintenance was in impossibly tight places. ↩︎
- I found out that one of the crewmembers of the fixed wing aircraft that dropped off our supplies was my old roommate from aviation school. Someone that, lets just say I didn’t get along with. Knowing that he would get to go to some nice hotel that night while I was stuck underway was a bitter irony that only real life can provide. ↩︎
- A First class Petty Officer is the rank of E-6 in the USCG and Navy. I was a lowly E-4 at the time of this deployment, I.E. worthless in the eyes of those with higher rank and uninhibited by IQ’s with double digits. ↩︎
- CIC stands for Combat Information Center. It’s the brain of the ship where all the tactical decisions are made and prepared for. It’s also the part of a ship they always seem to show in movies (other than the bridge of course), suggesting that all parts of the ship are dark rooms with glowing screens and men shouting intelligence jargon while the captain stoically nods his head and looks important. ↩︎
- Ship Rider is the name for anyone not pulling their weight on a ship, and simply “enjoying a cruise.” Aviators were always given this moniker as our work was often done out of sight and therefore never happened of course. Worst of all though, aviators weren’t a part of the ships drill teams and while every day some drill would take place to the frustration and exhaustion of the crew, the aviators would simply hangout on the flight deck or in the hanger, this more than anything cemented us at the ships most hated members. ↩︎
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