The Shuttle Endeavor

1/14/11

Being appropriately intense and uptight and engineerish, we arrived at the boat launch in Naval Station Pearl Harbor an hour early to catch the shuttle (similar to the vessel above). Of course, late is left in the military, so this is the smart approach. We board the shuttle, followed by sailors and a few dozen boxes of supplies for the ship. Lines are cast off, and we begin chugging towards our rendezvous. We pass ton after ton of floating American Might (see below). Nimble frigates, angular and menacing destroyers, towering cruisers, and sleek submarines line the piers, with very few berths empty. This is no coastal patrol force, these ships carry a strong musk of power projection. At the top of that food chain was an SSGN we puttered by. It's long, humped back gave it a whalish appearance, apt for its payload of over 100 lethal cruise missiles and dozens of even more lethal special operations soldiers.

But we left the whale behind for the dolphin that waited. We rounded a bend and there, patiently, sat the USS Texas. Fast, flexible, and smart-smart-smart as one of the Navy's newest ships. We walked across a portable gang plank that the shuttle boat lowered, along the narrow deck just above the water, and down the nearest hatch. It all went very smoothly, but well-trained men spoke a language I barely understood. That is, I would barely understand if the spoke slowly, and they were not, so it seemed like bedlam to me. Well, if they won't be speaking slowly, this engineer is going to need to ask an awful lot of questions.

Last Flight Out

1/11/11

To my enduring surprise, our undersea excursion is rescheduled. I figured the initial postponement of our trip indicated a lack of enthusiasm or sincerity on behalf of the Navy. However, I received an e-mail a few days ago that the ship will be ready for us January 14, and the we would be accompanying her for an entire week, double the length of our initial cruise plans. We scheduled our departure from Providence airport (T.F. Green) at 7:00 A.M. January 12. The only thing remaining was to catch a flight.

DAMNATION, I already know better than to use that phrase. Winter weather now assails the U.S. east of the Mississippi River. Let's bullet list this travel catastrophe chronologically to move through the day briskly.

• Approaching snowstorm (10-18" forecast) will ensure no January 12 flights from Providence, along with other regional airports. That's tomorrow.
• Atlanta airport has been completely shut down by the southern approach of the very same snowstorm from Jan. 9 onward.
• Delta Airlines is perfectly happy to sell tickets for flights connecting through Atlanta on Jan. 11, as late as Jan. 10, to those who might naively think the airport is cleaned up by now
• Jan. 11 3:55 A.M realization is made that today's 7:10 A.M. flight from Providence to Atlanta is now officially canceled.
• 4:15 A.M Company travel services find a promising rout Providence/Philly/San Fran/Honolulu. Requires an unplanned overnight stay in San Fran.
• 4:20 A.M Wait, same snowstorm will reach Philly before we depart for San Fran
• 4:30 A.M. Discuss this with travel companion. He gives me carte blanche to do what we need to so that this trip will happen. Remember, he still wants to parlay this work trip into an extended vacation in Hawaii with his wife.
• If we don't leave today, we won't catch the boat, and the sea trial may never happen.
• 4:35 A.M. Wifey has brought me a mug of coffee. I'm surging like the Hulkster from a choke hold.
• 4:35 A.M. Calling travel hotline again, on hold for 20 minutes
• 4:55 A.M. Shucking and jiving on the phone, almost there...
• 5:30 A.M. KABOOM! Totally revamped travel plan: fly Boston/San Fran/Honolulu, return Honolulu/Chicago/Boston, same travel dates, no extra overnight layovers
• 5:31 A.M. I think I just racked up $5,000 in air fees for the two of us.
• 5:35 A.M Call my comrade, tell him the new plan, and that I'll pick him up in 1/2 hour to account for Boston traffic. He is uncertain, but yields to my onslaught. He gave me the ball, it's time to step aside and watch me go.
• 6:10 A.M. Comrade picked up. On the road again, going to places that I've never been...
• 8:00 A.M. Boston traffic crawling
• 8:15 A.M. ditto
• 8:30 A.M. ditto
• 8:45 A.M. ditto
• 9:00 A.M. Arrival at the airport! Shuttle but is idling in long-term parking and we quickly board and head to the terminal. Check-in and security go very smoothly
• 10:50 A.M. Airborne! Baby 2 rows back is persistently crying, but I am a veteran parent, and if this is the worst I face before final touchdown, I am golden.
• 11:00 A.M. Young woman sitting next to me asks the mother of the crying infant if the baby is hungry. I'm sure she didn't think of that. I may be breaking up a fight later.

You must understand that I am no world traveler. I would far prefer to march slow and steady across vast wilderness than navigate the modern travel landscape. The number of airports, airlines, gridlocked traffic, ineffective and time-consuming security processes, all are plagues to me. Additionally, the electronic nature of the system means you simply hand your decisions off to the Internet and pray everything is in order at crunch time. Throw in company travel personnel with poor English speaking skills, and it's a stressful experience for me.

Sub Interruptus

11/28/10

In a single week, I and another engineer (much more senior than I) prepared for this trip. As soon as dates and places were given, we conducted a flurry of meetings. Our purpose was to observe the day-to-day activities of sailors (customers, really), get information on various aspects of ship performance for our engineers to use, and solicit general input from the crew to get their direct feedback on our designs. That last bit may not be pretty, but I'm ready. In between meetings, we completed the training I've already described. Free of charge, we got to have a physical exam. For some reason, medical professionals never believe it when you tell them you are as healthy as a horse. Not as chiseled as I once was, I still sailed through with no problems. Maybe no longer a horse, but perhaps a Shetland pony. The only thing remaining was to catch a flight.

That's when we got Navy'ed. Problems on the boat. No extra riders will be brought on board until the new year. Cancelled with less than 24 hours notice, barely enough time to void my flight and hotel reservations. "So it goes" is likely what Kurt Vonnegut would say about this, if he could focus on anything other than escape training and its absurdity. Of course, he was a veteran, so the concept of getting Navy'ed would be all too familiar. Despite all this, here I count my blessings. My traveling comrade had already bought tickets to fly his wife out to join him after our work was complete. It made sense, because he had no young children and our destination was Hawaii.

In Case Of Emergency

11/20/10

Ignorance is bliss. To minimize bliss, the military and its contractors want to highlight the risks of operating, repairing, boarding, looking at, or thinking about nuclear submarines. First, of course, is the cancer. I only need limited radiation worker training so that I can go into the engine room while the boat is underway. All I really need to do is be wary of posted signs, NEVER touch ANYTHING, and rely on the real professionals to keep me safe. But first... a few hours of hurriedly cramming with an exam to follow the next day. . Not one of those lightweight multiple choice quizzes where "None/all of the above" is the default choice. No, this was an 8 page monster with essay, fill in the blink, and scenario questions. Want to know a secret? I passed, and all I really know is to look out for yellow and magenta signs. Want to know another secret? I dominate exams, so no problem.

Next up was Emergency Air Breathing (EAB) training. Combine the masks fire fighters wear with a manifold supply system like the emergency breathing systems on commercial aircraft, and you're pretty close. Nifty concept, and truly handy in a pinch. Much less than nifty trivia: the genesis of this training was our company president becoming aware of a recent fatal accident on the Russian nuclear attack submarine Nerpa. Around 20 men died when the firefighting system malfunctioned and utilized Halon (or a similar suppressant) to turn a perfectly good berthing area in the torpedo room into a crypt. Most of the dead were (here it comes) contractors. Right, the shipbuilder/design guys. This information was tactfully and tactically withheld from Wifey until... she reads this. Yeah, I paid close attention to the EAB training.

That left only escape suit training. This was really too much. So, the boat is floundering or stuck on the bottom. Correct, the bottom of the ocean. There is an escape chamber on the boat which, when filled with seawater and equalized to ambient pressure, allows the stout crew to exit a hatch by two's in a sick reverse mimicry of Noah's ark. Wait, you can't go into that chamber without your escape suit on, you'll freeze, drown, and be crushed by sea pressure. All at the same time! To don your escape suit, follow several dozen steps that I don't remember. If you look like one of the contamination response guys from Monsters Inc., you've done well. Enter the chamber. Pray your escape partner is a master chief or commander and knows what they are doing. Plug your air hose into the breathing manifold. DON'T LET GO, or the air pressure will break the connection. Grab the handhold and wait for the tank to flood. DON'T LET GO, your suit is buoyant and you will float to the top of the chamber, breaking your air connection if you are careless. Is the water making you cold? Don't worry, you're probably still seating! When pressure is equalized, the hatch opens. FOR GOD'S SAKE, LET GO! You rocket to the surface (watch your head on the way out), and are now ready to begin Phase II. Another dozen steps will inflate your internal life jacket, deploy a small raft, and put you in it, ready for rescue.

Did I mention that I'm not even qualified to wear a lifeline harness in my own shipyard?

Yes Man

11/1/10

A simple question was the origin of a 5,000 mile trip. "Would you like to go on a sea trial?" Sea trials mean spending time on operational submarines, under the water, instead of crawling around the hulls in dry-dock like gulls on a beached whale. Or the placidly tethered beasts held captive to the pier by a few ropes, like a circus elephant. This time on a free-range boat, a ship of war manned by technicians that are at the top their field.

"When", I asked

"Don't know" was my boss's reply.

The queries "where", "which boat", and "to do what" received the same response. That is an awful lot of uncertainty when a young family is involved. I conferred with the top expert on my young family, Wifey. I expressed a lot of reservations. She said it was a rare opportunity, which it was. I didn't say I really wanted to go, but she knew. It would mean more effort for her to lose my help at home, but she would never admit that. Too sweet, too selfless. How could I say no? In almost 10 years as an engineer, I've been like an architect who always lived in a tent, or a saddle maker who's never been on a horse. I returned to work the following day, I said "yes".

Journal Almost Rhymes With Urinal, Infernal, and Diurnal

I have just returned from a work trip that took me to the middle of the Pacific Ocean, in and around Hawaii. Taking a tactic from my friend Abby, I kept a sort-of daily journal of key events during my 5,000 mile commutes (each way) and the week on a nuclear submarine that punctuated the travel. I'll be posting entries as I retype them.