– Underway and Unwell –
The sickness took me in full…and what a sickness it was. Head feeling ready to burst, every sound and movement a stab to the eyes. Endless amounts of mucus made it hard to breathe. Throat on fire. Body weighing 400 pounds and every movement aching. It was certainly a prime chicken soup, crackers, and ginger ale situation. I quickly realized there was indeed something that a sailor could hate more than an aviator wasting space on their beloved ship: a sick aviator. There was no hiding my sickness, certainly not in as confined a space as the cutter. I realized the looks of distaste I had received up to this point were practically hugs compared to how people looked at me then. The passive part of the aggression went to the wayside as well, and honestly can you blame a single one of them? A sickness like that on a ship was sure to spread to everyone, and I was patient zero.
Coast Guard ships aren’t big enough to warrant much, if any, medical equipment. The best you can hope for is a kind word and a couple ibuprofen (though military healthcare doesn’t get much better on land either admittedly). The medic onboard at least pretended to be sympathetic to me, wearing a mask and practically holding me at bay with a broom. Apparently he didn’t feel my sickness warranted any kind of SIQ1 status. Evidently examining me with glasses with what must have been a 20 year outdated prescription.
“Let me know if it gets any worse,” he said as he shut the hatch door in my face.
“Sure thing doc, when they find me dead in some corner I’ll be sure to tell you about it.” (I’ll be honest here, I don’t remember if I actually said anything in response, but let’s pretend for my sake I’m witty).
My memory after this is a troubled thing. The sickness got worse somehow, and then leveled out around the “ultra miserable” stage and stayed that way for days. And days. And more days. And yet more. Each day passed by in agonizing seconds that never seemed to end. My thoughts jumped from pleading with God to heal me, or at least kill me and be done with it already. (An aside for a moment: this is where any self-respecting person would gloss over details in an attempt to save face, or at least seem an ounce more dignified. But what fun is there in that?)
My aircrew was sympathetic until what always happens with sickness in the military came to pass. You see, sickness and injuries are only permitted during the allotted time—anywhere from a day to five minutes depending on the operational need. Given that we were stuck in the middle of the ocean and nobody else in the aircrew could (or would want to) do my job, I believe my time for sympathy lasted the duration it took me to explain my symptoms. By the end of the first week they could be almost mistaken for the boaties by the looks they gave me. Clearly I had made some pact with a witch doctor mermaid for a death sickness in an attempt to get out of work.
My daily routine became quite predictable. Lay in bed tossing and turning, sleeping in fits, getting up and forcing food down. Cleaning and inspecting, inspecting and cleaning. Push the plane out, push the plane in. Force food down. Drink water with the quenching taste and feel of broken glass. Clean and inspect. Force the food down. Attempt to sleep. Push the plane out. Hit my head against the low ceiling. Get those fuel samples. Enjoy the remarks and the looks of every member of the ship. Climb to the top and ride the waves. Grease the pins and don’t let them drop, don’t forget every step lest the plane fall out of the sky. Push the plane around. Clean and inspect. Climb, ride, push, eat, drink, push, sleep, all the while screaming in my mind for it to just end.
Every second I wasn’t expected to work, I collapsed into some corner or another. constantly reminded of the old saying “don’t stand when you can sit, and don’t sit when you can lay down.” If I lay or sat perfectly still I could envision a life without sickness. I pored over my books in a vain attempt to flee my reality. My “show pockets” were stuffed with napkins, tissues, and anything else I could use to rid myself of the constant flow out of my nose. I’m convinced to this day an island exists somewhere in the Pacific that is a collection of all the snot I spit off the side of the ship, floating out there waiting to be discovered and marveled at by the scientific world.
Looking back, God was not without mercy during this time. For one thing, the drama queen actually functioned as it was meant to. The only thing to fix were a couple of sensors that took a few hours and actually worked (unlike so many other times, where you discover your “fix” creates several new problems as if the Helo had been blessed by a hydra). Sometimes at night the aircrew would take lawn chairs and sit out on the flight deck. Using glowsticks we’d make a “campfire” and tell ghost stories and talk about our families. Mostly we would drool over what food we would eat when we finally got back home.
Nighttime at sea is a beautiful place, the pure sky unblemished by light pollution allows you to witness the stars as if for the first time. On moonless nights you could see the bioluminescent algae glow under the wake of the ship. Occasional dolphins would trail alongside, joyfully playing with each other and reminding you of a world that existed outside of the will of harsh men. Flying fish loved to glide next to the ship, and only the most calcified hearts would not stop and wonder.
The greatest blessing though was when I managed to actually sleep. I dreamed of green places, the mountains and lush forests. I dreamed of my family and even had vague dreams of my wife, who I would not meet for another year or so. You may think this ridiculous, but to me the more remarkable thing is the juxtaposition of how my dreams, historically, tend towards the absolute horrendous. Yet, here in the place I hated most, somehow I dreamed of life and hope. I’m sure many would claim it was my subconscious trying to get me through that experience, but I would argue I have been through worse and never dreamed anything like this before, and hardly since either.
Actually, scratch that, the best mercy of all was my lack of taste, the “food” we were served each day remained remarkably edible.
Weeks passed, until one night in the middle of a good dream I was forced awake by an alarm blaring in the small berthing room. This time there was no phone alarm, as everyone suddenly jumped out of their racks and rushed to dress. Following suit, I made my way to the hangar where the rest of the air crew were already preparing to get the drama queen out again (mere hours after we put it to bed already). Adrenaline can do wondrous things, and we managed to get the helo out in record time. Like always, I swiftly found myself on the top trying to get the pins in position. The weather was fit for the scene as well, rough seas throwing the ship around like a toy, while rain pelted the deck in thick layers. Sickness or not, my body seemed to find some strength I didn’t know it had as I tried desperately to hold on. Rain slicked every surface as I fumbled for the equipment. Using the headlamp I saw the components in need of precise work in flashes and shadows. By the grace of God I managed to not fall off and scampered down. The crew had already moved on to the next step of preparation. Everyone had a look of excited expectation, even the boaties. The pilots quickly ran through the pre-flight and soon the blades were spinning up while the gunner prepped the weapons.
I suppose I have put it off long enough, and now must describe the whole reason we were there in the southern Pacific cutting endless holes in the water in the first place. HITRON2 exists to deploy a ready helicopter onboard CG ships in an attempt to pursue and interdict Go-fast boats running drugs from South America. Once a Go-Fast (what genius comes up with the names of these things anyway?) was identified, a cutter would move to intercept. As soon as it was within flight range, the helo would be deployed to make the first encounter. After trial and error, the CG found that simply firing warning shots from a machine gun in front of the bow of the Go-Fasts worked wonders. But after a while cartels realized it was unlikely that we would actually shoot to kill, and it was no longer effective. This resulted in a program designed instead to shoot and destroy the engines of the boats utilizing precision weapons. This program turned out to be very effective and is still used today, thanks in no small part to the cartel’s insistence on using cheap small engines for most of their Go-fast boats. There is a running gag that the cartels are sponsored by Yamaha because every Go-Fast seems to use Yamaha outboard engines.3
Watching the Helo spin up and take off, much faster than normally, I wondered where the drug runners were and if they had any idea what was coming. The bright orange drama queen (colored so it would be easy to spot for those in need of rescue, ironic for this mission), sped off out of sight in the thick rain and I resigned myself back inside. Soaking, I sat in a corner to feel the experience in full now that the adrenaline had worn off. Having forgotten my book, I tried to nap. Before I had a chance to fall asleep the loudspeaker announced the return of the helo. It was too soon, and I knew they hadn’t managed to accomplish anything.
The mood shifted like someone turned a switch, and everyone dragged themselves back out to the flight deck. After the helicopter landed and shut down, the pilots left without a word while the gunner put his guns back into their cases with clear frustration. It turns out what was thought to be a Go-Fast was a simple fishing boat, clearly innocent even from the NVGs4 the flight crew were using. Getting the helo back into the hanger for the second time that night proved much more laborious. The seas and storm were in full swing now, and the misery was shared between us all. Even I joined the ship and the boaties in a silent prayer that a rogue wave would sweep away the helo and spare us.
Somehow we managed, and after a long process I finally found myself back in my rack. I broke my sacred rule that I would never go to bed without a shower as the weather had already seen to that. I laid in my rack and tried to not think about anything. Not think about how most drug mules (the ones caught and arrested) are forced into trafficking drugs either by extreme poverty or the violent cartels themselves. Not think about how despite all our efforts, the Coast Guard barely took an estimated 8% of drugs out of the equation. Nothing more than a tax for the cartels. I never could escape the thought it was all a political game. Congress boasted of the “massive” drug busts using the sexy helicopters and cool snipers, all while the real epidemics of human trafficking and much worse drugs like fentanyl and heroin plagued the people of America.
There is more, much more that weighed on my mind then and even now. Operations and events that I’m ashamed to have been involved in or associated with. Unfortunately some things I’m not legally able to discuss and never will be. On the bright side, at least this gives me the allure of mystique I so direly lack given my penchant towards indiscretion (AKA, “Regarding the Irony”).
Tried all I could against it, I felt the bitterness grow within me like acid. I cursed that naive child who signed up thinking he would save lives and help people. After almost seven years I had managed to help virtually nobody, and never once felt any real confirmation as to why the Lord called me to do this. Seven years of hardship, mockery, and misery I wouldn’t desire for anyone. All for what? I wish I could say I took it all in stride, and ‘manned up’ and got through it. Instead I was furious with everything, everyone, and myself. Worst of all, I was furious with God.
Eventually I fell into an exhausted sleep. No green dreams found me that night.
More days passed much the same, existing in a world I was afraid I could never escape, and all hopes of honoring God left long since. The sickness didn’t get much better, but I did grow more accustomed to it, like growing numb to a nail stuck two inches in my forehead. Understandably, that sickness was probably the only living thing onboard the ship that liked me.
Eventually, despite all evidence and belief otherwise, I did escape. Though escape for me meant an adventure I have not, nor will I ever forget…
Endnotes
- SIQ: sick in quarters. A rarely given right to those sick or injured enough to not have to work for a designated time. Like most things in life, it’s ruined by those select few people who abuse the system. Almost any interaction with SIQ is a lose-lose situation for the participant. ↩︎
- HITRON: Helicopter Interdiction Tactical Squadron. I’m sure some officer is real proud of that little number they came up with. If only it’s operational warfighter badassery of a name wasn’t so diametrically opposed by the ‘US Coast Guard’ that proceeds it’s title. ↩︎
- IT’S JUST A JOKE YAHAHA! Y’all make incredible and affordable engines! There is ABSOLUTELY no need to sic your lawyers on me. Let’s be honest Mr. Yamaha representative, nobody is reading this thing anyway. ↩︎
- The NVGs (night vision goggles) we used at the time were quite outdated, and had a very limited field of view. Before I left HITRON we did adopt new white phosphor goggles and it was remarkable to see the improvement. Anyone who has used NVGs for more than five minutes knows how uncomfortable and frustrating they are to use, something no movie I’ve ever witness get right. ↩︎
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