Most of my blog to this point has been about my deployment around South America. Foreign ports, funny stories, and some work along the way. And it’s easy to forget why I’m here. But on this day, I’d like to go back and talk about the events that ultimately led me down this path.
Most people reading this intimately remember September 11, 2001. Where we were, what we were doing, who we were with. I remember sitting in class when they told us that the world trade center had fallen to the ground. To be honest, I didn’t really know what that was, just that they were buildings. I remember not being able to find my father, who was flying to Washington that day. I remember being picked up from school and taken home early. As we were walking out the door, I asked why I was being taken out of school. My brother stopped walking and grabbed my shoulders, turning to me and said, “You really don’t understand what’s happening today? Thousands of people are dead.”
My 12-year-old innocence at the time, I think, wasn’t just because I was 12 years old. Nobody expected this. Nobody knew what to make of it. Life wasn’t like that. But my life changed with those words from my brother.
In a way, I wouldn’t be sitting here on a ship off the coast of San Diego if that day had never happened. It made me understand how fragile our liberty is, how we need good people to rise up and defend what’s right and support everything that we have, and it ultimately propelled me to join the military. It makes me feel guilty when I complain about work or tough things in life, because it all pales in comparison to everything that’s happened. Yes, our lives are divided into before and after, pre-9/11 and post-9/11, innocence and open eyes. But they go on, impacted by a life that was and events that changed everything about that past.
We have a couple of memorials planned throughout the day on the ship. We’ve rung bells when each plane went down and talked on the loudspeaker about what happened. We have a 24-hour run (on treadmills, of course) planned to memorialize those who died. And above all, we all remember why we’re here, why we joined, and a life that was.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
24 Days... Not that anyone is counting or anything...
Boy, it’s been a long time since writing in here! Not that I’ve heard many (read: any) complaints about me not posting, but I feel the need to update people on how I’m doing. 24 days until we get back from deployment, and the entire ship is counting down. Many conversations consist of the following topics (in order of prevalence):
1) What is the first thing you’re going to eat when you get back?
2) What type of alcoholic beverage will you have when you go back?
3) What is the second thing you’re going to eat when you get back?
4) What is the first thing you’re going to do when you get off the ship?
5) What’s the third thing you’re going to eat when you get back?
As you can tell, people are excited about food. That, and American beer. Sadly, South America does not have my two favorites: Sam Adams and Guinness. I’ll be getting a case of both of those beers when I get back—and drinking them in short order.
We haven’t been doing much since my last post, hence why I haven’t written much. The highlights have been a trip to Panama for a port visit (4 days off the ship is pretty awesome) and an exercise called PANAMAX with Peru, Ecuador, Chile, and Panama. It’s a simulated exercise in defense of the Panama canal.
Right when we were starting the exercise, we were called away to conduct a real life SAR (Search and Rescue) Operation. A Panamanian plane went down off the coast of Panama with six souls onboard, and we’ve spent the better part of the last few days looking for it, as well as any survivors. Unfortunately, we found the fuselage of the plane, but no survivors. A fishing ship about 20 miles away found a body. It’s sad, but we continue looking until they call off the search. Most of our time consists of navigating search patterns promulgated to us by higher authority. At night, it’s especially hard because we must search with spotlights and night vision to try and find bodies. Sad work, but it seems better than a simulated exercise with other countries. At least I feel like we’re doing some good.
We’ve had a few cool experiences, like assisting in some counter-drug operations, or pulling into Ecuador so their Navy could tour our ship (they are thinking of purchasing the ship when it decommissions) but most of our time has been spent drifting around in circles waiting for this PANAMAX exercise to start… And now we’re not even doing it!
All the same, we only have 24 days left, so people aren’t quite thinking about doing work—minds are centered around our return to San Diego. It seems so far away, and (ironically) foreign to me. Being at sea for 6 months makes you forget what life was like when you had some control over it. We’re constantly told when to eat and when to work, and even on liberty we have curfews and rules to abide by. Going back to a life with time for myself will be a sublime experience, and one that I’m richly looking forward to. We should leave from this SAR in the next couple of days and head back to Panama for a closing conference to talk about the exercise that we’ve essentially skipped. It doesn’t make much sense, but I won’t complain about time off! After that, we begin the journey back home, with nothing left but time standing between us and the United States.
1) What is the first thing you’re going to eat when you get back?
2) What type of alcoholic beverage will you have when you go back?
3) What is the second thing you’re going to eat when you get back?
4) What is the first thing you’re going to do when you get off the ship?
5) What’s the third thing you’re going to eat when you get back?
As you can tell, people are excited about food. That, and American beer. Sadly, South America does not have my two favorites: Sam Adams and Guinness. I’ll be getting a case of both of those beers when I get back—and drinking them in short order.
We haven’t been doing much since my last post, hence why I haven’t written much. The highlights have been a trip to Panama for a port visit (4 days off the ship is pretty awesome) and an exercise called PANAMAX with Peru, Ecuador, Chile, and Panama. It’s a simulated exercise in defense of the Panama canal.
Right when we were starting the exercise, we were called away to conduct a real life SAR (Search and Rescue) Operation. A Panamanian plane went down off the coast of Panama with six souls onboard, and we’ve spent the better part of the last few days looking for it, as well as any survivors. Unfortunately, we found the fuselage of the plane, but no survivors. A fishing ship about 20 miles away found a body. It’s sad, but we continue looking until they call off the search. Most of our time consists of navigating search patterns promulgated to us by higher authority. At night, it’s especially hard because we must search with spotlights and night vision to try and find bodies. Sad work, but it seems better than a simulated exercise with other countries. At least I feel like we’re doing some good.
We’ve had a few cool experiences, like assisting in some counter-drug operations, or pulling into Ecuador so their Navy could tour our ship (they are thinking of purchasing the ship when it decommissions) but most of our time has been spent drifting around in circles waiting for this PANAMAX exercise to start… And now we’re not even doing it!
All the same, we only have 24 days left, so people aren’t quite thinking about doing work—minds are centered around our return to San Diego. It seems so far away, and (ironically) foreign to me. Being at sea for 6 months makes you forget what life was like when you had some control over it. We’re constantly told when to eat and when to work, and even on liberty we have curfews and rules to abide by. Going back to a life with time for myself will be a sublime experience, and one that I’m richly looking forward to. We should leave from this SAR in the next couple of days and head back to Panama for a closing conference to talk about the exercise that we’ve essentially skipped. It doesn’t make much sense, but I won’t complain about time off! After that, we begin the journey back home, with nothing left but time standing between us and the United States.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Crossing the Line
Last week, we crossed over the equator, which means three things. Number one, we’re heading back north to home. Number two, the warm weather is back. But finally, it means that we all had to become shellbacks. What is a shellback? Read on… I’ll explain.
The tradition of “crossing the line” goes back so far that nobody really knows where or when it began. In the old days, it was a test for sailors to determine if new shipmates were fit for duty. They’d be put through a serious of rigorous “tests” where they were beat and bloodied, and if they passed, they were fair shipmates. As time progressed, it became more elaborate and more dangerous. In the last 20 years or so, the danger has dropped off significantly due to the Navy’s strict safety/anti-hazing stances, but we still do it in some form or another.
The way the legend goes is this: King Neptune, ruler of the deep, comes on our ship to find that there are slimy Polywogs (those who have not crossed the line) onboard. King Neptune declares that this is unacceptable and that they all must be converted into trusty Shellbacks. He calls on his Shellback disciples onboard to carry out the initiation. The Polywogs are charged with various crimes and subpeoned before King Neptune’s court (with Davy Jones as his right hand man) and asked to plead guilty to the crimes to purge themselves of their sins.
The day before this initiation, it’s tradition for the Polywogs to revolt. We did so in grand fashion, but paid the price the next day. The night before, each division of Polywogs was to prepare a talent show for the Shellbacks. Stupidly, they all gathered in one spot, leaving the rest of the ship open to looting and pillaging. Myself and the rest of the junior officers broke into the Captain’s stateroom and stole his door. Later on in the evening, we stole the ship’s bell, which is instrumental in everyday use both for practical purposes (ringing bells every half hour for the time) and tradition. They found the door that night, but didn’t find the bell until the next day when I told them where it was. For the ceremony, I was the first one through the ceremony and in the last group to finish.
The next morning, we were woken up at 5 a.m. and made to crawl around before being taken to breakfast, where they basically threw gross food at you, covered you in syrup and raw eggs, and then sprayed you with a fire hose. We were forced to work out, climb through buckets of “slime” water (that was colored green) and given hair styles from the “royal barber” who put mayonnaise, coffee grinds, and hot sauce in our hair. All the while, we were being sprayed with fire hoses on a consistent basis. It lasted until about 11 a.m.
All in all, it was a miserable experience that my body is still recovering from, but I am no longer a slimy wog… Next time, I will be the one spraying people with hoses and cracking eggs on their heads. We’ll be steaming around off the coast of Ecuador for the next week or so before getting some gas and heading up to Panama for the start of our last multi-national exercise of the deployment. But more on that later…
Friday, July 15, 2011
Lima, Peru, Day 1
Well, we’re in port, Lima, Peru. I am on duty today, but last night I had liberty, so this latest story is hot off the presses.
Liberty in South America has a lot of restrictions. They care a lot about how Americans look, so they have rules like calling in to the ship twice a night and of course, if we have duty, we have to be back to the ship the next morning by 8 a.m.—earlier (about 7:30) if you have watch.
We went out on liberty and decided to take overnight liberty, even though we had to get up at 5 a.m. to catch a bus back to the ship to make it for duty. Since we didn’t really plan on sleeping much, we decided to get a bed at a hostel. We had no bags, and it was only $7 for the night, so it was a good deal to have a place to stay. We went out for the night and partied until about 3 a.m. before turning in and going back to the hostel. Our one friend had turned in early, and he had the alarm clock. When we showed up at the hostel, he wasn’t there, and we had no idea where he was. We assumed that waiting here would be the best thing—that he would find his way back. We also knew that we were meeting at 5:25 at the hotel next to the bus stop if we ever got separated. It was our fail-safe.
We had no alarm clocks (we didn’t even plan on staying out overnight, but met a group of girls at a bar who invited us to a club, and we couldn’t say no) so we told the guy at the front desk we needed a wakeup at 5 a.m. to get back to the ship. We explained how important it was, and that he needed to make sure we were awake. He promised to throw water on our faces if we didn’t get up.
He didn’t.
Next thing I know, I wake up to my lost friend screaming, “Let’s go, let’s go!” Turns out, he couldn’t find the hostel. He got a room at another hotel and showed up at the fail-safe spot at the right time, but we never showed, so he assumed we had slept in. Somehow he found the hostel in the morning when it was light out. I looked at my watch. 6:25. We had just over an hour to get to the bus, take the 45 minute ride to the ship, change, and get on watch. It would never happen. The consequences for being late for duty are severe. In general, with few exceptions, you won’t be allowed to leave the ship for the duration of this port as well as the next two or three. Considering we only have 1 port left after this, it means not leaving the ship for 2 months until San Diego. No bueno.
We were dressed and out the door in under 90 seconds and started running toward the bus stop 10 blocks away. We still had time. If we could get a bus that leaves before 6:45, we’d be okay. We were told we weren’t allowed to take taxis because of their penchant for robberies, and even though there were approved taxi companies, they couldn’t get us onto the base anyway—we had to be with an official USN bus to get on. I ran faster than the other two members of my group, and at 6:40, I rounded the corner to see the bus. I broke into a sprint for the bus about 100 yards away… And then the bus started driving in the opposite direction.
At this point, I’d slept for maybe three hours—probably less. I was still half-drunk. I had been running at a pretty good pace for the last 10 minutes, a little over a mile, in shoes that were not meant for running, and I was starting to feel it. I hadn’t drank water in 10 hours, since you need to buy bottled water here and nothing was open when we left the club. I’ve heard stories about mothers overturning cars to save their children, or the man after the battle of Marathon who ran 25 miles, only to squeak out the word, “Victory” before dropping dead. But I never knew what went through those people’s minds or how they did it… Until I saw that bus driving away, and my liberty for the next two months with it.
I started running faster. I don’t know how, but I did. (My friend can attest to that.) It was like the last scene in “Ferris Beuller’s Day Off” when he’s running back home. I was cutting through parks, cutting corners, doing anything I could to keep with the bus. I was waving my arms and screaming at the bus as I was running, creeping closer and closer to the bus. I followed it for about 10 blocks—a flat out sprint for 5 minutes, until it ran a stop sign and turned onto a main street, as if it were hell-bent on leaving us behind. I now know how Carl Yaztremski felt when Bucky (Bleepin’) Dent hit a homerun to win the pennant in 78’. The grainy footage shows Yaz’s knees buckle when he sees the ball go over the fence—as his soul is sucked out of him and all hope is lost. That’s how I felt. I stood there for a second watching the bus fade away before remembering something: the bus was on a one-way road going away from the ship. It had to double back on another 1-way street. It was our last hope. I started sprinting again and ran back onto the main thoroughfare and stopped in the middle of the street. Lo and behold, there was a bus driving right toward me, just like it should have been. I stood in the middle of the street screaming and waving my arms. The bus stopped and I jumped for joy. I’d done it! I was a hero! I ran over to the side of the bus and went to get on before realizing that it was the wrong bus. I won’t repeat the words that I shouted here, but I was mad. The bus was gone, and so was our liberty. It was 6:50.
The worst part was that I had to run all the way back to the bus stop where my friends were, even after sprinting for 5 straight minutes. In the end, we had to take a cab back to the port and talk our way into the base before running across the base to get to the ship. We were there by 7:28. Two minutes to spare. Somehow, we made it back to the ship, and nobody even knew what happened. We’re tired and hungover, and ran something like 2 miles while drunk. I’m sore in places I didn’t know you could be sore. But we made it back on time and nobody’s the wiser.
Thankfully, I have duty today to rest. We have two more days of liberty on Saturday and Sunday. Instead of 15 hours of time off, we have 48. Who knows what will happen then…
Liberty in South America has a lot of restrictions. They care a lot about how Americans look, so they have rules like calling in to the ship twice a night and of course, if we have duty, we have to be back to the ship the next morning by 8 a.m.—earlier (about 7:30) if you have watch.
We went out on liberty and decided to take overnight liberty, even though we had to get up at 5 a.m. to catch a bus back to the ship to make it for duty. Since we didn’t really plan on sleeping much, we decided to get a bed at a hostel. We had no bags, and it was only $7 for the night, so it was a good deal to have a place to stay. We went out for the night and partied until about 3 a.m. before turning in and going back to the hostel. Our one friend had turned in early, and he had the alarm clock. When we showed up at the hostel, he wasn’t there, and we had no idea where he was. We assumed that waiting here would be the best thing—that he would find his way back. We also knew that we were meeting at 5:25 at the hotel next to the bus stop if we ever got separated. It was our fail-safe.
We had no alarm clocks (we didn’t even plan on staying out overnight, but met a group of girls at a bar who invited us to a club, and we couldn’t say no) so we told the guy at the front desk we needed a wakeup at 5 a.m. to get back to the ship. We explained how important it was, and that he needed to make sure we were awake. He promised to throw water on our faces if we didn’t get up.
He didn’t.
Next thing I know, I wake up to my lost friend screaming, “Let’s go, let’s go!” Turns out, he couldn’t find the hostel. He got a room at another hotel and showed up at the fail-safe spot at the right time, but we never showed, so he assumed we had slept in. Somehow he found the hostel in the morning when it was light out. I looked at my watch. 6:25. We had just over an hour to get to the bus, take the 45 minute ride to the ship, change, and get on watch. It would never happen. The consequences for being late for duty are severe. In general, with few exceptions, you won’t be allowed to leave the ship for the duration of this port as well as the next two or three. Considering we only have 1 port left after this, it means not leaving the ship for 2 months until San Diego. No bueno.
We were dressed and out the door in under 90 seconds and started running toward the bus stop 10 blocks away. We still had time. If we could get a bus that leaves before 6:45, we’d be okay. We were told we weren’t allowed to take taxis because of their penchant for robberies, and even though there were approved taxi companies, they couldn’t get us onto the base anyway—we had to be with an official USN bus to get on. I ran faster than the other two members of my group, and at 6:40, I rounded the corner to see the bus. I broke into a sprint for the bus about 100 yards away… And then the bus started driving in the opposite direction.
At this point, I’d slept for maybe three hours—probably less. I was still half-drunk. I had been running at a pretty good pace for the last 10 minutes, a little over a mile, in shoes that were not meant for running, and I was starting to feel it. I hadn’t drank water in 10 hours, since you need to buy bottled water here and nothing was open when we left the club. I’ve heard stories about mothers overturning cars to save their children, or the man after the battle of Marathon who ran 25 miles, only to squeak out the word, “Victory” before dropping dead. But I never knew what went through those people’s minds or how they did it… Until I saw that bus driving away, and my liberty for the next two months with it.
I started running faster. I don’t know how, but I did. (My friend can attest to that.) It was like the last scene in “Ferris Beuller’s Day Off” when he’s running back home. I was cutting through parks, cutting corners, doing anything I could to keep with the bus. I was waving my arms and screaming at the bus as I was running, creeping closer and closer to the bus. I followed it for about 10 blocks—a flat out sprint for 5 minutes, until it ran a stop sign and turned onto a main street, as if it were hell-bent on leaving us behind. I now know how Carl Yaztremski felt when Bucky (Bleepin’) Dent hit a homerun to win the pennant in 78’. The grainy footage shows Yaz’s knees buckle when he sees the ball go over the fence—as his soul is sucked out of him and all hope is lost. That’s how I felt. I stood there for a second watching the bus fade away before remembering something: the bus was on a one-way road going away from the ship. It had to double back on another 1-way street. It was our last hope. I started sprinting again and ran back onto the main thoroughfare and stopped in the middle of the street. Lo and behold, there was a bus driving right toward me, just like it should have been. I stood in the middle of the street screaming and waving my arms. The bus stopped and I jumped for joy. I’d done it! I was a hero! I ran over to the side of the bus and went to get on before realizing that it was the wrong bus. I won’t repeat the words that I shouted here, but I was mad. The bus was gone, and so was our liberty. It was 6:50.
The worst part was that I had to run all the way back to the bus stop where my friends were, even after sprinting for 5 straight minutes. In the end, we had to take a cab back to the port and talk our way into the base before running across the base to get to the ship. We were there by 7:28. Two minutes to spare. Somehow, we made it back to the ship, and nobody even knew what happened. We’re tired and hungover, and ran something like 2 miles while drunk. I’m sore in places I didn’t know you could be sore. But we made it back on time and nobody’s the wiser.
Thankfully, I have duty today to rest. We have two more days of liberty on Saturday and Sunday. Instead of 15 hours of time off, we have 48. Who knows what will happen then…
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Finally Leaving Chile
Boy, it’s been too long since I’ve written in here! So much has happened, and we’ve been so busy, that I haven’t had time to write back e-mails, much less update the blog.
We are currently transiting north toward Peru for our next port visit later this week. We finally are out of Chile, where we made 6 port calls. It seems like our second home port, but it’s nice to be moving north toward warmer weather. We already can go outside without a jacket on, which is a huge plus! Last week marked the end of our UNITAS Pacific phase of deployment where we were working with other navies. Now, we have a month of independent steaming to get to Panama for the start of PANAMAX, our final exercise, in mid-August. This means that steaming will be easy and pretty dull for the next couple of weeks, which is actually nice compared to the stress of multi-ship exercises.
A couple of weeks ago, I got my Officer of the Deck qualification. That means that now, when I stand watch, I am in charge of the safety for the entire ship, as well as making sure that the entire plan of the day is executed. It’s probably the biggest qualification in an officer’s career, so it’s nice to have that over with. I also moved into a stateroom last week, a three-man room with a computer, TV, lots of storage, and bigger begs, which has improved my quality of life tenfold. Thankfully, I’m moving up in the world after putting in my time for the last 13 months.
I had the opportunity last week to be on a Chilean ship for 3 days, which was a nice change of pace and interesting to see how the Chilean Navy does things. The best variation from the U.S. Navy? Tea time. Every day, 3 p.m. You sit around and drink tea and eat fresh-baked bread. It was great.
Last week, one of the most dynamic officers on our ship departed to go to his next duty as a ROTC instructor at Virginia Military Institute. The guy reminded me a lot of Dean Moriarty (real life Neal Cassady) in On The Road… a larger than life character that really enjoyed life, drank a lot of beer, and did everything big, bigger, better. Without him on board, life has become a lot more two-dimensional, and I’m sure liberty ports will be even more impacted. Seriously, the guy doubled my tolerance over the past four months. He’ll be missed.
Just over two months left of deployment, so we can finally start counting down until we head back to San Diego. The bulk of our port calls, unfortunately, are over, with about 2 weeks in between each port from here on out, but that will be good to keep the beer weight off and the money in my wallet, especially since casinos in Chile are, I’m convinced, rigged against me more so than American casinos.
We are currently transiting north toward Peru for our next port visit later this week. We finally are out of Chile, where we made 6 port calls. It seems like our second home port, but it’s nice to be moving north toward warmer weather. We already can go outside without a jacket on, which is a huge plus! Last week marked the end of our UNITAS Pacific phase of deployment where we were working with other navies. Now, we have a month of independent steaming to get to Panama for the start of PANAMAX, our final exercise, in mid-August. This means that steaming will be easy and pretty dull for the next couple of weeks, which is actually nice compared to the stress of multi-ship exercises.
A couple of weeks ago, I got my Officer of the Deck qualification. That means that now, when I stand watch, I am in charge of the safety for the entire ship, as well as making sure that the entire plan of the day is executed. It’s probably the biggest qualification in an officer’s career, so it’s nice to have that over with. I also moved into a stateroom last week, a three-man room with a computer, TV, lots of storage, and bigger begs, which has improved my quality of life tenfold. Thankfully, I’m moving up in the world after putting in my time for the last 13 months.
I had the opportunity last week to be on a Chilean ship for 3 days, which was a nice change of pace and interesting to see how the Chilean Navy does things. The best variation from the U.S. Navy? Tea time. Every day, 3 p.m. You sit around and drink tea and eat fresh-baked bread. It was great.
Last week, one of the most dynamic officers on our ship departed to go to his next duty as a ROTC instructor at Virginia Military Institute. The guy reminded me a lot of Dean Moriarty (real life Neal Cassady) in On The Road… a larger than life character that really enjoyed life, drank a lot of beer, and did everything big, bigger, better. Without him on board, life has become a lot more two-dimensional, and I’m sure liberty ports will be even more impacted. Seriously, the guy doubled my tolerance over the past four months. He’ll be missed.
Just over two months left of deployment, so we can finally start counting down until we head back to San Diego. The bulk of our port calls, unfortunately, are over, with about 2 weeks in between each port from here on out, but that will be good to keep the beer weight off and the money in my wallet, especially since casinos in Chile are, I’m convinced, rigged against me more so than American casinos.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Fire, Fire, Fire!
On ships, the biggest fear we have is the fear of fire. It may seem ironic, because we’re floating in a big ocean full of water, but fire, more than flooding, is the biggest casualty that we could face. We practice fire fighting on a routine basis. Even officers go to the fire fighting school—we could even be called on to fight fires, especially on small ships like Frigates.
Yesterday started out as a typical duty day. I was sitting down in the morning and brewing a pot of coffee. As the water started to drip down into the pot, I heard a rapidly ringing bell, followed by the words, “Fire fire fire, class bravo fire in number two SSDG. Away repair lockers away—provide from repairs five and three.” Our SSDG is one of our Ship’s Service Diesel Generators. It’s about 15’x15’ and takes up a whole room. We have four, and they provide all the electricity for our ship. When I heard this word passed, my heart sank. Fires are classified by a letter code—Alpha fires are your everyday fires, with wood or paper burning. Charlie fires are electrical fires. Both are fairly simple to contain most of the time. Bravo fires, however, are fires caused by fuel. For it to be a bravo fire, there had to be a fuel leak that caught on fire, meaning it is much tougher to put out.
Underway, this would be manageable. 200 people on a ship can fight a contained fire pretty easily. In port, about 140 of the 200 people are out on liberty at any given time. This meant that we were seriously undermanned to fight a large fuel fire. The ship has three repair lockers, where we get equipment to fight fires from. We dress into fire fighting gear there, and they serve as satellite vantage points to run the operation. Usually, an ensign is the locker officer, meaning he is in charge of running the locker of about 20 or 25 men. I have some experience in running a locker, but it was limited.
As I ran up the hatches I could tell that there was a fire burning. There was smoke everywhere and people were standing around, not knowing what to do. Thankfully, there was a chief there telling them to go to a repair locker. In a crisis, people fall into two groups. 90% of people freeze or freak out. They either don’t know what to do, or are so rushed with adrenaline that they can’t effectively do things to change the situation. The other 10% get very calm. They take a breath and figure out how to fix the crisis, and then get people to where they need to go. Officers are paid to be in that 10%.
I ran to repair three—I had to go up and around to avoid the smoke. Our main locker, repair five, is where the main fire team would go. It’s best equipped to fight the fire. Unfortunately, it is also right above the location of the fire. I knew we needed to get to another locker and that it would need an officer, so I went there to take control of the locker because I was the only other officer with repair locker experience on board. Some senior enlisted had already begun directing people, and we began having people get dressed out in fire fighting gear and sending investigators to the scene to get a handle on the extent of the damage. In a time of crisis, people take direction from leadership incredibly well. It’s a perfect example of the chain of command actually working. My job was to make sure that the repair efforts were running smoothly, as well as keep people calm, which was the hardest task. Some people were yelling phrases like, “Hurry! This is the real thing! Go, go!” A locker officer’s job is to calm them and direct people in a composed manner to ensure a quiet, quick, fire fighting effort. All of the normal political interactions that we normally have in a given day went out the window in the name of rank and position. It seemed like the chain of command was actually a comfort to people. It made sure that there was a structure to fix the problem.
As we were preparing to investigate the fire, the other repair locker had to evacuate because of the smoke in the area. They joined us to augment our manning. Thankfully, we have an installed firefighting system called Halon. It’s a gas that’s heavier than air, so when it’s discharged in the space, it suffocates the fire. It does the same to humans, though, so we can’t have people in the space after discharging Halon. We evacuated the diesel room and discharged Halon. The system worked like a charm, stopping the fire (except for a couple of hot spots) from spreading.
We spent about an hour and a half making sure that the space was fire-free and safe to enter without respiratory protection. Thankfully, nobody was injured in the incident. It really was a testament to our training and crew that the fire did not get out of control. They performed admirably and were manned and ready to fight the fire in under ten minutes. What started out as an easy duty day turned into the most eventful duty day in my time on board USS Thach. Hopefully, next duty day I can actually sit and sip on my coffee without bells and whistles interrupting my breakfast.
Yesterday started out as a typical duty day. I was sitting down in the morning and brewing a pot of coffee. As the water started to drip down into the pot, I heard a rapidly ringing bell, followed by the words, “Fire fire fire, class bravo fire in number two SSDG. Away repair lockers away—provide from repairs five and three.” Our SSDG is one of our Ship’s Service Diesel Generators. It’s about 15’x15’ and takes up a whole room. We have four, and they provide all the electricity for our ship. When I heard this word passed, my heart sank. Fires are classified by a letter code—Alpha fires are your everyday fires, with wood or paper burning. Charlie fires are electrical fires. Both are fairly simple to contain most of the time. Bravo fires, however, are fires caused by fuel. For it to be a bravo fire, there had to be a fuel leak that caught on fire, meaning it is much tougher to put out.
Underway, this would be manageable. 200 people on a ship can fight a contained fire pretty easily. In port, about 140 of the 200 people are out on liberty at any given time. This meant that we were seriously undermanned to fight a large fuel fire. The ship has three repair lockers, where we get equipment to fight fires from. We dress into fire fighting gear there, and they serve as satellite vantage points to run the operation. Usually, an ensign is the locker officer, meaning he is in charge of running the locker of about 20 or 25 men. I have some experience in running a locker, but it was limited.
As I ran up the hatches I could tell that there was a fire burning. There was smoke everywhere and people were standing around, not knowing what to do. Thankfully, there was a chief there telling them to go to a repair locker. In a crisis, people fall into two groups. 90% of people freeze or freak out. They either don’t know what to do, or are so rushed with adrenaline that they can’t effectively do things to change the situation. The other 10% get very calm. They take a breath and figure out how to fix the crisis, and then get people to where they need to go. Officers are paid to be in that 10%.
I ran to repair three—I had to go up and around to avoid the smoke. Our main locker, repair five, is where the main fire team would go. It’s best equipped to fight the fire. Unfortunately, it is also right above the location of the fire. I knew we needed to get to another locker and that it would need an officer, so I went there to take control of the locker because I was the only other officer with repair locker experience on board. Some senior enlisted had already begun directing people, and we began having people get dressed out in fire fighting gear and sending investigators to the scene to get a handle on the extent of the damage. In a time of crisis, people take direction from leadership incredibly well. It’s a perfect example of the chain of command actually working. My job was to make sure that the repair efforts were running smoothly, as well as keep people calm, which was the hardest task. Some people were yelling phrases like, “Hurry! This is the real thing! Go, go!” A locker officer’s job is to calm them and direct people in a composed manner to ensure a quiet, quick, fire fighting effort. All of the normal political interactions that we normally have in a given day went out the window in the name of rank and position. It seemed like the chain of command was actually a comfort to people. It made sure that there was a structure to fix the problem.
As we were preparing to investigate the fire, the other repair locker had to evacuate because of the smoke in the area. They joined us to augment our manning. Thankfully, we have an installed firefighting system called Halon. It’s a gas that’s heavier than air, so when it’s discharged in the space, it suffocates the fire. It does the same to humans, though, so we can’t have people in the space after discharging Halon. We evacuated the diesel room and discharged Halon. The system worked like a charm, stopping the fire (except for a couple of hot spots) from spreading.
We spent about an hour and a half making sure that the space was fire-free and safe to enter without respiratory protection. Thankfully, nobody was injured in the incident. It really was a testament to our training and crew that the fire did not get out of control. They performed admirably and were manned and ready to fight the fire in under ten minutes. What started out as an easy duty day turned into the most eventful duty day in my time on board USS Thach. Hopefully, next duty day I can actually sit and sip on my coffee without bells and whistles interrupting my breakfast.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Halfway Day
Well, 3 days ago marked the halfway day for deployment. Over the hump. It feels good, but it’s tough to know that we still have 90 days left (well, 87 now). These days in the middle of deployment are really the dog days of deployment—where you’re far enough away from home to be run down and tired, where you’re homesick but busy. All the while, you’re not close enough to coming home that you sense you’re almost there. It just kinda drags. I’m sure it’s how baseball players feel in the weeks after the All-Star break.
But we trudge on. It helps to have most of our in-port time during months 3 and 4 of our 6-month deployment. We have been underway for a few days to conduct some submarine exercises with the Chilean Navy, but after this week, we have an 18-day stretch with only 2 underway days. The variety helps things to move faster.
Prior to this underway time, we were moored in Concepcion, Chile for a week. There were lots of things to do in this city. South America seems to love casinos, because they’ve been in every port we’ve visited, much to the detriment of my bank account (except for last port, where I made up for it, thankfully). We were moored next to a small mountain, which I got to run up to the top of—a very cool (and tiring) experience. We had a wardroom social with officers on a Chilean Frigate. They proceeded to challenge us to chugging contests and drank us all into oblivion. Who knew Chileans could drink? It was very interesting to see their wardroom and ship and how similar it is to ours. Chileans had signs in English all over their ship. I asked why that was, seeing as their primary language was Spanish, and they told me that they were trained by the British Navy, hence the signs.
The weather is still cold, but it’s not as cold as it was down in the south of the continent. We’re transiting north at such a slow pace, that their winter is catching up with us faster than we are running away from it, so temperature differences haven’t been too noticeable. In about a month and a half, it will be back to ungodly heat. The temperature differences have thrown my body out of whack. I keep thinking it’s Christmastime soon, but I have to stop and remind myself that back home, it’s the middle of the summer. The warm weather will help with that problem.
Finally, a note about Concepcion’s mall: it rocked. Notably, they had two Dunkin’ Donuts (get it together, San Diego—Chile has more Dunkin’s in one mall than you do within a 500 mile radius) and Nuts 4 Nuts vendors everywhere. For anyone who’s been to NYC, they know Nuts 4 Nuts sell those hot honey roasted peanuts on street corners. They were everywhere here in Chile. They were a nice taste of home. Unfortunately, the Dunkin didn’t sell coffee. I know, I know… That’s like having a McDonalds without hamburgers, but it’s true. Just lattes, cappuccinos and donuts. But it was still good to see—I’ll take what I can get.
But we trudge on. It helps to have most of our in-port time during months 3 and 4 of our 6-month deployment. We have been underway for a few days to conduct some submarine exercises with the Chilean Navy, but after this week, we have an 18-day stretch with only 2 underway days. The variety helps things to move faster.
Prior to this underway time, we were moored in Concepcion, Chile for a week. There were lots of things to do in this city. South America seems to love casinos, because they’ve been in every port we’ve visited, much to the detriment of my bank account (except for last port, where I made up for it, thankfully). We were moored next to a small mountain, which I got to run up to the top of—a very cool (and tiring) experience. We had a wardroom social with officers on a Chilean Frigate. They proceeded to challenge us to chugging contests and drank us all into oblivion. Who knew Chileans could drink? It was very interesting to see their wardroom and ship and how similar it is to ours. Chileans had signs in English all over their ship. I asked why that was, seeing as their primary language was Spanish, and they told me that they were trained by the British Navy, hence the signs.
The weather is still cold, but it’s not as cold as it was down in the south of the continent. We’re transiting north at such a slow pace, that their winter is catching up with us faster than we are running away from it, so temperature differences haven’t been too noticeable. In about a month and a half, it will be back to ungodly heat. The temperature differences have thrown my body out of whack. I keep thinking it’s Christmastime soon, but I have to stop and remind myself that back home, it’s the middle of the summer. The warm weather will help with that problem.
Finally, a note about Concepcion’s mall: it rocked. Notably, they had two Dunkin’ Donuts (get it together, San Diego—Chile has more Dunkin’s in one mall than you do within a 500 mile radius) and Nuts 4 Nuts vendors everywhere. For anyone who’s been to NYC, they know Nuts 4 Nuts sell those hot honey roasted peanuts on street corners. They were everywhere here in Chile. They were a nice taste of home. Unfortunately, the Dunkin didn’t sell coffee. I know, I know… That’s like having a McDonalds without hamburgers, but it’s true. Just lattes, cappuccinos and donuts. But it was still good to see—I’ll take what I can get.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Puerto Montt
We recently finished a port visit to Puerto Montt, Chile, where we got some nice rest and relaxation after transiting through the straits without issue. The town was pretty small, with the downtown area encompassing only about 10 square blocks, so we got to exploring the town pretty quickly to find the cool bars. After talking with the Chilean pilot, (In nautical terms, a pilot is somebody who knows a certain area of water very well. Our Chilean pilot embarked onboard our ship for the straits of Magellan to help us navigate it. It’s useful because pilots know currents in certain areas, weather patterns, and changes on charts that we use. Though the Navy doesn’t pay them for this, an ancillary benefit is that they also know local bars that are cool.) we decided to camp out at a rugby bar, “Haka” named after a rugby dance that a certain team (whose name escapes me right now) does before each match. It had couches and lots of local beers, so it was a fun spot.
The next night, we went to the nearby town of Punta Varas. This was even smaller than Puerto Montt. The main attraction here was a casino, but we walked about some and stopped at a delicious dessert place for some local pastries, followed by walking into a random restaurant, Mediterraneo, for a nice dinner. We’re on vacation when on liberty, so having dessert before dinner is perfectly acceptable.
Mediterraneo has been the highlight of my port time thus far. We were the only people in this tiny restaurant that was warmed by a fireplace right next to our table. The food was probably the best I’ve had in the last decade, and it was all dirt cheap. We bought a nice bottle of Camenere, a unique Chilean wine. Camenere grapes were originally indigenous to France, but a plague in the late 1800s wiped out their crops. Years before the plague hit, some Chilean farmers exported the grapes to Chile, mistaking them for Merlot grapes. They flourished, and now Chile is virtually the sole provider of Camenere wine. It is also very cheap here. An 8-year old bottle is about $20. It’s a red wine, but has a lot more flavor than most reds, and it is a lot less dry. It’s quite good.
We ended the night back at the casino. While some people decided to go update their iPhones (my phone isn’t that fancy) I sat down with some fellow officers to play a game I’ve never won at: Blackjack. I began to understand the intricacies of the game (with some help from more experienced players) and by the end of the night I had won over 200,000 pesos. Don’t think too much about it though, because that’s about $400. It still felt good to finally win one, and $400 is nothing to sneeze at. Plus, it made up for all the money I lost on roulette in Punta Arenas, the previous port.
A final note, the Chilean volcano that is erupting right now was just outside Puerto Montt, and it started erupting the day after we left, so unfortunately we couldn’t see it. But we had taken pictures of it, not knowing of its impending eruption. To the right is a picture of the volcano itself, back when it looked like just another mountain. (Our Chilean pilot told us all about it as we were driving by.)
The next night, we went to the nearby town of Punta Varas. This was even smaller than Puerto Montt. The main attraction here was a casino, but we walked about some and stopped at a delicious dessert place for some local pastries, followed by walking into a random restaurant, Mediterraneo, for a nice dinner. We’re on vacation when on liberty, so having dessert before dinner is perfectly acceptable.
Mediterraneo has been the highlight of my port time thus far. We were the only people in this tiny restaurant that was warmed by a fireplace right next to our table. The food was probably the best I’ve had in the last decade, and it was all dirt cheap. We bought a nice bottle of Camenere, a unique Chilean wine. Camenere grapes were originally indigenous to France, but a plague in the late 1800s wiped out their crops. Years before the plague hit, some Chilean farmers exported the grapes to Chile, mistaking them for Merlot grapes. They flourished, and now Chile is virtually the sole provider of Camenere wine. It is also very cheap here. An 8-year old bottle is about $20. It’s a red wine, but has a lot more flavor than most reds, and it is a lot less dry. It’s quite good.
We ended the night back at the casino. While some people decided to go update their iPhones (my phone isn’t that fancy) I sat down with some fellow officers to play a game I’ve never won at: Blackjack. I began to understand the intricacies of the game (with some help from more experienced players) and by the end of the night I had won over 200,000 pesos. Don’t think too much about it though, because that’s about $400. It still felt good to finally win one, and $400 is nothing to sneeze at. Plus, it made up for all the money I lost on roulette in Punta Arenas, the previous port.
A final note, the Chilean volcano that is erupting right now was just outside Puerto Montt, and it started erupting the day after we left, so unfortunately we couldn’t see it. But we had taken pictures of it, not knowing of its impending eruption. To the right is a picture of the volcano itself, back when it looked like just another mountain. (Our Chilean pilot told us all about it as we were driving by.)
Friday, May 27, 2011
Transiting the Straits
We’re anchored right now in the straits of Magellan, an area of unspeakable beauty. I really can’t describe how amazing the area of Patagonia is, which is why I’ve uploaded a lot of pictures today. We’re headed back north now, having transited as far south as we’ll go. A picture of the “Southern Cross” marking the southernmost point of continental South America (Tiera del Fuego is farther south, but they are all islands) is on the right. That was a fun point for the crew to get out and mill about and take pictures, despite the cold weather.
The Straits of Magellan are treacherous. I conned the ship through the most dangerous part, with only about 100 feet of wiggle room on either side of the ship, where we had to make 2 90-degree turns in a matter of minutes. It required precision and many ships have run aground for not steering it perfectly. As we’ve transited the straits, we’ve seen a number of shipwrecks alongside—an ominous reminder that these straits will swallow your ship if you aren’t careful. While some ships have been half-sunk, others, like the one pictured here, looks like it was just sitting there. I’d love to go on the ship to explore, which I’m trying to finagle today, but I doubt it will happen. We’re anchored only a mile or two from it.
The reason we’re anchored is because of a large storm with 30+ foot seas north of us. We’re waiting for it to pass. In the meantime, we took advantage of the island we’re anchored next to, which shields us from the wind. It was actually pretty warm (30s/40s) so we went out and played catch amid the backdrop of Patagonia. I think we’re probably the only people in history to play baseball in the straits of Magellan… It was also nice because we had our small boat in the water, who made sure to pick up any baseballs that went over the side, so we didn’t lose any. I’ll stop writing and use the time to post more pictures. I’ll try to update again soon, with even more pictures. While pictures are nice, they don’t do it justice—it’s truly an area you need to see with your own eyes.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Biting Cold
The weather is becoming increasingly cold as we head farther south. With lows in the 30s on land, being out at sea with 30 knot winds make it seem like the low teens. We try to warm the inside of the ship, but it’s hard to do when it’s dipped in an ice bath around us. To the right is a picture of me when I was boat officer as we brought the small boat alongside the ship. I thought it might be good for you to see what it actually looks like. I'm the one wearing the white (boat officers always wear the white) and soaking wet.
We’re nearing the straits of Magellan as we go farther south, which is a true test of mettle for our watchstanders on the ship. Named after Ferdinand Magellan for his treacherous 1520 voyage through the straits, it is the natural strait that connects the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. It’s about 1000 miles north of Antarctica, and creates the border pairing the southernmost point of the South American mainland and Tiera del Fuego, the southern archipelago of the continent.
Going “around the horn” or around Tiera del Fuego, would be treacherous. Seas reach over 50 feet regularly, and our ship would surely capsize. Even outside of the straits, we must proceed up the inland waterways for about 1000 miles through the islands that dot the western side of Chile to avoid the awful waves the would split our ship in two. The islands help to shield the violent seas in this part of the globe. Since we’ll have a special detail stood up for the straits and inland waterways, I’ll be on for 5 hours and off for 5—for three days. It will be a busy time, as the currents and winds are incredibly strong in these straits, which could cause the ship to run aground at any point if we fail to maintain our focus every minute of our transit.
We’ll transit part of the straits (only about 8 hours) before stopping at the Southernmost city in Chili, Punta Arenas, for some liberty and time off. For Chili, it’s their highest holiday of the year, Navy Day (similar to our 4th of July). It commemorates a losing battle by the Chileans, so I’m not sure why they have it as a huge holiday, but I guess it was a moral victory or something… Go figure. We booked a hotel at a resort down there, so I am looking forward to relaxing for a couple of days and taking my mind off of work.
I probably won’t be able to update my blog while going through the straits. Internet will probably be down the whole time (the geography isn’t conducive to it) and I just won’t have the time. My off time will be devoted to sleeping and eating, and that’s about it. Despite the cold, we’ve tried to bundle up and go outside to throw the baseball around to help keep our sanity, as well as bundle up while indoors to watch a movie or two as well. Next post, I’ll try to put up some pictures of the transit, which I’m sure will have some beautiful landscapes to take in.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Dentists, Ambassadors, Parties and Casinos
We recently pulled out of Montevideo, Uruguay. We were there for about 45 hours, and 24 of those I was on duty, so I made up for it with my off time. My trip to Uruguay started out by getting a trip to the dentist. A couple of weeks ago, I bit down on something hard and my tooth started to hurt. I didn’t think much of it until a few days later when it was still hurting, so we scheduled a trip to the dentist. Turns out it essentially created a hole in my tooth, so he filled it the same way they do with cavities. I was worried about the quality of Uruguayan dentistry, but I can say for sure that this place was even more high tech than the states—they had cameras in my mouth and fancy tools I’d never seen… It was impressive. The long drive through the city to the dentist showed me what a great city it was. It was much more relaxed than Rio, with a much larger European influence. I’d love to go back some day.
Later on that evening, I came back to the ship and changed to go to a reception on our sister ship, USS Boone. (Boone is making the whole deployment with us—she’s a Mayport, FL based Frigate.) The reception was amazing—lots of beer and drink, ice sculptures, beef wellington, crab-stuffed shrimp, as well as about a dozen other equally-delicious foods. As I was standing at a table talking with some ensigns from other ships, a man came over to join us. Turns out, he was the American Ambassador to Uruguay. We talked a lot about foreign policy and economic policy as well, because he previously served in the state department in that capacity. Amazing guy.
After he left, another man showed up who was the regional director of affairs in South America—he explained to us the Russian and Chinese influence on Uruguay and how they were competing with local countries for sway within Uruguay and for their resources. It was really interesting stuff. I also talked with a Chinese general and some Chilean admirals. After getting our fill of dignitaries and drinks, we went to a casino to meet up with another contingent of sailors. We played some blackjack and won a good amount of money. Then I played some roulette and decided to put 50 on red and 50 on odd. Of course, it rolled a zero, so I lost all of that. I decided it was time to stop.
The city was a whirlwind trip—I had duty the next day and, despite one of the worst hangovers of my life, had watch at 7:30 in the morning followed by showing around members of the American embassy for 3 hours after that. It was interesting to see these people so far away from the states with their families, eager to interact with other Americans outside of their own little world.
We set sail today to head south to Chile, where there will be a little bit more time in port and a lot more events with foreign navies. One of our longer time periods out at sea (still under a week!) we will use the time to catch up on work and recouperate. I recently received 18 baseballs in the mail (thank you to the Wildas and Nana/Poppy!) so I’ll be sure to bundle up and go play some catch outside when I get some free time.
Later on that evening, I came back to the ship and changed to go to a reception on our sister ship, USS Boone. (Boone is making the whole deployment with us—she’s a Mayport, FL based Frigate.) The reception was amazing—lots of beer and drink, ice sculptures, beef wellington, crab-stuffed shrimp, as well as about a dozen other equally-delicious foods. As I was standing at a table talking with some ensigns from other ships, a man came over to join us. Turns out, he was the American Ambassador to Uruguay. We talked a lot about foreign policy and economic policy as well, because he previously served in the state department in that capacity. Amazing guy.
After he left, another man showed up who was the regional director of affairs in South America—he explained to us the Russian and Chinese influence on Uruguay and how they were competing with local countries for sway within Uruguay and for their resources. It was really interesting stuff. I also talked with a Chinese general and some Chilean admirals. After getting our fill of dignitaries and drinks, we went to a casino to meet up with another contingent of sailors. We played some blackjack and won a good amount of money. Then I played some roulette and decided to put 50 on red and 50 on odd. Of course, it rolled a zero, so I lost all of that. I decided it was time to stop.
The city was a whirlwind trip—I had duty the next day and, despite one of the worst hangovers of my life, had watch at 7:30 in the morning followed by showing around members of the American embassy for 3 hours after that. It was interesting to see these people so far away from the states with their families, eager to interact with other Americans outside of their own little world.
We set sail today to head south to Chile, where there will be a little bit more time in port and a lot more events with foreign navies. One of our longer time periods out at sea (still under a week!) we will use the time to catch up on work and recouperate. I recently received 18 baseballs in the mail (thank you to the Wildas and Nana/Poppy!) so I’ll be sure to bundle up and go play some catch outside when I get some free time.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Man Overboard!
Time on the ship ebbs and flows. Usually, it’s pretty dull and not much is going on, but there are two times when, no matter what you’re doing, you drop everything and run. One of those times is general quarters, when the ship is being attacked and they pass the word over the loudspeakers throughout the ship, “General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations.” Everyone knows where to go and gets there quickly.
The only other time where that happens is for a man overboard. Both general quarters and man overboard drills are scheduled regularly so that we can be nearly perfect at executing both of them. But normally, whenever there is a drill, we know about it in advance so people don’t panic.
Yesterday, I had laid down for a nap and just fallen asleep when I heard the word passed, “Man overboard! Man overboard! Port side!” I scrambled out of my rack (the navy term for bed) and threw my shoes on to go to combat. We want to make sure that all people are accounted for in a man overboard situation to find out who has fallen over. The place I go to and check in is the combat center. After checking in, I went up to the bridge to see what the problem was, when I was grabbed by the Officer of the Deck (the officer overall in charge of the ship) to go be the boat officer.
We have a RHIB (Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boat) on board that we can put over the side and drive around. It’s basically a speed boat that we can drop in the water. It’s highly maneuverable, and if the seas allow, the quickest pickup method for a man in the water. Since it is technically a vessel of its own, it needs and officer on board to control it. I ran down to the boat deck as they were bringing the RHIB to the side of the ship. Still not knowing what was going on, I climbed into the boat, only to hear over the loudspeaker, “All personnel accounted for. Man in the water has been identified as trash and garbage.” I laughed to myself, thinking that we were going to go and climb out of the boat and continue everyday duties, until I heard them yell, “Lower the RHIB!!”
They dropped us in the water and the Captain came on the radio telling us where to go to pick up the trash. Apparently, somebody had thrown trash over the side in plastic bags (we are allowed to throw paper overboard outside of 12 miles because it is biodegradable, but we are never allowed to throw plastic over). We drove out to the bags and dutifully picked them up before coming back to the ship, soaking wet from the ocean spray.
We’re pulling into Montevideo, Uruguay, as I type this. We’re only here for a couple of days before heading south. Our next port of call will be Punta Arenas, Chile—one of the southernmost cities in the world, right along the straits of Magellan. It’s in the low 50s out now, and pretty chilly, but it’s a refreshing change of pace. Punta Arenas has a forecast of snow next week… Weird that it is going to be so cold in May…
The only other time where that happens is for a man overboard. Both general quarters and man overboard drills are scheduled regularly so that we can be nearly perfect at executing both of them. But normally, whenever there is a drill, we know about it in advance so people don’t panic.
Yesterday, I had laid down for a nap and just fallen asleep when I heard the word passed, “Man overboard! Man overboard! Port side!” I scrambled out of my rack (the navy term for bed) and threw my shoes on to go to combat. We want to make sure that all people are accounted for in a man overboard situation to find out who has fallen over. The place I go to and check in is the combat center. After checking in, I went up to the bridge to see what the problem was, when I was grabbed by the Officer of the Deck (the officer overall in charge of the ship) to go be the boat officer.
We have a RHIB (Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boat) on board that we can put over the side and drive around. It’s basically a speed boat that we can drop in the water. It’s highly maneuverable, and if the seas allow, the quickest pickup method for a man in the water. Since it is technically a vessel of its own, it needs and officer on board to control it. I ran down to the boat deck as they were bringing the RHIB to the side of the ship. Still not knowing what was going on, I climbed into the boat, only to hear over the loudspeaker, “All personnel accounted for. Man in the water has been identified as trash and garbage.” I laughed to myself, thinking that we were going to go and climb out of the boat and continue everyday duties, until I heard them yell, “Lower the RHIB!!”
They dropped us in the water and the Captain came on the radio telling us where to go to pick up the trash. Apparently, somebody had thrown trash over the side in plastic bags (we are allowed to throw paper overboard outside of 12 miles because it is biodegradable, but we are never allowed to throw plastic over). We drove out to the bags and dutifully picked them up before coming back to the ship, soaking wet from the ocean spray.
We’re pulling into Montevideo, Uruguay, as I type this. We’re only here for a couple of days before heading south. Our next port of call will be Punta Arenas, Chile—one of the southernmost cities in the world, right along the straits of Magellan. It’s in the low 50s out now, and pretty chilly, but it’s a refreshing change of pace. Punta Arenas has a forecast of snow next week… Weird that it is going to be so cold in May…
Thursday, May 5, 2011
So Long, Rio! Hello... Rio?
Long thought of as the pinnacle to our deployment, Rio de Janiero was a port that truly lived up to its billing. A multi-million person city, its crowded streets reminded me of New York City, but its culture reminded me of Southern California. With so many days (6) in the city, I’m finding it hard to pare down what to write about. I conned the ship into the port underneath a huge bridge that spanned the bay. On our left was the famous Jesus Christ statue with his arms open wide over the city, on the right was the naval station we pulled into.
In port, we worked with other navies during the day, and they held receptions at night. On our first night out on liberty, we ate dinner and bought bottles of champagne before roaming the streets in search of nothing in particular. We stumbled upon a hostel that had the same name as one we had visited in Salvador and decided to stop in. I met some Americans there, as well as some locals and a girl from Canada. It was 25 Reals for all you can drink (about 16 USD) so we camped there the rest of the night.
The best day was Saturday, where we went to the beach during the day. The beaches here are great. Beautiful sand, water, waves, and yes, women. (Side note, Brazilian women in Rio really did live up to the billing as the capital of supermodels. I honestly have never seen such a population so attractive in any of the places I’ve lived.) We went out into the 71-degree water and body surfed in the huge waves for a while before heading back to the ship in the afternoon. We went back to change into our summer whites uniform and go to the Argentinean ship for a reception. The only drink they served was a special red wine made only in Argentina. It was amazing how good it was. It was hard for me to use my limited Spanish to bridge the language barrier, but we got to talk with some other navies. For the Argentinean navy, this is the highlight of their year—the only time they ever leave Argentinean waters. It’s a stark contrast with America, who thinks of these exercises as relatively insignificant. The wine ran out quickly, though, so our Captain and Executive Officer (the “XO” is #2 in command on the ship) decided we needed to go downtown in Rio to party, since it was a Saturday night.
Rio is famous for its parties. Beginning around midnight and going until 5 a.m., the bar scene is pretty fun. Up until that night, though, we hadn’t had time to experience the city nightlife, as we had to catch buses back to the ship at 11 p.m. But this night, we had the opportunity to get a hotel and stay out overnight, so we took full advantage. We went to the bar strip downtown known as Lapa. If you’ve ever been to Beale street in Memphis, that’s Lapa in Brazil. It was a Mecca of bars and clubs and people, and it was a really neat experience to take in.
We’ve been underway for a couple of days since leaving Rio, and they’ve been tough. We’ve been busy with exercises between the different navies, as well as catching up on all the work that piled up in Rio. We have 9 civilians onboard to shoot off airborne drones off giant launchers we put on the ship, and we’ve been shooting them off and using them as target practice in firing exercises.
Early next week, we pull into Rio Grande, Brazil—our last port in Brazil and the end of our work with the South American navies who have coastlines on the Atlantic side. Pretty soon, we’ll transit back to the Pacific side and begin operations with the South American Pacific countries. It’s strange that 50 days into deployment, we already are nearly done with half of our exercises, and about to come through the straits of Magellan to head back to the States.
(Side note, we just fixed our TV system on board. Now we get 3 channels-- sports, news, and miscellaneous. I got to see the Sox get spanked by the Angels yesterday, but I didn't care... It was worth it just to see baseball!)
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Salvador, Brazil
Our first real port call (multiple days, not just a few hours) is Salvador, Brazil. It’s a huge city. Salvador, like much of Brazil, has a large range of cultural influences. Salvador itself is broken up into different unofficial sectors. There are British, French, and Portuguese sectors, all with various influences from those countries. However, 80% of the population has African ancestry from slaves that were shipped here and sold. Unfortunately, much of the city is impoverished. Slums predominate the suburbs, and it’s amazing to see beautiful European architecture that’s been abandoned for years. You walk around and see one thriving building, followed by another that has huge holes in the walls, crumbling to the ground.
I didn’t know this, but Brazil itself is divided up into states, similar to America. Salvador is the capital of the state, “Bahia.” We went on a cool historical tour (hence my knowledge of the city) on Sunday, and got to walk around all the different city sectors. (I wish I had better pictures, but we can’t hook up personal cameras to the ship computers, because you could steal data or put viruses on the computers.) The tour guide talked about Carnival for half of the tour. The city revolves around it. They have a reputation for being very low-key and relaxed, and Carnival embodies that. The city shuts down for an entire week, and everybody takes to the streets to party. They showed us video of the event—it was very cool.
The city is over 80% Roman Catholic and the city itself has churches sprinkled all over the crowded city streets. One church, the most famous in the country, is atop a hill in a poor section of town. It’s thought to have mystical powers. People go and pray there for physical miracles—wounds healing, sicknesses overcome, etc. There is a room in there called the Miracle Room. When people pray there and their prayers come true, they put mementos in the room. The walls were covered with pictures and stories of people’s lives changing. Molds of peoples hands, feet, heads, etc. hang from the ceiling. If, for example, somebody needs surgery on their hand, the person will pray there and if the surgery is successful, then make a cast of the hand to hang on the ceiling. It was a very somber experience to see all of these human stories woven together in one central point.
In general, it was a fun port to visit and explore a bit. Lots of different people and cultures, as well as some good food and beer. As I write this, we should be getting underway to go to exercises with the Brazilian Navy, but there was an issue with the fuel barge, so we’re still waiting on fuel. Rumor has it that we won’t be leaving until tomorrow, which would mean another day of liberty, which is never a bad thing. Our real mission will really begin when we get underway. We have some Brazilian ship riders on our ship, and we sent some to the Brazilian ship. We’ll be doing some interesting war games out in the ocean before the highlight of our trip, Rio De Janiero, in less than a week.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Onward to Brazil
It’s been a while since I’ve written in here, but we have been busy since Martinique. Holiday routine again today. I had watch from 3-8 a.m., and decided to go back to bed after I got off. I was woken up an hour later to attend a meeting that nobody told me about, but I had to be there. It’s a big no-no to have meetings Sunday morning, but our new Captain doesn’t care much for crew morale, it seems. The meeting was about what we would do to conduct stationing drills tomorrow.
Ships sailing in station had their origins back in the age of sail, when big wooden ships had cannons on their sides and propelled themselves with wind power. Back then, ships would fight each other in close proximity, and tactics were largely based on how the ships were positioned. Ships would try to position themselves to have favorable winds, as well as exposing their cannons on their sides to shoot at the other ships. It required complex maneuvers to ensure success. The best admirals and captains in that time period could train their fleets and ships to execute formations by raising different flags on the Admiral’s ship (aptly called the “Flag Ship”—a term we still use today for ships where leadership is embarked). Back then, ships moving to station quickly was a life and death evolution, and something that navies practiced assiduously.
Nowadays, instead of raising flags, we pass code over radios, and we have to decode it to determine what the other ships want you to do. We still practice stationing to defend carriers in an attack situation—we position ourselves strategically around the carriers to protect them. It’s a fairly simple process once you understand it, especially how it will be tomorrow—with only 3 ships (instead of 15) and no carriers launching airplanes around you.
As Junior Officers, we’re accustomed to stationing ships and determining how to maneuver the ship to go where we want to go—we do it on a daily basis and are intimately familiar with how the ship moves, the same way you get to know how your car handles and responds after driving it for some time. For this new Captain, he doesn’t seem to understand the ease with which we conduct these drills. He even created a watch bill with every junior officer on it. We’ll each drive the ship for 18 minutes to “get practice.” Hopefully we end up doing something when I am driving the ship for those 18 minutes.
We pull into Salvador, Brazil later this week. I’ll try to make an update on the port when we pull in. We lost two more softballs today stupidly trying to play catch in the rough seas, and we’re out of baseballs and softballs. We're down to playing catch with apples, so if you have any baseballs, please send them our way.
Also, please e-mail me ( wrayj@ffg43.navy.mil ). I feel so out of the loop out here-it's hard to stay in touch with reality, the news, friends and family, so I like to hear from you!
Ships sailing in station had their origins back in the age of sail, when big wooden ships had cannons on their sides and propelled themselves with wind power. Back then, ships would fight each other in close proximity, and tactics were largely based on how the ships were positioned. Ships would try to position themselves to have favorable winds, as well as exposing their cannons on their sides to shoot at the other ships. It required complex maneuvers to ensure success. The best admirals and captains in that time period could train their fleets and ships to execute formations by raising different flags on the Admiral’s ship (aptly called the “Flag Ship”—a term we still use today for ships where leadership is embarked). Back then, ships moving to station quickly was a life and death evolution, and something that navies practiced assiduously.
Nowadays, instead of raising flags, we pass code over radios, and we have to decode it to determine what the other ships want you to do. We still practice stationing to defend carriers in an attack situation—we position ourselves strategically around the carriers to protect them. It’s a fairly simple process once you understand it, especially how it will be tomorrow—with only 3 ships (instead of 15) and no carriers launching airplanes around you.
As Junior Officers, we’re accustomed to stationing ships and determining how to maneuver the ship to go where we want to go—we do it on a daily basis and are intimately familiar with how the ship moves, the same way you get to know how your car handles and responds after driving it for some time. For this new Captain, he doesn’t seem to understand the ease with which we conduct these drills. He even created a watch bill with every junior officer on it. We’ll each drive the ship for 18 minutes to “get practice.” Hopefully we end up doing something when I am driving the ship for those 18 minutes.
We pull into Salvador, Brazil later this week. I’ll try to make an update on the port when we pull in. We lost two more softballs today stupidly trying to play catch in the rough seas, and we’re out of baseballs and softballs. We're down to playing catch with apples, so if you have any baseballs, please send them our way.
Also, please e-mail me ( wrayj@ffg43.navy.mil ). I feel so out of the loop out here-it's hard to stay in touch with reality, the news, friends and family, so I like to hear from you!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Martinique, France
Yesterday, we had our official “change of command” ceremony. When a Captain leaves a ship, he is relieved by the new one in a formal ceremony. Since we were at sea, we had our ceremony on the forecastle (pronounced folk-sill, it’s the front part of the ship). The captain who is leaving was an awesome guy. He really knew how to take care of his people, drive a ship and be a leader. He’ll be missed. We now have a new captain, who is changing things a lot. Of course, people dislike change, so there is a lot of pushback. Only time will tell how he will fare as a leader.
His first challenge as Captain was to pull into Martinique, France—a tiny island in the Caribbean. As we were pulling in, I was standing up on the bridge to see the island. It looks simply remarkable from the sea. Rolling green mountains rising up into the clouds, houses etched into the sides of the hills, all surrounded by clear, cerulean colored water… It was a sight to behold. There is an old French fort there that was built pretty long ago as we were steaming into port. It’s still an active naval base today, with ivy-covered brick edifices jutting out of the water to shield the fort itself.
We had liberty last night to go out and explore the island, which we were all excited to get after a few weeks underway and after seeing the island from the sea. Unfortunately, it was a depressing port visit. The place was pretty destitute, with almost every restaurant and bar closed for lent. Apparently, in France, lent is a very strictly observed religious time, where many businesses just close down. I don’t understand how they can do that, but they do. The highlight of the night was getting food at McDonalds, even after I swore I would find a nice French place to eat at. It’s just that nothing was really open.
As I write this, we’re pulling away from Martinique en route to Brazil. The transit down should be treacherous—7-12 foot seas off of our beam (the side of the ship). To give you an idea of how much that throws a little ship like this around, if you’re sitting in a chair, the chair will still slide across the room from the force of the ship rocking. It will be seas at about the limit that our ship can take across her beam. Any higher than that, and we’ll need to pull into port. For my new Seaman Recruit who flew into Martinique to report aboard, it should be an adventuresome first underway at sea for him. If his stomach can take it, I’d be truly impressed.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Flight Deck Softball
As we steam underway for longer periods of time, the monotony of the days makes people think outside the box. One of the ways that we do that is by playing catch out on the flight deck. For me, playing catch is something that keeps me sane; I need to relax from time to time. Unfortunately, it’s a risky business. One bad throw, and your ball is gone. We’ve lost 5 balls now—2 baseballs and 3 softballs. We’re down to 5 left, and it’s getting to the point where we can’t let just anyone play because apparently people don’t know how to throw a baseball. We’ve found some netting and will try and rig it up next time to help prevent the attrition of our baseballs, but sometimes the ship will rock and the ball will sail, or the wind will take it away. We’ll look for baseballs in foreign countries, but the prospects at finding them might not be so great.
If anyone is sending a care package, throwing a couple of old baseballs in there would be appreciated. I’m finding we can’t have too many of them.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
France-Bound
On Tuesday, we went through the Panama Canal. It was a very cool experience. You drive into this really narrow area (see picture) and a little row boat rows out to you and tosses up a line. You hook one up on either side and these locomotives on tracks pull you along into the lock, which fills up with water once the doors close behind you. You can see the guys in the row boat and the trains in the picture on the right. It's nerve-wracking, because you have no control over the process once you're in the canal. It's about 45 miles long, and they make warships do it at night, so we had special stations manned up from about 5 p.m. until about 4 a.m., making it a trying day for the crew. As a reward, they allowed people to sleep in an extra hour, until 7 a.m. Great.
Now that we're in the Atlantic, the temperature has cooled considerably-- at least 20 degrees difference. The reason is that the seawater temperature is much cooler, so it makes it much easier when out at sea. We're currently transiting to our next port of Martinique, where we should get a night of liberty to go out in town and see it. Martinique is still a french colony, so when filling out the diplomatic clearances (a job that falls on me) to pull into the ports, we were corresponding with France-- a very odd thing, considering we will be in the carribean.
It's been a long week for me. Earlier this week, I was forced to send one of my sailors to Captain's mast-- the second sailor in 2 weeks. At sea, Captains of warships are given broad powers, and one of those powers includes punishing sailors for a given offense. He can dock pay, demote them, put them on restriction (meaning they cannot leave the ship) and even put them on bread and water for ten days (though I've never seen that happen). The term "Captain's Mast" dates back to the old British navy (as many of our traditions do) where the Captain of a ship would hold court in front of the mast and pass judgement in front of the whole crew as a type of deterrent. The term is still used today, though it rarely happens that way. I wrote this sailor up for a pattern of misconduct and disobeying a lawful order. While I knew that he wouldn't end up getting an official punishment and that it would be pushed back down to my level, I did it to scare him straight. It's a very formal process, and one that every sailor dreads. Officers can't be sent to Captain's Mast-- if their offense is bad enough, they'll be sent to Admiral's Mast... not something that you ever want to happen, as it will essentially be a career-ender. Sailors can recover, though it stays on their record for a few years.
As we transit closer and closer to South America, our job will pick up a lot more. In a little more than two weeks, we will begin our main mission-- exercises with foreign navies and working with them to gain greater interoperability. Also, port calls will begin, and the fun part of deployment will start. For now, we're just in a daily groove and a routine every day, which is nice in some respects, but the accelerated life of military exercises and port calls will be a welcome change.
Monday, March 28, 2011
It is so freaking hot
I can’t believe how hot it is around here. We’re steaming south along the coast of Panama, getting ready to do our Panama Canal transit tomorrow. As we get closer and closer to the equator, the heat is increasing into the high 90s during the day. And this is out at sea—I can’t imagine what it’s like on land. It’s so hot that we’re having to shut equipment down from overheating. Thankfully, I live in the coldest room on the ship, and it makes sleeping at night an easy task.
Yesterday was pretty much a red letter day as far as life at sea goes. Sundays are “holiday routine” meaning that they don’t schedule any meetings or anything in the morning, so if you don’t have watch, you can sleep in. I didn’t have watch until noon, so I got to sleep in until 10:30 in the morning (a big big deal). After watch, we had a cookout out on the flight deck, where it was easily 97 degrees, and a couple of us took out our gloves and played catch on our 40-ft long flight deck. After the sun set, I went up on top of the ship to ride the stationary bike for a good workout and look at the stars on a pristine night.
Tomorrow, we go through one of the great engineering feats of the 20th century: The Panama Canal. For centuries, people have tried to build a bridge connecting the Pacific with the Atlantic. Most notably, in the late 1800s, the French tried to mimic their successful Suez Canal feat in Panama, but their technique of basically digging a giant ditch resulted in catastrophe. After thousands of their workers died, and no successful end to the project in sight, the French abandoned the process.
In the early 1900s, America decided to take a shot at it by taking a different approach. Instead of digging a river, they created a series of 5 locks leading into a giant lake in the middle of the country. Ships enter the locks, which fill up with water, and then they connect to a new lock before reaching the lake in the middle. On the other side, the water drains from each lock as the ships move down back to sea level. It’s a feat that has saved ships from going around the horn of South America and navigating the most dangerous waters in the world (a job that our ship will be doing later this deployment… but that will be another story for later). Until then, I’ll go back to the standard day of watch, reading, and working out.
Yesterday was pretty much a red letter day as far as life at sea goes. Sundays are “holiday routine” meaning that they don’t schedule any meetings or anything in the morning, so if you don’t have watch, you can sleep in. I didn’t have watch until noon, so I got to sleep in until 10:30 in the morning (a big big deal). After watch, we had a cookout out on the flight deck, where it was easily 97 degrees, and a couple of us took out our gloves and played catch on our 40-ft long flight deck. After the sun set, I went up on top of the ship to ride the stationary bike for a good workout and look at the stars on a pristine night.
Tomorrow, we go through one of the great engineering feats of the 20th century: The Panama Canal. For centuries, people have tried to build a bridge connecting the Pacific with the Atlantic. Most notably, in the late 1800s, the French tried to mimic their successful Suez Canal feat in Panama, but their technique of basically digging a giant ditch resulted in catastrophe. After thousands of their workers died, and no successful end to the project in sight, the French abandoned the process.
In the early 1900s, America decided to take a shot at it by taking a different approach. Instead of digging a river, they created a series of 5 locks leading into a giant lake in the middle of the country. Ships enter the locks, which fill up with water, and then they connect to a new lock before reaching the lake in the middle. On the other side, the water drains from each lock as the ships move down back to sea level. It’s a feat that has saved ships from going around the horn of South America and navigating the most dangerous waters in the world (a job that our ship will be doing later this deployment… but that will be another story for later). Until then, I’ll go back to the standard day of watch, reading, and working out.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The first few days
Well, talk about an inauspicious start to deployment. We were scheduled to leave San Diego at 10 a.m. on Friday morning. When a ship gets underway, there’s a certain amount of fanfare involved. Families come to say a tearful goodbye to wave the ship off, sailors dress in our formal dress blues uniforms and go topside to stand along the edges of the ship (called manning the rails) to see the ship off. It looks pretty cool, and it’s a nice sight for families standing on the pier to see as the ship pulls away.
Unfortunately, none of that happened. About an hour before we were set to leave, we got word that the machine that started the engines was broken. No engines, no deployment. We troubleshot the issue all day with some shore guys, and finally got underway at about 4 p.m. This time, we had changed out of our dress uniforms and didn’t man the rails, since there were only a handful of loyal well wishers on the pier. So much for the pomp and circumstance of my first deployment.
With our engineering problems resolved, we set out to sea, where the problems only got worse. Essentially, our entire satellite communications suite went down. Our GPS was broken. Our internet was gone. Our phone, disconnected. T.V.? No way. Even our gyrocompass, the system that tells us what direction we’re going, broke. Then its backup did too. It took us an hour to realize it. The Navy had no clue where we were—and worse—neither did we. We couldn’t even check the score of the B.U.-Kansas game on the internet. After a couple days of that, the hardworking sailors on the ship finally started to fix the problems, one by one. First the GPS, then the gyrocompass, then the internet. Finally, we were back up and working as an operational warship.
Things have slowed down since the first 36 hours, and we’re finally getting into the groove of deployment: Standing watch, taking care of paperwork, working out, eating dinner, etc. Hopefully the ship stays this calm for at least a few more weeks, or at least until we chat again.
Unfortunately, none of that happened. About an hour before we were set to leave, we got word that the machine that started the engines was broken. No engines, no deployment. We troubleshot the issue all day with some shore guys, and finally got underway at about 4 p.m. This time, we had changed out of our dress uniforms and didn’t man the rails, since there were only a handful of loyal well wishers on the pier. So much for the pomp and circumstance of my first deployment.
With our engineering problems resolved, we set out to sea, where the problems only got worse. Essentially, our entire satellite communications suite went down. Our GPS was broken. Our internet was gone. Our phone, disconnected. T.V.? No way. Even our gyrocompass, the system that tells us what direction we’re going, broke. Then its backup did too. It took us an hour to realize it. The Navy had no clue where we were—and worse—neither did we. We couldn’t even check the score of the B.U.-Kansas game on the internet. After a couple days of that, the hardworking sailors on the ship finally started to fix the problems, one by one. First the GPS, then the gyrocompass, then the internet. Finally, we were back up and working as an operational warship.
Things have slowed down since the first 36 hours, and we’re finally getting into the groove of deployment: Standing watch, taking care of paperwork, working out, eating dinner, etc. Hopefully the ship stays this calm for at least a few more weeks, or at least until we chat again.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Last days in port
I commissioned in May of 2010, so I've been an officer for about ten months now. Time really flies, but I'm finally coming into my own as an officer. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the military, officers lead the enlisted troops. As an ensign, I'm one of 25 officers on a ship with about 180 enlisted sailors. I'm given a division on the ship and tasked with leading them-- a daunting task for an Ensign who has been in the Navy all of two weeks. I didn't know how to get around the ship, much less lead sailors who have been in the Navy for 20 years. New officers are normally given command of a division with a Chief Petty Officer in it. Chiefs are enlisted subject matter experts who have worked with the equipment for a number of years (normally at least 12 years or so). He's a division officer (or a DivO's) right-hand man. He will teach you, train you, and basically run the division with you overseeing him.
DivO's jobs are varied. I'm given spaces (rooms, hallways, closets) that I'm in charge of, equipment I'm in charge of, and personnel that I'm responsible for. In addition, I need to learn how to be a mariner (drive the ship, fight it, etc.) oversee day-to-day and month-to-month scheduling in my division, and drive the ship while underway, in addition to about 8 or 9 "collateral" duties. Some of my collateral duties are to be in charge of safety for the whole ship, coordinate with other ships on tactical information sharing, and running the officer's food and general slush fund.
My primary duty is my job as the Combat Information Center Officer (CICO). This means that I'm in charge of the space where we fight the ship. I have 18 sailors in my division and they run all the consoles like radar and communications systems. The Navy has a "rating" system, where enlisted sailors select a specific area where they work. There are quartermasters, who navigate the ship, gunner's mates, who shoot ordnance, and dozens and dozens of other rates (including things like journalists, musicians, engineers, supply guys, etc). My men are all "Operations Specialists" (abbreviated as OS).
Life for OS's is hit or miss. Underway, they stand 12 hours of watch a day-- much more than the 5 I stand a day. But in port, they don't do much. Since they only use the consoles, they don't have to work on fixing them-- other rates specialize in that. So in port, it's not uncommon to see OS's leave around lunch, which I don't mind them doing sometimes since they work so hard at sea.
As the months before deployment turn into weeks and days, life is accelerating more and more as we try to do last-minute preps for deployment. I've been averaging 10-hour days for the past few weeks, including one day where I worked straight from 6:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.-- and still didn't knock out the work I had to do for the day. Normal in-port life is relatively easy, with work from 7-3 every day (instead of 9-5). But deployment is another animal entirely, and life is always jam-packed underway.
With just 8 days left before our voyage, I'm hoping to slow the pace down for my division and give them time with their families this weekend and next week, because they won't see them for another 6 months-- a trying thing for newly-married 20-year-old sailors. Next time I'll try and talk a bit more about life and how it will change once we embark on our long journey around South and Central America.
DivO's jobs are varied. I'm given spaces (rooms, hallways, closets) that I'm in charge of, equipment I'm in charge of, and personnel that I'm responsible for. In addition, I need to learn how to be a mariner (drive the ship, fight it, etc.) oversee day-to-day and month-to-month scheduling in my division, and drive the ship while underway, in addition to about 8 or 9 "collateral" duties. Some of my collateral duties are to be in charge of safety for the whole ship, coordinate with other ships on tactical information sharing, and running the officer's food and general slush fund.
My primary duty is my job as the Combat Information Center Officer (CICO). This means that I'm in charge of the space where we fight the ship. I have 18 sailors in my division and they run all the consoles like radar and communications systems. The Navy has a "rating" system, where enlisted sailors select a specific area where they work. There are quartermasters, who navigate the ship, gunner's mates, who shoot ordnance, and dozens and dozens of other rates (including things like journalists, musicians, engineers, supply guys, etc). My men are all "Operations Specialists" (abbreviated as OS).
Life for OS's is hit or miss. Underway, they stand 12 hours of watch a day-- much more than the 5 I stand a day. But in port, they don't do much. Since they only use the consoles, they don't have to work on fixing them-- other rates specialize in that. So in port, it's not uncommon to see OS's leave around lunch, which I don't mind them doing sometimes since they work so hard at sea.
As the months before deployment turn into weeks and days, life is accelerating more and more as we try to do last-minute preps for deployment. I've been averaging 10-hour days for the past few weeks, including one day where I worked straight from 6:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.-- and still didn't knock out the work I had to do for the day. Normal in-port life is relatively easy, with work from 7-3 every day (instead of 9-5). But deployment is another animal entirely, and life is always jam-packed underway.
With just 8 days left before our voyage, I'm hoping to slow the pace down for my division and give them time with their families this weekend and next week, because they won't see them for another 6 months-- a trying thing for newly-married 20-year-old sailors. Next time I'll try and talk a bit more about life and how it will change once we embark on our long journey around South and Central America.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)