Sing it, Willie!

"On the road again,
Just can't wait to get on the road again..."

Carol and I are heading out later this week to reprise our vacation from last year. We have lots of driving planned, so stand by for the price of gas to leap up in the next few days.

We'll leave Texas heading east on I-10 for Florida, take a right on I-75 and cruise on into Tampa to visit Christina, husband Johnny and our grandson Trevor. We'll spend the Labor Day weekend there, likely enjoy the Gulf beach at least one day, take lots of pictures and videos of the grandson to bring home to show his GREAT-grandma (Carol's mom), and then drive off north to Georgia for some camping and really pretty golf courses.

Sounding familiar yet?

Then we'll drive north for a day and a half to the Chicago area to visit our OTHER daughter and her husband, spend a long weekend with them, and then it's back to Texas and all the work that'll have piled up in my absence.

But before I get back we will be spending considerable time. . .

(Sing it some more, Willie!)

On the road again
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world be turnin' our way
And our way
Is on the road again.

HOW hot???

No, not that hot! Really!

Although the picture above was taken today, and is NOT "retouched" or altered in Photoshop, it wasn't really that hot in Victoria.

I took this at about 8:00 this morning when the low sun was still hitting the back of the thermometer. Normally it's in the shade; or at least during the heat of the day. The temp was really only in the low 80s when I took this shot.

But hey, it FELT that hot later in the afternoon when we were out on the golf course!

Anyway, it reminded me of a classic poem which (ahem) I wrote a couple of years ago during a Texas heat wave. Since some of you may have forgotten it, or others may not have seen it, in complete humility (guffaw!) I will now reprise it for your reading pleasure.

The sun is hot as blazes. It’s summer here, for sure.
The air felt like a furnace blast when I walked out the door.
I’ve put this off for far too long, I need to mow the grass.
The neighbors look and shake their heads, sure that I’m low-class.

The grass and weeds are climbing high, obscuring now the house.
I see the yards on either side, and feel just like a louse.
The folks around here keep their lawns all manicured and neat.
Makes my place look abandoned, it’s the worst lot on this street.

All week the sun’s been shining, hot, since Monday’s heavy rains.
I would have (should have) mowed on Thursday, if I’d had the brains.
On Thursday after work the air was cooler with some breeze,
But now I see no movement in the branches on the trees.

I mount my trusty mower—(at least I get to sit!
I used to push a walk-behind, until it finally quit.
But then we bought the riding kind, much better when it’s hot.
‘Cause, after all, my house sits on a two-thirds-acre lot!)

With sweat already trickling down I move to the attack,
I wonder; should I start out in the front, or in the back?
The trees out front provide more shade; I think I’ll start out there.
A wimp, you say? Well, maybe so, but that’s not really fair.

I mean, it REALLY HOT out here, the grass is really high.
In fact, I’m not sure where I am; can hardly see the sky.
I’d started out across the lawn; by now I should have crossed it.
I wonder if I’m riding round in circles. Have I lost it?

It’s getting dark. I wonder if we’re going to have a storm.
The air seems full of smoke and dust, this surely ain’t the norm.
I smell a smell like rotten eggs, but keep the mower mowing.
I’ve GOT to reach the street out front if I just keep on going.

Ah wait! What’s that? I think I see a figure just ahead.
Looks like a man. But why’s he dressed from head to toe in red?
Could it be Santa Claus, the elf, the jolly Christmas giver?
But then I noticed horns and tail! I realized (with a shiver,)

That this could be none other than Beelzebub, old Ned!
I wondered if, in all this heat, I’d passed out and was dead!
But surely I’d not be in Hell! By Jesus I’ve been saved!
Just then the devil turned to me. He stared and then he raved.

“I wanted a vacation from my home down under ground.
I’d heard that up in Texas, many pleasures could be found.
But here I am, and all I find is weather just like there.
I wanted someplace cooler, and this just isn’t fair!

“It’s only May in Texas, and the summer ain’t till June!
That’s why I didn’t come up later; why I came so soon.
I thought it would be diff’rent, but as only I can tell,
I’m going back right now because it’s hotter here than Hell!”

A clap of thunder shook the ground. The devil disappeared.
The sun was out, the smoke was gone. T’was not, as I had feared,
The end of Earth, the end of me; but rather the finale
Of a Saturday night nightmare! T’was morning—time to rally!

I looked outside and saw the grass was only inches high.
The sun shone pale through morning mist, low in the eastern sky.
I didn’t read the forecast or the almanac to see,
For I knew on good authority just how hot it would be!

Well, it worked

Guess where Dean is headed, in his much weakened state?

To the mountains of Mexico!

(Thank you, Lord.)

If a major storm had come to Texas after months of rains have soaked the ground, we'd have had trees down everywhere. Many through homes, more than likely. Maybe one through MY home!

Anyway, we dodged a major artillery shell (not just a bullet) in Dean veering off.

Whew!

"Blow, Wind, Blow . . .

. . . And go, mill, go.

That the miller may grind his corn.

So the Baker may take it,

And into bread make it,

And bring me a loaf in the morn!"

Remember that one? That's one of the nursery rhymes we used to read to our children when they were children. (And now they are HAVING children!)

I have that particular rhyme on my mind for two reasons.

First, because it's so hot and humid here (South Texas) in August and we like to play golf in the afternoon on the weekends. Plus we like to WALK the couse, not ride around in electric carts. In the absence of any (or appreciable) breeze or wind, walking soon becomes intollerable. Today I was soaked all over, couldn't keep a golf glove dry, and kept toweling my face to prevent the sweat from running into my eyes. No fun.

So I found myself reciting that rhyme.

But the second reason is because we've been watching the track of humongous Hurricane Dean across the Carribbean heading right toward Texas! (Actually, as I type this the very latest projection has Dean entering Mexico just south of Brownsville, TX, on Wednesday. That's be fine with me!) In hopes that my wishing for some wind might, in fact, cause the storm to go away, I've been chanting,

"Blow, wind, blow.

And go, storm go!

Blow yourself out where no one gets hurt

In the mountains of Mexico!"

Seems to be working. For now.

Dichotomy?

In my last post I made the comment that "mining disasters happen." As several commenters pointed out, s**t does happen. And it's not always somebody's fault.

I believe strongly in personal responsibility. I think a lot of what's wrong with our society today can be traced back to our too-prevalent victim mentality; one that says, "It's not my fault -- I came from a dysfunctional family -- the education system failed to teach me -- it's all that negative peer pressure -- the devil made me do it -- etc."

I try to accept responsibility for my actions. If I wrong someone, I try to make it right. I believe in restitution if I damage someone's property. I deplore the knee-jerk reaction of many to file a lawsuit, just to get some easy money. The attitude that says, "Sure, the lawyers will get most of it, but hey, chances are the other side will settle just to avoid the cost of defending the suit (the damage to their professional reputation, loss of future business, and so on), and the lawyer says he'll take the case on contingency. It won't cost me anything if I don't win. All I gotta do is wear this neck brace for a few monhts, and I won't have to work for years!"

So where's the dichotomy in that?

I've been reading about the latest space shuttle (Endeavor) damaged tile incident. I find myself beginning to wonder who's responsible for the system of heat-shielding tiles that are so delicate that insulating foam can destroy them.

This is a system that a number of lives depend upon. A system that, the last time it failed, caused the fiery spectacle of Columbia breaking into flaming pieces over Texas. Now they're saying that foam caused the latest tile breakage . . . AGAIN!

Now I understand that the folks who fly in the shuttle know they are taking a deadly risk. Every time I allowed my F-4 Phantom jet to be fired off the front end of the Forrestal I knew I was taking a deadly risk. But I was well trained, and able to evaluate and minimize that risk to a point. But with aircraft accidents, once an investigation determined that a design flaw caused a fatality (or even a potential one), the design flaw was corrected.

Why aren't the tiles adequately shielded from the foam and ice that clearly does break off of the external fuel tank? Or a better heat shield system developed? Or a different tank insulation system (that won't break off and cause the damage) developed? Too expensive? Too heavy? Some other reason(s)?

A report in "Science Daily" says, "National Aeronautics and Space Administration controllers in Houston said the damage to a small section of Endeavour's heat shield poses no threat to crew safety or mission operations."

Why am I not reassured? Why am I wanting to find out who is making these decisions? And hold them responsible if the worst happens to Endeavor?

Is there a dichotomy in all this? Am I guilty of a double standard?

Could be. I read in the morning paper that some are now blaming a practice called "retreat mining" for the Utah collapse. This practice has been used for decades, and the risks of collapse can be minimized. But the article implies that greed is the culprit -- the desire of the mining company to get all the coal they possibly can even at the expense of safety for the miners. I find myself reluctant to blame the mine owners. . . yet.

Meanwhile I pray that the crew of Endeavor is not harmed on re-entry due to this tile damage. But the thought that they might be makes me want to find a "responsible party" and string him up.

Just could be a dichotomy there.

Buried Alive? – No Hope?

(Earworm warning!)

If you’ve been following the news for the last week about the coal mine shaft collapse in Utah, you’ll know what I’m writing about. If not . . . well, get a newspaper.

Mine disasters happen. It’s not always the fault of greedy mine owners and companies taking safety shortcuts to enhance their profits, despite what Hollywood would have us believe. Sometimes, sure. In this case, perhaps. Last I heard it still wasn’t clear whether the seismic activity preceded, followed, or might have caused the collapse.

Most of us can feel a twinge of horror when we think of the emotional state of any surviving miners trapped in the silent, cold, blind bowels of the earth. Trying to keep hope alive. Praying, but silently as they listen for the faintest tap or whir that might signal a rescue attempt coming. Then there are the families and friends of the miners; also praying and hoping against hope for life and rescue, but silently praying that if rescue be impossible, death was quick and painless.

Whenever I hear of a mining incident I’m reminded of two songs of my (long past) youth relating to such events. These songs capture, for me, a sense of all I’m writing about today. Both were performed with haunting, distinctive harmonies.

New York Mining Disaster 1941
Bee Gees

In the event of something happening to me,
There is something I would like you all to see.
It's just a photograph of someone that I knew.

Have you seen my wife, Mr. Jones?
Do you know what it's like on the outside?
Don't go talking too loud, you'll cause a landslide, Mr. Jones.

I keep straining my ears to hear a sound.
Maybe someone is digging underground,
Or have they given up and all gone home to bed,
Thinking those who once existed must be dead.


Ballad of Spring Hill (Spring Hill Disaster)
Peggy Seeger/Ewan MacColl
Performed by Peter, Paul and Mary

In the town of Spring Hill, Nova Scotia,
Down in the heart of the Cumberland Mine,
There's blood on the coal and miners lie
In the roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads that never saw sun or sky.

Down at the coal face the miner's workin'
Rattle of the belt and the cutter's blade
Crumble of rock and the walls close round
Living and the dead men two miles down
Living and the dead men two miles down

Twelve men lay two miles from the pitshaft
Listen for the drillin' of a rescue team
Six hundred feet of coal and slag
Hope imprisoned in a three-foot seam
Hope imprisoned in a three-foot seam

Eight days passed and some were rescued
Leaving the dead to lie alone
All their lives they dug their graves
Two miles of earth for a markin' stone
Two miles of earth for a markin' stone

In the town of Spring Hill you don't sleep easy
Often the Earth will tremble and groan
When the Earth is restless, miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal

If you’ve heard them, you’ll know what I mean.

It’s almost ironic that the Bee Gees also recorded a disco icon; completely unrelated to what I’m about today, except for the title.

“Stayin’ Alive”

Resurrection!

A new motherboard, and he's good as . . . well, NEW!

I'm pleased to report that all peripherals are re-connected, up and running. All internals seem to check out. Nothing was lost from the hard drives or the backup.

The Dell technician did it all in about 90 minutes. It was old hat for him. I tried not to let my awe show too much.

So, bottom line is: I suffered the inconvenience of having to share the laptop with Carol (much to her disgust) for 3 days. Not a penny out-of-pocket. And now Carol is much happier to haver HER machine all to herself again.

Not bad, Dell!

A Personal Tragedy

As many of my regular readers will remember, we had a new addition to my family back in April. We were thrilled at his arrival, and marveled at each stage of his rapid development as week after week we discovered new facets of his personality and capabilities.

Well, I am sad to relate that he passed away very suddenly this past Saturday between 11:00 am and 4:30 pm. Carol and I were out of the house when it happened, so I don’t know exactly what caused his demise. It didn’t appear that he suffered.

I’m talking, of course, about my new, state of the art Dell desktop computer. The one with the dual-core processor, more memory than Einstein, a 250 GB hard drive that was running Windows Vista.

When I left, he was running Firefox browser displaying the weather.com interactive weather map. When I returned, the monitor was still showing the web site. That’s unusual, since the system is set to go into “power save” mode after 30 minutes of inactivity.

I sat down and wiggled the mouse to find the cursor. Nothing happened. I used the “Windows” and the tab keys to switch between open applications. Nothing.

Thinking to myself, “Boy, this thing is frozen up big time,” I tried the antepenultimate solution to all Windows computer problems: I hit control-alt-delete.

Nothing happened!

Well, when all else fails . . . pull the plug! That action (forced re-boot) will solve the vast majority of computer problems. So I gritted my teeth, reached around to the back of the cabinet and literally pulled the plug!

Finally! Something happened. The monitor went dark, the fan stopped blowing, and all signs of life disappeared. Satisfied, I waited about a count of ten, and plugged the monster back in. An amber light appeared in the power button on the front, and the fan started blowing. But nothing else. No beeps or boops. No reboot. Just an amber light and the fan blowing.

NOW what?

HEY! This thing is still in warranty!

Down to the last (ultimate) possible solution (short of just buying a new machine), I called Dell’s 800 warranty number and punched in my machine’s service tag code. A very courteous technician named Jeff asked me questions and requested that I perform several actions for him. Then several more. Then more. (No, these were not what you’re thinking, though they DID require some contortions.)

By now I had all peripherals disconnected and nothing but the power cord plugged into the machine. Jeff then asked me to open it up. At his direction I unplugged the cables inside the box from the hard drive, the DVD drive, the sound and video cards, and more. I removed the memory strips, reducing the machine to the status of an idiot. I took out the PCI cards. Then I plugged in the power one more time.

Still no lights or diagnostic beeps.

At 5:45 pm Jeff declared the machine officially dead.

To Dell’s credit, Jeff was apologetic and empathetic. He told me he would order me a new power supply, complete motherboard, and diagnostics panel. The problem was unlikely to involve all of those components, but it might involve more than one of them so he would just replace them all. They were to be shipped to my home overnight, and upon their arrival a technician would be dispatched to install them for me.

That’s the “in home” warranty service they brag about. I, for one, am impressed.

Bottom line: the “Conspiracy” wins this round in terms of causing me some inconvenience, but since it couldn’t wait 8 more months until the warranty had run out, it didn’t cost me any real money. HA!

(Victories over the Conspiracy, always minor and fleeting, are rare and thus sweet to the taste. And at least I had Carol’s laptop to use in this pinch. Now if the “C” will just leave her laptop alone for a few more days . . .)

Additional wildlife

First -- and I know you're all dying to know this -- that spider on yesterday's post is known as an "orb weaver." Pretty arachnid with a pretty name. Reminds me of the old song "Dream Weaver" by Gary Wright, but that's for another post.

In any case, this spider is most welcome to help us stem the tide of mosquitoes bound to come swarming after our record rains. Speaking of which, it rained again today.

At the plant where I work we keep a small weather station to measure rainfall, wind direction and speed, and so on. The rainfall during July was right at 20 inches, which is half of our average rainfall for an entire year. Such rain tends to bring out all sorts of creatures from the weeds and brush.

One example, seen this morning, was this little guy.


He was in what is normally a cow pasture, right beside our plant entrance road, gliding through the weeds.


How big was he? Well, he was smaller than his cousin who we found inside the plant last week. We called the local game wardens to come and safely collect this protected animal. The took him to a place where both he and the people in our plant won't come in contact with one another and he can live a normal life in the local wetlands. Here's the cousin I'm talking about:

(Note the webbed feet?)

Anyway, it's not these little guys we're really worried about, it's their mother who may be lurking deeper in those same weeds.

Ooooo -- Spider!!

In our backyard. Kinda pretty, unless you're predisposed to shun creepy-crawlies.

Here. Check him (her?) out up-close. I can't say honestly that he "wouldn't hurt a fly," but he certainly wouldn't hurt YOU!

(Photos courtesy of Carol)

And then, against my better judgement, I'll post the following email joke that's making the rounds. If you have (or even if you haven't) already seen it, I apologize. It's horribly "politically incorrect."

THE GAY FLIGHT ATTENDANT

My flight was being served by an obviously gay flight attendant, who seemed to put everyone in a good mood as he served us food and drinks.

As the plane prepared to descend, he came swishing down the aisle and told us that "Captain Marvey has asked me to announce that he'll be landing the big scary plane shortly, so lovely people, if you could just put your trays up, that would be super."

On his trip back up the aisle, he noticed this well-dressed and rather Arabic looking woman hadn't moved a muscle.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me over those big brute engines, but I asked you to raise your trazy-poo, so the main man can pitty-pat us on the ground."

She calmly turned her head and said, "In my country, I am called a Princess and I take orders from no one."

To which (I swear) the flight attendant replied, without missing a beat, "Well, sweet-cheeks, in my country I'm called a Queen, so I outrank you.

Tray-up, B*tch."

No rain for 24 hours

But then we had a little shower this morning, and there's more rain around right now.

In fact, as I typed that last sentence we began to hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

Oh well. We didn't really want to try to play golf today on a soggy, muddy golf course, did we?

(We actually . . . kind of . . . thought that . . . maybe . . . we did. Not now, though.) Alternatively I thought I might get out this afternoon and try to mow the 8-inch-tall grass (and weeds) in the dryer spots. But since the thunder is getting louder there soon won't BE any dryer spots, sounds like.

Looks like another indoors afternoon.

SIGH.

A Happy Ending . . . THIS time!

Bob, one of our employees, came to my office yesterday and said he needed some help.

Wednesday’s mail had brought him a notice from the IRS. According to the letter, he owed them $2,544 (including interest and penalties) from underpaying his 2005 taxes.

The only explanation: records indicated he had received a distribution from Mercer that he had not reported.

Oh, and the last paragraph mentioned, by the way, that if immediate payment was not received by the IRS by August 17, legal action against his assets would be taken.

Why was Bob coming to ME? Well, Mercer had been the record keeper of our 401(k) accounts (under a prior company owner) until April, 2005. Most of us had rolled over our 401(k) accounts to new ones under the new company, but Bob had about $6,000 in after-tax money in his account, so he took it out in cash and rolled over the rest.

That shouldn’t have had any tax consequences for Bob. He told me he knew he still had his copy of the 1099 from Mercer showing no tax was owed. He just wondered if I had a contact at Mercer he could call to find out what they’d sent to the IRS.

I didn’t have a contact PERSON, but I had a toll-free phone number!

Bob brought in the 1099 and a copy of his old account statement. (Note – always keep all financial records for at least 3 years!) Armed with that, we quickly learned from Mercer that all they had reported to the IRS was the total amount of his distribution, NOT whether or not it was taxable.

Next I had Bob call the IRS. It took him nearly a half-hour to get to the person who could actually help him, but finally he managed.

The result?

IRS: “Do you have your copy of the 1099?”

Bob: “Yes, it’s right here.”

IRS: “What is the amount showing in box 2A?”

Bob: “Zero.”

IRS: “Okay. That’s all we needed. We assumed that distribution was taxable, but it wasn’t. Your case will be shown as resolved and you don’t owe anything. Thank you for contacting us. Goodbye.”

They didn’t demand a copy; they just took his word for it and wiped out his phony “underpayment” along with the penalties and interest they had already applied. Kinda. “Wham, Bam, Thank-you Ma’am.”

SO, why didn’t they just ASK for a copy of the Form 1099 to be sure before they sent him the nasty “Pay us or else!” letter?

Because they’re the IRS, and they didn’t HAVE to.

Right?

Right. (So much for “a kindler, gentler IRS.”)

Feast or famine

I look outside my room and see,
Hard rain a-streaming down.
The ditches fill, huge puddles form
Upon the sodden ground.

Low thunder growls and rumbles round
As sudden flashes pop.
I wonder when we’ll see the sun.
When will this pattern stop?

I check the radar hoping for
Relief from flooding, noxious.
But all around the map is green
With red and yellow splotches.

It’s been this way for many weeks
With hardly e’re a respite.
As if our weather were controlled
By some malignant despot.

Yet some, not far, are desperate for
The rain that we’ve been “blessed” with.
I wonder if, as some now claim,
Our climate has been “messed with.”

But surely all this flood and drought
That draws so much attention,
Is only just a local thing,
And not of global mention?

Oops! Sorry all. I’ve pledged to you,
This blog WON’T BE political!
So I won’t preach my theories here,
Lest I be hypocritical!

I’ll leave you now with just this thought,
(And hope the weather heeds it,)
May the sun please send this rain away,
(And straight to him who needs it!)

A very personal manifestation

Several of you have expressed sympathy for my current back pain.

Thank you.

Others have pointed out that Southernbelle, in her post of July 10, has let me know in no uncertain terms that there's no one to blame for my current misery but myself.

Why?

Well, I'm the one who keeps writing about the famous "C." (Oh, heck, why should I play coy? It's already attacking me—I'll name it! The CONSPIRACY!!)

We've all known its ability to make our lives miserble through its attacks on our plumbing, electricity, appliances, cars, home electronics, and other so-called "inanimate" objects, right? Well, Southernbelle let us all know that our own bodies are not safe from the effects of this blight!

Her maifestation was neck pain. Then, not a week later, I got this unexplained lower back affliction. I wasn't exerting, lifting, twisting, reaching, bending, or any of those typical activities that people blame for a sore back. It just hit me!

All I had done was try to notify the blogosphere about the danger of this . . . this . . . malignancy!

Ah, well, the cross I must bear.

So, if any of you doubt the power of the "C," I just hope its manifestation in YOUR life isn't as personal as this current one is in mine.

(Don't tell the "C," but I think I AM on the mend. I can actually bend at the waist today far enough to put my shoes on.

That's a big improvement!)

Headline and lead story this morning...

In my local newspaper. Really! You can see it online at www.vicad.com.

And yes, the golf course mentioned below is where we usually play.

(Of course, with my lower back pain I wouldn't be playing any golf this weekend even if the course were playable, so . . .)


WETTEST JULY ON RECORD

A few Victoria businesses thrive, some survive and others dive during record rainfall this month.

July 21, 2007 - Posted at 12:00 a.m.
BY DAVID TEWES - VICTORIA ADVOCATE

This month is already the rainiest July on record in Victoria, but Steve Dermit doesn't need a rain gauge to know it has been wet.As manager of the Riverside Golf Course, he's gauging the amount of rain based on how few customers have been showing up.

"It's devastating for us," he said. "When we get rained out, we don't have any players. When we don't have any players, we don't have any revenue."

Dermit said the silver lining is that the grass on the golf course is nice and green.


(Note to all of you who are suffering from unusually dry conditions : Sorry!)

No posts for a week?

Sorry.

I've been contacted by several people wondering if I'm all right. The short answer is, not really.

Last Sunday my lower back started hurting. I didn't do anything I'm aware of to precipitate it, it just became uncomfortable to sit in one position for very long. On Monday afternoon it felt better and I thought I was on the mend.

Nope.

By Wednesday it was getting quite bothersome, and yesterday and today I've been barely able to get around.

I've been struggling in to work every day because we're busy right now, I had interview appointments with several job applicants this week, and I hated to put them off.

Greg, if you're reading this, see how dedicated I am? (Greg is my boss, in case you didn't know.)

Anyway, I've been too busy at work to type out a post (Greg, not that I would EVER do that during work time -- just on a break!), and at home the last thing I want to do is sit in front of the computer for any length of time.

I'll be back. Soon, I hope. Carol is giving me lots of TLC, although she keep making comments about me being invalid. No, not being "an invalid," but being invalid.

I THINK she's making a joke.

Maybe.

Surely . . .

Remember those green herons?

The babies (now full grown "adults") are still hanging around.

We spotted one of them today not far from where the nest had been.

You can't tell from this shot, but he's standing in shallow water looking for some dinner.

OH! It looks like he's spotted something! I wonder if . . .

HA! Look at that neck extend!

How do they DO that?

I used to do this...

In an F-4 Phantom. On the USS Forrestal. A lot of years ago.

This guy does a decent job of giving you an idea of what it's like.

Night Carrier Qualifications
By Lt. j.g. Doug Masters
June 2007

A Navy pilot's tale of his first landing on the boat in the dark.

As the last guys finish their dinner, we all look at each other with similar glances. Not a word needs to be said but everyone is thinking the exact same thing. The expressions say it all. It's time to walk upstairs and play ball. We've been preparing ourselves for this for years now, and it's what sets a Naval Aviator apart from every other pilot in the world. If you can't do it, the years of training leading up to this point are no good to you. As one of our paddles said, if you can't succeed at this you're useless to us as a Hornet pilot because we fly, and fight, in the dark. We have to go land this thing on the boat. At night.

We've all been behind the boat during the day. You do it in the training command in the mighty T-45. It's nerve-wracking the first few times, but once you get over the initial nerves and start getting the hang of operating around the ship it becomes a lot of fun. Day CQ in the Hornet was even better. We'd all been here before and were looking forward to coming back. Landing on the boat is what we do as Naval Aviators. It's one of the most amazing things you can experience, yet it's one of the smallest clubs in aviation. It's something you can do well, but never perfect.

Every single pass is critiqued by the Landing Signal Officers (LSOs), and you're graded no matter what your rank or who you are. Being good around the boat is what everyone prides themselves on. Now it was our turn. Time to really join the club, and prove that we can do this safely, with the sun down.

We all walk upstairs with the normal banter and ribbing that's become the norm, poking fun at each other and cracking jokes. Up several decks we get to our level and make our way to the ready room. On the television the deck cameras are up and we can all see that it really is game time. The airplane guard helo is gone (meaning airborne), and it's dark. How dark isn't quite apparent yet.

I take one last look at the line up, double-check my jet assignment and walk to maintenance control like I've done hundreds of times before this. A quick flip through the book and a few jokes with the Chief gets me familiar with prior gripes to possibly expect with my particular jet, then I head to the paraloft. It's business as usual below decks. If you never get outside you can really lose track of what the world out there is doing, but it's at the forefront of my mind tonight. I suit up in my flight gear as normal, make sure I've got my clear nighttime visor on my helmet, and I'm off. The walk through the ship is very typical until I finally hit the catwalk hatch taking me outside. It's dark.

I stand still for a second after securing the hatch to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, and the hint of yellow sodium vapor lighting from the island. It takes a minute to realize there is no adjustment. It's dark. The middle of the ocean under a moonless sky is like the inside of a bottle of ink inside a sealed vault. The best way to describe it is to walk into your closet with all the lights in your house off, at night, then blindfold yourself.

As I step up the catwalk I realize the tail-end of a Superhornet is over my head, as well as a 70-foot drop to the water to my left. They're packed like sardines up here. They're also turning, and I need to get to the other side of the deck. My senses peak out of pure self-preservation. I'm instantly aware of everything going on within 50 yards of me, and it's a lot. I don't need to walk into a prop or a tailpipe. Something else becomes readily apparent. I'm getting wet. "What the .... ?" Well, if we're gonna do this, might as well pull out all the stops.

As I step up to my jet, I eye it over as best I can in the dim orange light. The airplane captain greets me in the dark, and introduces himself with a salute and a handshake. There's actually a calming effect. Something familiar. A familiar face from the beach. Whatever it is, the tension is eased slightly as I do my abbreviated preflight. Abbreviated because the back half of my jet is out over the side of the ship. Looks good from here, time to man up and get out of the rain.

Canopy down, I'm strapped in, the jet is up and running with a solid INS alignment and no real problems.

Let's do this.

"Tower, 303 up and ready, 38,000 pounds."
Okay. Done this too. Cricket, cricket. Damn, wrong freq. I get the appropriate freq channelized and check-in with the Air Boss. Seconds later my jet is swarmed by brown shirts breaking down all the chains and tiedowns.

My airplane captain passes off control to a set of yellow glowing wands (the handlers) and gives me a salute with a "good luck" look on his face. Great, was the nervousness that obvious? The handler gives me the signal to start rolling forward, and with little twitches left and right squeezes me past a few other jets on deck before handing me off to another set of wands down the flight deck towards the catapult.

Several sets of wands later I'm parked behind the jet blast deflector (JBD), which is up protecting me from the jet 20 feet ahead that's at full grunt about to be shot off the front of the boat. I marvel at the choreography that's gotten me to this point. Somehow I've managed to fit into this silent dance (with two left feet) that is the moving of jets around a moving flight deck, which is launching and recovering aircraft simultaneously, at night, without a word ever being said, and mainly by guys and girls not even old enough to legally drink.

As the JBD comes down, I double-check my trim settings, radar altimeter set to alert me to any settle off the front of the ship, double-check my ejection seat is armed, all radios, navaids and datalink are turned on. My three multifunction displays are all set appropriately, and I continue to taxi onto the catapult. I roger up the weight board for the jet's weight with a circular motion from my little flashlight (too dark for hand signals) and the holdback is attached to my nose gear. The holdback is what physically restrains the jet from rolling forward at full power, but breaks free when the catapult fires.

I spread the wings and continue to taxi forward to set the holdback. The launch bar comes down, and I'm directed to roll forward a few more feet. Then it comes -- the signal to take tension. With a familiar "thunk" I feel the launch bar drop into the shuttle as I advance the throttles to full power. The jet squats down under the strain of the engines, I wipe out the flight controls and run through my take-off checks one last time; I'm also rehearsing my "settle off the catapult" procedures should the worst happen, and touching the ejection handle to make sure it's not folded under my leg or something. With a check of the flight control page, the trim settings are correct, no computer problems and check list complete; now a repeater of the head-up display is brought up on the left MFD, a repeater of the attitude indicator on the right. Should something happen on the cat I've got four redundancies of the jet's attitude now staring at me. I should also add that from the JBD coming down to me takin g the catapult has all taken place in about 25 seconds.

With the jet at full power, just shy of the afterburners, and a quick triple-checking glance, I look left at the catapult officer and give him a salute. Not really for him, he can't even see me, it's too dark. More so for my own familiarity. With my pinky finger on the throttles I click forward the exterior light master switch, and the deck comes alive with the light of the form lights, red and green nav lights, and strobes. This is the official salute that I'm ready.

Left palm open and pressed against the throttles (so I don't inadvertently pull them back from the force of the cat shot), right hand up on the canopy grip, and I press my head back against the seat looking forward down the cat. The only light in front of me is the green cat status light. I'm about to be shot into a black rainy sky, why? With that thought the jet squats again and then it comes. WHAM! I slam the throttle to full afterburner and stare at the airspeed to make sure I see three digits by the end of the cat stroke. Over the span of the next 310 feet and roughly two seconds, myself and my jet have accelerated to over 175 knots. At least that was the last speed I saw prior to the jolt of coming off the front of the ship. It almost hurts. As the jet rotates itself to a nice climb attitude I grab the stick, raise the gear and pull the throttles out of blower. You know what? It's freakin' dark out here.

I make my airborne call and get switched over to marshal. Kind of like approach control for the ship. I also realize that I'm in the weather, and it's dark. This sucks.
I check in and my marshal instructions are immediately force-fed to me.

"303 take angels 7, marshal mom's 310, expected final bearing 124, expected approach time two one."

If they could see me right now, they'd probably wipe the drool off my chin as my brain tries to remember what was just said. Amazed at myself for actually catching all that, I climb to 7,000 feet and point myself northwest.

The marshal distance is a function of altitude to keep things simple. Add 15 to your marshal altitude. I've got my radar looking out in front of me, and before long there are several hits on my radar in front of me, above and below.

It's the marshal stack. This is a good thing as it means I'm going to the right place, those hits are my friends out there already established in holding and I get warm and fuzzy. As I look down at my clock and speed up to roughly 400 knots, I realize my push time is three minutes away, and I'm 30 miles away. Not gonna happen. I request a new push, and establish myself in holding. For the next few minutes I've got "comfort time," which really is just used to think about what I'm about to try and accomplish.

Something finally goes my way when I hit my marshal fix at exactly 22 miles just as the clock ticks through my push time.

"Marshal 303 commencing, state 7.4, altimeter 29.75."

"Roger turn right 150."

"Sweet," I think to myself. Vectors means I don't have to fly the full arcing approach. As I descend I keep checking my radar altimeter bug and rolling it down. More than a few guys have lost track of what they were doing and flown themselves into the water, after all, it's a dark black hole out here. Especially in the weather. With a quick glance at my weight I see I'm a few hundred pounds above max trap weight. Perfect, I'll arrive behind the boat right at max trap weight. No need to dump gas to lighten up. As I get vectored behind the ship for a datalink approach (an ILS of sorts), I level off at 1,200 feet and realize I'm out of the weather. How can I tell? There's a light off to my left at about 14 miles. I have to land on it.

They did studies in Vietnam, and guys had higher pulses and blood pressures behind the boat at night after a mission than they did when they were getting shot at. I now know why-it's dark out here. There are a lot of things that can go wrong. Back into the weather I go as I get a quick turn to final and intercept the ACLS, which brings me down to about 1,000 feet before it drops lock.

"303 negative needles, negative bullseye." This night just got better.

"Roger continue, reattempt lock on at 2 miles."

"Yeah, sure," I say out loud to myself, and I continue down using the tacan radial to navigate. Just then I break out and see out in front of me a flashing red light, amongst the 12 or so lights I can see that comprise the postage stamp out in the distance I'm supposed to land on.
It's the laser line up behind the boat telling me I'm left of course, of course. Why drop lock on centerline? Well, I can solve line up, there's a start. With a steady amber light telling me I'm lined up with the ship now, I just work to get "on the ball." At a mile approach finally just gives up with the ACLS.

"303, ¾ of a mile, call the ball."

"303 Hornet Ball, 6.9."

With a calm "roooger ball" the familiar voice of paddles takes the edge off a little. I'm working the strongest crosswind I've ever experienced in my 25 trap career, flying the ball out the left side of the canopy, rather than through the HUD like normal. This sucks, and it's flippin' dark out here. As I fight line up I can feel the burble that the ship's aerodynamic wake puts out as I approach the ramp, and the ball reflects this as I try to fly my head through the four-foot window it represents.

The "ball" is a yellow light between a set of green horizontal datums. It represents your position to the appropriate glideslope. Above the datums you're high, below you're low. At the start of the pass at three-quarters of a mile, from full high to full low is about 21 feet of altitude. At the ramp it's about four feet. Right at the wires, each cell of the ball represents nine inches (so says paddles).

I bring on the power to stop the settle. As the ball starts to sag in close I bring on more power and in my peripheral vision I can see I'm over steel. A few split seconds and a few more power corrections as I stare down the ball staring back at me and a familiar WHAM. I touch down with a rate of descent of around 900 feet per minute, enough to destroy most other airplanes. I bend the throttles over the stops going to full afterburner, but I'm greeted with a familiar feeling of being slammed forward in my straps as I slow from 145 knots to zero in about two seconds. With the jet at a stop, and the blowers still blazing, I throttle back and hear the one thing I reminded myself not to do.

"Lights on deck."

DAMN! Lights come off on deck at night. Lights on indicates an emergency and I told myself to remember that. It's just not part of the habit pattern during the day. At least not yet for me. This is all in the two seconds since I've stopped of course, but I'm still irritated. With a familiar yank backwards the wire drops away from the tail hook, I see some yellow wands giving me the hook-up sign. I roll out of the landing area, folding my wings and cleaning up the cockpit (resetting flaps, trim, my radalt, etc).

Thirty seconds later I'm sitting behind the JBD , takeoff checks partly complete, trim set, with the jet in front of me at full tilt ready to be shot. Happy to still be alive, I think about the last pass, and how I can better energize the jet, and where I need to make power corrections to fly a better pass. Then the JBD drops, and some yellow wands in the darkness start motioning for me forward onto the catapult. It's dark up there, and I have to do this about a half-dozen more times. This is going to be a long night.

John R. Nelson
2210 E. Timberlake W Dr.
Shelton,WA. 98584-7931

An International Incident?

Michelle from South Africa has returned following a 2+ week absence from her blog.

She actually blames ME for the events in her life! Can you IMAGINE?!?

Her tale is worth a look, especially for Jan, who is also mentioned.

You'll just have to go there to find out what it's all about (Alfie).

You know you're dying to know. So go already. Bye!

Drought?

During the week Carol often walks at the local mall in the mornings.

Why? Well, for exercise. It keeps her slim and trim. But I think there's another reason -- it's her chance to interact with other people who walk at the same time.

This arrangement offers several advantanges. If she wants to slow down and walk along with others and visit, she can. But if she'd rather not, or if the subject matter is unpleasant, she can excuse herself and walk faster.

She knows by first name most of the folks who walk at about the same time as she does each morning. And she knows their personalities. All are harmless, but some are "cute," some "jerks," and some are just "nice." Most are older than she is.

One of the "cute" ones, an older man, spoke to her this morning. She slowed her pace to match his and engaged in conversation. After normal pleasantries, he mentioned the drought we're experiencing.

Carol wasn't sure she had heard him correctly, so asked him to repeat what he'd said.

He said, "So, what do you think about this drought?"

She wondered if he was getting senile. (If you didn't read my last post, scroll down now and look at the pictures from Saturday!) It's been a VERY wet spring and summer thus far. We haven't had as much rain as SOME parts of Texas, but we have had some flooding, even here.

The silence between them stretched on, as Carol couldn't figure out how to respond.

Then she saw the twinkle in his eye. He deadpanned, "I mean, it's been almost 20 hours since the last drop fell. What are we going to do?"

Later -- MUCH later, as is always the way -- she realized she should have told him that maybe we need to use the dry spell to make some more progress on the ark we're building.

Oh, and for those of you who asked me to send some of this rain your way, I'm working on it. Honest!