I quite like the train actually, especially for a trip like today’s, when I was only doing a touch and go in Point Mugu to pick up a jet and ferry her to Fallon. The time spent traveling was roughly the same, once you’ve deigned to commit yourself to the train’s schedule rather than your own. I made the trip for about the price of a tank of gas, and the frustration factor of rolling through the 405 during rush hour was much reduced, if not entirely abnegated.
The Hobbit dropped me off at the Coaster station in Sorrento Valley, not so very far from where she works. She even introduced me to Gus the conductor, whom of course she knows, as she has had the opportunity not once but severally of using his services while shepherding her special needs charges hither and yon. Your man as much as told me that I was blessed in my choice of a bride, for she was that patient. I know, I responded, for didn’t she marry me?
She did.
Take the seaward side my lady said, for the view is all the better. I probably wouldn’t have thought of it on my own, but she had a point. We made our gradual way from Sorrento Valley through Solana Beach, two stops in Carlsbad and then finally to Oceanside, or as I prefer to call it, “Bakersfield-by-the-sea”. The great Marine Corps base of Camp Pendleton lies hard by, and that portion of the town that does not cater to the street wraiths on their skateboards or those aimlessly tossing their dreadlocks about, instead caters to the whims of the hard young men who cycle through the base in unending succession. All of whom come back from distant lands changed in some measure, some more profoundly altered, and some of whom do not come back at all, at least not to Camp Pendleton.
With an hour and a half to kill between the Coaster and Amtrak, I got a nice breakfast and a haircut. I was keenly aware of a hunger in the first part, and a sideways glance at my curling gray locks in storefront windows reminding me of the necessity of the latter. The place I stopped at catered to young Marines, and a lissome lass of some twenty-odd summers was the only one there to serve our needs before 11. A young man on his way to jump school got his high and tight to go with his bulging muscles, and another young Marine – physically sloppier, from some months of forced ease and holding a cane – offered to yield his place to me, keeping in mind the schedule I was on. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while, he said, not unkindly. “Thanks, Marine” I said to him as I left. “Sir,” he replied. I didn’t ask him how he became injured, nor why he called me “sir”. It didn’t really matter.
Rolling surf to my left on the ride north, surfers waiting their wave, living in a different world from those I had just left. Which all gave way in time to hillside passes and outlying neighborhoods, the graffito kinds of places where passing trains are the least of their concerns. In Los Angeles, by some sort of magic known only to the throttle-man, the train somehow managed to back out the way we’d come and still meander its way north. I was picked up at the station in Camarillo, driven to the air station and soon found myself re-united with my own machine.
Unrestricted visibility, and high, thin cirrus clouds at 20,000 feet. Pretty much right there at my minimums. The lead had already filed the flight plan, so it was a trivial thing to get her cranked and moving. The take-off no longer waters my eyes, not the hoarse growl of the afterburner behind me, nor the runway markers flashing by. I have become accustomed to her quirks, even if not entirely enured to them: My left hand nervously fretted at the roll trim for almost the entire flight, with actions required at each power and airspeed adjustment, while my left thumb caressed the pitch trim lever. In yaw, she seemed perfectly at ease throughout the flight.
As was I, once we’d gotten re-acquainted.
In the south, it’s popularly said that time spent fishing doesn’t count against a man’s store of days. If that’s true – and I do not assert it – then it seems to me that time spent flying must count double. There’s no other rational way to pay back that serenity which comes from being back in a jet again, wearing your flight suit, with your wings on your left breast and “the patch” on your left shoulder. These are my siguls, and I worked hard and long to get at both of them. I thought them lost to me for nigh on a decade.
The landing was uneventful, I taxied in and shut her down. Spent a few moments chatting with the maintenance folks, and stopped by the officer’s club on the way back to the motel. The helicopter weapons school was having a farewell for a petty officer who’d left the service, and a lieutenant commander who was heading back to his department head tour. I’ve seen hundreds of such, if not more. Kind words are said by the one in charge, the award citation is read, the man leaving has a moment or so to speak his mind, and the whole thing wraps up with a photograph.
I nursed my beer as this was going on, relieved of the requirement to stand at attention while the Secretary of the Navy’s words were read aloud. I formed no part of the photo-taking exercise at the end. Those involved took their places, and smiled their smiles as the flashbulb illuminated their innocent faces, unaware that there is a time to everything, and to everything a season. I hovered on the fringe like a ghost at a campfire, warmed by the glow, but unilluminated by it, knowing better.
There was a young couple there, a lieutenant with a fresh face and upturned nose, his girlfriend elfin-like and charming. Perhaps he hadn’t promised her a proper share of his glory or excitement, but it probably had been at least tacitly hinted at. As the night wore on, instead she watched with a bored expression as he spoke to the other men there in their Nomex flight suits, speaking fraternal secrets in their arcane language and gesturing with their hands when words alone would not suffice, here in the high desert with sere mountains ringing all around, and not much else.
He seemed oblivious, and I found myself hoping it would work out for them. Against the odds.
It’s a hard road.
There is a reason your blog holds the first place on my bookmark bar.
He does write in a most strornry way, dosn’t he.
Remembered everything but the nomex. It’s worked for us for these past forty-seven.
Damn, SCDave, got me beat in the traces by 8 years, probably because I didn’t get married until age 29–and silver greys for me going in, nomex going out..
Lex, well said. It is indeed a hard road.
Sheer poetry…great writing, Lex
Once more, I fel comfortable in my recommendation passed along last night to a sci-fi writer of some skill in George Lucas’ stable, about the excellence of the postings here. This link will be part of the email to same today…
Regarding the last paragraph, I’ve often found myself in similar situations – discussing military stuff with my buddies while my bride stands nearby, wholly left out of the conversation. It’s taken a conscious effort on my part to make sure that she is included throughout, or at least to not leave her alone for too long while I reminisce with my buddies about days gone by.
And, off-topic, I wanted to draw your attention to my new post on the Flight Deck, for those of you who have expressed an interest in sending some items to those of us out here in Kuwait.
Padre, do you have any cigar preferences or is any old smoke acceptable?
Are you going to buy the smokes Daryle? We don’t want to inundate him.
I’ll pay a visit to the used bookstores in the area and see what I can find in the book arena. Only problem is that for me a used bookstore is like a strip bar to certain others. A true den of iniquity.
Oh yes you do!
LOL!
I’m going to try. 5 to 5 1/2″ “Robustos” and dark maduro wrappers. Got it.
Well, I’ll take Cubans if ya got ‘em…
Seriously though, I tend to lean more towards 5 to 5 1/2″ “Robustos” rather than the ginormous big “Churchills.” The dark maduro wrappers seem a little nicer as well.
That said, I trust y’all’s taste and judgment, and like to try new things – so feel free to send whatever you think would be enjoyable.
Tiparillos?
Oh, you’re funny.
Unfortunately, I am not a scantily-clad young woman – having failed miserably in all three of those categories.
And judging from the pictures one finds when one does a Google Image Search for “tiparillos,” those are about the only folks who seem to smoke them.
Cap, your observations are like a Norman Rockwell painting. They are a window into a snapshot of life in these United States…..at least the West Coast portion.
All quiet here in Boston with cold & snow on the way for Saturday/Sunday…..I long for the Spring….can’t get here quick enough.
Our winter break is over SK1. 2-4 inches of snow for my area tonite and tomorrow. And some of the lowest temps all season. We have a busy weekend planned…including theater tix tomorrow night. Thank goodness for the 4WD Jeep! Stay warm and cozy in Beantown.
Here in New York we’ve had nothing but the warmth brought on by euphoria and sunny skies speckled with ticker tape. }:-)
Oh no you didn’t! (I think we NE fans are still in the denial phase.)
OH YES I DID! BTW, thanks for making Jets fans miserable year in and year out. One of the few things I enjoy more than visiting here is seeing Jets fans suffering from football disappointment. I suspect it’s a form of mental illness.
Yes, he did. And there needs to be some kind of – punishment – for such rude behavior on a normally quite civilized blog.
Lex – I submit, respectfully, that Daryle’s keys be taken away until he can play well with others.
Hey, SK did quite a bit of trash talking before the game. I didn’t hear anything about rude behavior then!
I posted my admission on my place ( US Navy Jeep) that we (New England) did not live up to our standards. The game was played pretty evenly until we allowed NY to have the ball for those last 4 minutes. That was our mistake and we own it. We should have done better but I am not one to kibutz. NY didn’t dominate and the outcome could have gone either way.
NY won, we lost. Nothing I put out here will alter that. We’ll be there on top next year and I feel we have the ability, just have to achieve the end results.
SK1 and Kris,
Down here in little Rhody I see that our hyacinths are starting to poke through the soil. And today feels like spring, so of course it’s going to snow tomorrow.
And my wife can’t believe that during my 24 years in the USAF I missed New England. Of course, I was born and raised in Vermont, so Rhode Island feels like “down south” compared to that!
Oh, and Cap’t Lex, your blog is about the only thing I read every day. without fail.
Cheers to all!
South indeed. It hasn’t been warm enough in my corner of CT to force buds out … yet. So the tips of your flowers will be – crumpled – when they fully bloom. Damn.
Rhode Island, eh? You know, my unit over here (1-126th AVN) is from Quonset Point, RI. Heck, we even share the flightline with some AF C-130s. Maybe I’ll see you at the homecoming this fall? You can’t miss me – I’ll be the one doing the prayer!
Would be an honor to share a prayer with you Padre. Perhaps I will swing over to Quonset this fall. It would be a great honor to welcome you warriors home!
Thank you sir, for the keen eye and using the keyboard to paint a picture for the rest of us. Flight suits and fraternal secrets…found the word sere, new to me, searched it out and there were two meanings, an area that will not support agriculture and, could it be you intended this, sir, the SERE of the military ilk. Word mastery, accident, punnery?
A pretty awesome, stream-of-consciousness essay Lex; thanks for including all of us in your day
`tis a strange feeling, being near former colleagues at one of the many rituals, yet not so near as to count as one of the gang. I recognised that feeling, very much so. For the gang in the moment remains the same or, put another way, it grows not old, as we who are left grow old.
As for the peripheral wife, that too stuck a note. I never realised it happeneing to me until the time I’d had a long telephone conversation with my niece (more like a sister), about a day I’d had – a particularly bad one, all infant death and destruction. She said, `My God, how on earth can (my ex) ever hope to come close to understanding waht that does to you`. She was right, she couldn’t.
A most enjoyable read, Lex.
Oh and what a hard road it is! And I have proudly traveled it. Former Navy wife here…
I read very few blogs and I must say I enjoy this one immensely.
Thank you for sharing.
Living in San Diego the past 24 years, I’ve found that young Marines, in uniform or out, call EVERY male, in uniform or out, ‘sir.’ They are by far the most polite people I’ve ever come across.
The politesse isn’t limited to Sandy Eggo or the Marines. I had a Lt Col call me “sir” the other week out at the Cannon Airplane Patch pharmacy when I stopped in to pick up the monthly meds. THAT kinda took the wind outta this ol’ sergeant’s sails, momentarily… for what should be obvious reasons (the Good Colonel had seen my ID card, so he knew what rank I held). I just roll with it these days and appreciate it for what it is, possibly because I do it, too.
Except when the Sweet Young Thangs at Wal-Mart call me “sir.” THAT rankles.
The wife still has to endure the occasional standing by being bored as the guys and I chat. These days it’s about golf. Anyone know of a site with hand signals for duffers?
I hovered on the fringe like a ghost at a campfire, warmed by the light, but unilluminated by it, knowing better.
My dear lord Lex – please – write the book, any book. Use that as an opening line and the rest will unfold before you.
And this is why I have been a daily reader from the very start of Neptunus Lex. Even when I don’t understand 90% of what is written, it’s still a joy to read.
There’s an idea for a one of those days when Lex is traveling and leaves us alone. Start with that line and have everyone take turns adding to create a collective novella.
“I hovered on the fringe like a ghost at a campfire, warmed by the light, but unilluminated by it, knowing better. The unwary awoke this morning oblivious to the danger that would stalk them and the guardian that would watch over them from the shadows?”
Yes, I am at work and bored to tears. It’s not that I don’t have work to do it’s just that it’s Poker Friday and I’m not very motivated.
What she (Kris) said.
Lex at his best, making us see and feel much from seemingly nothing.
The Muses speak through him, and we are grateful.
As noted above: The Book; Any Book! At your leisure, so as to not interfere with flight hours.
Business took me through Fallon (town, not NAS) on Tuesday and Wednesday, and it almost felt as if I had been there before, and knew the area from your past posts…. and videos!
Thanks once again for your addiction to writing for those of us addicted to reading what you write. And to your sainly spouse for allowing you to do so.
Nice piece of writing there. Read Michener this morning. Preferred yours.
Love this post. One of my faves perhaps. Your wife…. I have been often heard to speak of women like her, that chose her profession, they are doing God’s work and they are amazing.
I think in general, when you marry a man who is passionate about his profession, many hours are spent on the periphery watching as he discusses with colleagues. I find other things to do now. It’s not so bad. I’d rather be married to a man who loves what he does and enjoys sharing it, than married to a man who hates it all or can’t bring himself to stay employed. Perspective.
NepLex is something I look forward to every day. I so love coming here, reading posts like these, and finding myself in my happy place. You can turn a phrase like no other and after reading such, I know I’m lucky to be invited into such comfortable surroundings. I hope xformed can assist with getting that book of yours off that laptop and onto my Nook.
you are making me miss the navy and I am not even out yet!
Marriage is often a hard road no matter the circumstances. You can look at the people with great wealth and how many former companions they have to see the truth of the statement.
CDR Salamander had a post up recently that pays homage to his wife. I suspect that Lex could say the same about his faithful bride. Even I, with barely a decade of married life under my belt, have enough sense to realize that I married far above my pay grade. To see and counsel folks who have all sorts of marital discord makes me all the more appreciative of the rock I have waiting for me at home. Oh, I worry about stuff too – but whether or not my sweet bride is going to be there when I get back from my deployment ain’t one of ‘em!!
Lex I suspect that you long ago were gifted with the cloak of command presence. As a wise old gunny once told me, “command presence is when you walk into the shower room and everyone says ‘good evening, sir.’”
Lex, it was not that long ago I remember seeing something posted saying that you were kinda burned out on the blog scene.
I’m so glad you have stuck to it and continuing to polish your craft. As a lifelong civilian, growing up in San Diego around the military where I learned to respect it, I’m thankful for what you share.
Jeff
You use your left hand on the roll trim, so she’s got no coolie hat? What about pitch then? And I’m guessing there is no altitude hold or stab aug. system.
Keeps you sharp though.
GRB
“Forced ease and holding a cane.” You didn’t have to ask that Marine about his injury, did you? You knew. Warriors always seem to know.
I got Sirred by a Sojer at church last week. He was visiting, just back from A-stan. A fine big polite monster of a young man, he was. We were exchanging The Peace, and after shaking hands, I said, “Lemmee see if I can guess yer branch of service by haircut and tattoo.” Before I could say more, he said “United States Infantry, Sir!” I hope he was being habitually polite, and not just being nice to the geezer.
In theory, all citizens of a Republic should consider themselves amateur infantrymen, the Founders said. Meeting a real one quite impressed me. Formidable. Yeah, that’s the word which came to mind.
P.s. Coolest tattoo I ever saw on a guy’s arm was on an HVAC tech who came out to the house once. It was a Marine Scout-Sniper tattoo. This was also a very polite, competent, manly guy. He turned down my offer of some DEET against the moskweetoes. Maybe he thought they were beneath contempt. Maybe he had rather put up with them than have that stuff dissolving his watchband, coursing through his body, and making his pee smell funny.
I swear, I don’t know which I hate more; mosquitoes or mosquito repellent. I need to get out of Southern Flarduh.
As an old mustang squidly, some of the finest prose I’ve ever read. Right here. Thanks Cap’n.
You. Have a way with words.
Carry on.
Hmm. Now that the DSM-V is about to be promulgated, there will be no more Aspies, just Auties and Normals. I am going to have to choose which one I am. I don’t do Normal very well. Say, Cap’n, do ya think I could hire Mrs. Lex the Autie Wrangler to manage me?
I really do better with a personal manager, but nobody wants to do that without recompense. Somebody with a stern-but-fair Sergeant attitude would be ideal. The Sweety used to do that for me when she was sweet on me, but got mad when I very affectionately addressed her as Sarge.
Threadjack
And the beat goes on and on and on….
http://www.stripes.com/news/pacific/japan/commanding-officer-of-yokosuka-based-uss-cowpens-fired-1.168248
One would think, with an excess of Captains and Admirals, and a paucity of ships, that people would be more careful. But then, maybe the guy was just acting Normal, in the old-fashioned way, and not being Careful, in the Modern Sensitive Way. I have not yet clicked on the link, but I suspect that if I did, I’d see the kind of thing we’ve read about here lately.
So good I had to read it again.
“sere mountains” and “my siguls” required some investigation. It turns out that there is a perfect word for most things… and some people actually know them and use them casually. Others merely discover them and hope for an opportunity to use them someday.
The Cap’n is the only guy other than myself I have ever known to use the locution, “amn’t.” He does know how to work The Language. He’d fit right in, in a Shakespeare play, telling someone exactly what he thinks of him in iambic pentameter while puncturing his lights and liver with a sword. (I just saw a very good movie production of MacBeth tonight.)
Sorry, I forgot. The Cap’n is more of a saber guy. More chopping, less puncturing.
Just too solid, Lex. Thanks.
Good tale Lex. Always makes we want to go back to the Airtanker business, been thinking about that lately..
My dear Wife however…