Getting it Right

 I pulled up to the Bristol State House in the dark like I've been doing the past five Wednesday evenings.  This time, I had skipped out of the house with my violin case and a surge of energy I didn't think possible after the first half of the week - which always seems especially stacked with life.

Coming down the old wooden stairs of a building that quite possibly predates the Declaration of Independence was the Beginner Adult class - a dozen or so women whose conversation poured down the bannisters and still filled the rafters of the large gathering room at the top.  My group, Intermediate, would be much smaller and more reserved - but kind, welcoming, and accepting of each other's mistakes.  They'd been together for a while and were still getting used to me.

I had followed Bill and his cello up the stairs, and when he removed his coat I was satisfied in my prediction that he'd have suspenders on underneath.  Scott, a fellow violinist, had returned from a ski trip without hurting himself and we all congratulated him.  Glen was still out which left us without a bassist.  Surely Pam would turn up and share her pencil with me since I always forgot mine.  I'm the youngest in this group by at least 10 years, and I admire everyone's dedication and seeming gratitude just to be part of a learning environment ... and a place where sometimes we make something beautiful.

Then... who is this guy?  Our pink-haired teacher was nowhere to be found, which was slightly disappointing since I'd been asking her about a different tattoo each week.  Each piece of art made her eyes sparkle with a different story, and it always brought me joy to watch her go to each of these places.

Carlos approached me with the wisdom of an elder and a demeanor that I often associate with a massage therapist.  He asked how long I'd been playing.  "Violin? Coming up on two years. ...Music?  Since I was a kid."  He proceeded to the next uncomfortable adult fumbling with rosin and sheet music.

Looks like we have a substitute teacher on our hands here, people!

I'd worked hard on the two-octave F scale this week since 5th position was new to me.  This did not matter.  Carlos fumbled through our usual teacher's notes with the aptitude of a ballet teacher at a NASCAR race.  Turns out he was exactly what we needed.

1- We needed to not take ourselves so seriously.  Under our sub's direction, and his hit-or-miss conductor's beat, we tackled the B-flat scale at a pace we'd never had the audacity to play.  The cacophony of screech and pitch would have made my dog's ears bleed and sent him running from the room.  But we just started giggling.  

And then we did it again.  More torture.  More giggling.  Until Pam and I needed "a minute" to get ourselves together.  Pam: "I think I started on the wrong string."  Me: "This is exactly what my husband thinks we do on Wednesday nights." 
It was okay to need a minute.  Carlos gave us plenty of these as he ambled through storytelling and philosophizing about the notes on the page.

2- He forced us to work together.  We tried "Moon River" and destroyed it (not in a good way) with no one really keeping the beat and our cellist carrying the harmony alone.  Carlos suggested that the cellist kick it up a notch volume-wise so he wasn't drowned out by the three screeching violins and their wild guesses at finger positions (my words, not his). 
What happened on that second try is that the cellist became the metronome and we stayed together until the end of the song.  

I'm a strong believer that in every group there must be a leader -- and without anyone conducting, we turned to the most strong and steady sound.

Carlos was thrilled to hear this come together.  He began to articulate a life lesson that has a true metaphor in an ensemble:  If the metronome is off, don't just keep playing to the correct beat on the page -- play to the metronome for the sake of keeping the song together.

It's more important for the team to get it right than to be the one who's right.

It's no surprise that my evenings at the statehouse inspire me to put words on a page.  Art has a way ... of inspiring, connecting, and sprinkling in reminders of life's truths.

The Grown-ups are Talking

A typical Saturday night on Edwards Air Force Base (according to my 6-year-old brain) included sitting on the back of my dad's MG convertible (yes, on the back) with my feet dangling behind the seats, cruising around the base to house parties.  My 4-year-old sister was next to me and my parents were ready to dominate whatever room they entered -- the double-extravert, not-afraid-of-a-dirty-joke, life-of-the-party team that they were at the time.  

The expectation for my sister and me was simple: Go play with the other kids and don't interrupt the adults.  It was assumed that our age was the only thing we needed to have in common with others - and, that young, it probably was enough - and when we were ready to leave, it was acceptable to ask our parents once, maybe twice, if we could go home.  It never worked.  We were going to leave when their party ended, not ours.

All of us military brats operated under this same code.  We knew the drill, and none of us were eager to interrupt an adult conversation for fear of the consequences and the overall futility.  I feel that Andrew and I put this same expectation on our kids when we get together with other families.  Interestingly, I've made few adult friends who do the same.*  Some kids are allowed to interrupt and some are thrown a vertical index finger to "Wait: The grown-ups are talking."  
*This is a judgement-free observation.  

These rules extended beyond Edwards A.F.B. and followed me through childhood almost every time we traveled.  Our family grew and I got older and vacations were usually road trips without hotels -- my parents seemed to keep friends in every U.S. city.  I remember being 12 or 13 and expected to go 'play' with the other teenagers.  This was awkward as hell but I did pick up bits of culture along the way, such as being introduced to The Offspring, hanging out with foreign exchange students, and trying to understand why our Texas friends had to sneak their house cleaner and gardener home every weekend under the cover of night.

A few years ago when I was stationed in Newport, Rhode Island with my own family, my mom came up to visit.  She had only one request which was to drive to New Hampshire to see a dear friend from her Air Force days.  This family I remembered clearly:  We'd known them at Edwards and were neighbors again during my high school years in Palmdale, California.  The oldest four kids surrounded my age.  They were always a level of cool to which I could never aspire.  One of the boys was in my first grade class.  I had a huge crush on his older brother, who somehow got talked in to taking me to a dance his Freshman year.

Visiting our friends in New Hampshire was like dropping into a time capsule:  These cats were still the coolest.  Everyone was an older version of who I remembered.  And that 14-year-old crush made the corners of my mouth twitch with nostalgia.  We were all parents now, and through the course of the evening the younger kids wandered off together and we X-gens found ourselves at the kitchen table.  The hours went on and I was finally ready to pack up my mom and go.  

I hadn't seen Mom since dinner.  She was off catching up with the other Mrs. and I looked around the table to faces that silently communicated, "We're not going to interrupt them.  You do it."  Like a 6-year-old girl, I quietly approached their lair and, with my best manners, tapped on the door.  "Mom?  Do you want to hit the road soon?"  She turned and gave me a look (no vertical pointer finger, thank God) that said, "The grown-ups are talking."  I retreated back to the kitchen table to hang out with the kids my own age (late 30s) and found conversation until the real grown-up party had run its course.

In the past months we were twice blessed to host some recently-retired friends we met in Italy on their way through the country.  I insisted on making them feel welcome.  As I was rolling out the trundle bed and counting pillows, it occurred to me why the opportunity to provide this hospitality was so deeply important to me: It's how I grew up.  And my 2nd-generation military brats will have the unique memory of friends we made across the world dropping in to our living room in East Tennessee. 
My 11-year-old dutifully entertained their 10-year-old on the trampoline and gave up his room for the night. 
The teenagers all made an effort. 
The grown-ups talked forever.

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~ Rest in Peace, Jeremy Moser.  Your departure from this earth was way too soon. ~

Conversations in D Minor

I'm 10 weeks in to learning the violin.  My family has suffered through hundreds of agonizing iterations of 'Twinkle, Twinkle' and our dog is experiencing this pain at frequencies I can only imagine.

My mom came to visit and asked, "Why the violin?  What are you hoping to do with it?"
I shrugged and replied, "Maybe play in an orchestra someday."
While that is a real answer and a daydream I haven't dared yet to form in to a goal, her question left me thinking.

Music:  It tickles a part of my brain that I don't use in any other part of my life.

Music:  It is a dance of challenge and reward that I thrived on when I was flying, and experience occasionally in the gym.

Music:  There are days I can feel it reverberate in my heart!

Musicians:  We come from completely different backgrounds and meet on a common day, at a certain time, in a shared key.

Ms. MaryAnn, the fiddler, is no exception to the music teachers that have formed a cast of characters in my life. 

When I was twelve I rode my bike to a man's apartment in Las Vegas (yes, take that in) where he had two bedrooms: one for his piano studio and the other for his shoes.  When I asked - as kids will do - he told me he slept on his fold-out futon in the living room.  He figured out that I could fly through Clementi's Sonatinas and dance over scales, and the pieces he taught me I can still sit down and play like no time has passed.

I remember the devastated look on my high school piano teacher's face when she found out I wasn't going to major in music in college.  She had brought me from the notes of the sonatinas to forming music, with all of its varying feeling and tempo and volume.  One day I pointed out to her that the second movement of Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique had been turned in to a Billy Joel song.  I never did finish that piece before going off to the Naval Academy.  It's still on my bucket list. 

When I was pregnant with my oldest, suspecting that my days of selfishness were soon coming to a long pause, I sent myself back to piano lessons in San Diego.  I asked for the best teacher in the county and there I met Celeste in her breezy apartment.  (She also had an entire bedroom dedicated to her piano.)  Celeste was upset by the military helicopters expending exhaust over the ocean where she swam every morning, so we didn't talk much about what I did for a living and instead focused on her taking me back to basics on musical theory. 
Celeste told me, "In any ensemble, the piano player has to be the smartest person in the room." 
She had flyers in her living room for piano bar jobs.  Had I remained under her tutelage, that was my goal:  "Benny and the Jets, key of G."  Go.
Piano bar player:  Also on the bucket list.

I'll never forget how Celeste approved of my fingernails clacking on the keys.  She was proud to be a woman and a professional musician and this came with the territory.
I'll also never forget the day we were discussing D minor and, messing around, I said "It makes me weep."
There we met:  From two different worlds, sitting at the piano, we both knew that line from Spinal Tap and thought it was hilarious.  This was the laugh that connected us until I moved away.

Present day:  Ms. MaryAnn leaves her front door unlocked.  When her students arrive they are to silently let themselves in, take off their shoes, and remove their instrument from its case.  She'll be there on her perch every time - sitting on a piano bench in front of an upright Yamaha covered in trinkets, a metronome snuggled in between photos and notes from old students.  No one can play the bottom dozen piano notes because they hold a variety of writing utensils and sticky notes.  In front of her is an aquarium with a turtle in it, the mesh lid doubling as a surface to hold her practice violin and a stack of un-cashed tuition checks.  Note: instead of a shoulder rest, the practice violin has a car-wash sponge rubber-banded to it.  

Nearby there is a music stand set up at eye level with an open method book that is no longer in print (my take-home version is a pdf).  Ms. MaryAnn has been using this book so long that she'll tell me to play, "Page 15, line 6" while she takes care of some bookkeeping and, mid-measure, quips, "I think that note is wrong."  She is always correct.

My teacher plays in various professional orchestras and teaches mostly kids who have never read music.  We're both learning what I need to practice and where she can speed up my curriculum.  We talk a lot about parenting (she is a grandparent now) and how kids these days have no respect.  I wonder if she would approve of mine.

This leads me back to "Why the violin?  What do I hope to do with it?"

First, I think these relationships with people from completely different backgrounds are important for me - and for everyone.  In these conversations we grow and stretch and are forced to respectfully consider another point of view and the lifetime of experiences that formed it.  

Second, I'm not so sure that the answer to this question ("why?") is an end state; rather, the goal may be the fruits of the process.  (This is a big statement for me, a type-A overachiever addicted to results.) 
Keeping my bow perpendicular, my wrist posture correct, and playing the same thing over and over is hard! 
When I watch Andrew work at a mindless task with the patience and diligence of a true tradesman, I'm envious that he can do it without going insane.  I'm no good at it.  But hundreds of iterations of 'Twinkle, Twinkle' are forcing me learn this skill of slowing down and mastering the basics.

Finally, I feel far from finished.  When I met MaryAnn, she asked what I do for work.  I told her I'm in the Navy and she pragmatically replied, "Is that what you've done with your life?"  
I blinked, "well... yes."  She blinked and had no further questions about that.  

In a season when my impending retirement from the military weighs heavy on my entire family, I must keep this at the forefront of my mind.  There is so much beauty and diversity and community outside of the one in which I operate.  I can't leave it unexplored.

"... in D minor which is the saddest of all keys ... People weep instantly when they hear it." 
Nigel, This is Spinal Tap

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Shout-out and many thanks to my parents and late Oma, Lola Mae Coates, for my exposure to the arts.

Snippets: Ch.1, "You mean this one right here?"

 

My YN1 and I just had our circuit-breaker moment. 

Before I unpack that, a quick explanation of my current day-to-day: 

I'm part of an organization that tracks, trains and sends East Tennessee's finest Navy Reservists out the door.  A large part of our duties are administrative, but nevertheless I work with Sailors from all walks of Naval service.

Term:  YN1 is a Yoeman (secretary) First Class (E-6).  She basically makes my office look good. 

Now travel with me back to a time when my job included flying a 20,000-lb helicopter... 

Starting up the SH-60B or MH-60R Seahawk was not a quick flipping of switches and shaking out of the controls.  It could take us anywhere from 20 min to an hour from the time we strapped in to actually pulling the chocks.

During this extensive checklist and startup process, a great maintenance department would have multiple troubleshooters standing by – and on a perfect day, one of each rate:

AE (Electronics), AT (Avionics), AM (Structural & Hydraulic), AD (Engine), AO (Ordnance).  

I think it’s safe to say that our AE’s and AT’s set the record for ‘most needed troubleshooter’ once systems were fired up and pilots were pushing buttons. 

Friends, let me tell you, I have lost count of the number of times I have been that pilot – or witnessed that pilot – fuss and cuss and dig through checklists and system menus only to call in that AE or AT (sometimes both) to watch this exact scene unfold: 

Troubleshooter:  Arrives at cockpit door, opens it, leans in real close and shouts over the rotor wash, “Ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

Pilot:  “The flibbety-jibbet won’t flibbety jib.  We’ve tried everything.”

Troubleshooter:  Grinning so I can see every tooth, he or she places one foot on the door step, grabs the door frame with one hand, and dramatically reaches the other arm over my head, pointer finger extended, zeroes in on its goal….. 

And pushes in a popped circuit breaker.

 

Fast forward to current day.  I was without a YN1 for a while.  It’s been a refreshing relief to watch our new arrival get settled, set up her work space, and train me on her office flow. 

One day she enters my office,

“Ma’am, could you do something for me today?  Will you change the greeting on your voicemail?  It’s… the last guy.” 

I laugh because she is not the first person to tell me this, and give her my standard answer, “Do you know how to do that on these phones?” 

If you could be so kind, please pause at this moment in the story and remind yourself that I am a competent human doing competent work on most days. 

What YN1 does not know is that earlier that morning I accidentally dropped this monstrosity of an office phone on the floor and broke off the stand.  So it’s sitting in a jalopy on my corner desk when she arrives and takes in the troubleshooting situation. 

I see her eyes crinkle under her mask and her shoulders start shaking. 

“Well, Ma’am, first of all, is this red light always on?  That means you have a voicemail.”

Me: “That light has been on since I took this job four months ago.” 

More shoulder shaking.  They’re really starting bob up and down now.  Her face begins to flush. 

“So, you want to press this button that looks like an envelope in order to hear the voice mail.”

Male Siri rats me out: “43 … messages.” 

Her eyes are starting to tear up a little. 

Then this poor girl watches me scroll through unheard messages spanning four months and systematically delete each of them, one at a time.  Her eye crinkles turn to wide open horror at my audacity. 

I respond, “There’s no way these are still problems.  I’m sure they found me on e-mail.” 

We get through the recording of the outgoing greeting and recover.  But I will never forget her moment: leaning over me, pointer finger extended, then patiently, practically explaining that the ‘envelope button right here’ will allow me to listen to my voicemails, indicated by the flashing red light.

 

There are days when I know that the end of this duty station is when I need to leave the Navy.  But then there are days when it is alive and well: When the enlisted expert gets the best of the commanding officer just by doing her job.  Respect and tact remained in place, we all had a good laugh, and the playing field was leveled once again.

 

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Welcome to 'Snippets'.  I have many little blog entry ideas with no common theme, and I’m not getting paid to write a column, so I'll try putting them here. 

Somewhere, sometime, what I have to say is going to make a difference for someone else - whether it's a relatable moment, a good laugh, or just an interesting story.  As always, I welcome any good conversation that comes from this exchange! 

Hats off to those who have the attention span to write a novel!  I am not among your numbers...

Lessons on Draught

Original post:  Oct 30, 2020

This seldom-enjoyed taste of beer sends me right back to the Yuengling tap at Whiting Field.  I'm not a beer drinker - and the fact that this Belgian import just reminded me of Yuengling would make many the craft-connoisseur cringe - but I do credit these bitter bubbles for any bit of successful public speaking I've enjoyed in adulthood.

I'm rewinding the clock about a decade for this memory: The privilege of standing up with my flight students, at the end of the syllabus, and publicly roasting them in front of family and comrades.  It terrified me every time, but a single solo cup of Yuengling later, I would consistently bring the room to tears.  With a little help from props, some hilarious antics from which to choose, a healthy dose of genetic blessings, humility and a beer in the belly, the lesson is this:
1) Draught beer, in moderation = Easier public speaking.

I'm in a weird place.  Not only am I on a weird staff*, and in a foreign country, trapped alongside you all in a pandemic, but I'm also in a weird place wondering "how did I get here?" and "where to next?"  I've spent a career in the air and now I ride a pendulum between "I can make a difference" and unexpected kicks in the face.
(*Staff, in the Navy world, is the part of the bureaucracy that specifically supports the Admirals and their ability to execute decisions.  The staff I'm on supports six Admirals, a very high-ranked civilian, and a political advisor from the State Department.  They're all big deals.)

What better time than now to list some lessons learned thus far?

I'm not sure these will help anyone to be more successful in a military or civilian line of employment, or in a generic leadership or life-and-death endeavour, but who am I to be stingy? 
Enjoy.  Critique. These aren't all-inclusive, but most of them are fresh.

2) Find a trusted peer: Quickly.
Sometimes your job is hard.  Sometimes people are dumb, and jerks.  If you don't have the right person with whom to commiserate, or to bounce things off of, or to proofread what you think might be the perfect retort, work life can be very isolating and downright hopeless at times.  This person might not even be in your organization: But chances are, someone out there is doing the same job somewhere else.  Find them.  Vent to them.  Bring them freaking chocolate chip cookies.

3) People really don't like to hear that their 'stuff' is 'messed up.' 
I had a Master Chief who used a different phrasing for this when he described me, his boss, with what sounded like affection.  "Oh, she'll tell you when your 'stuff' is 'messed up'!" 
This is all fun and games - and quite effective when properly delivered - if you're working with the salt of your trade.  But at the higher levels, best to keep your mouth shut unless someone is really going to get hurt. 
Don't like it?  Move on and create a different dynamic in your start-up organization.

4) Get your butt home for dinner.
This is not original.  I've heard this advice, and I've lived by it ever since I became a working mom.  There will be days that demand it, but 29 days out of 30, I'm out the door by 5:00, ringer on silent once I pull up to my house.  
Most of my "customers" are on time zones 6+ hours earlier than mine.  I stopped answering e-mails after 4:30 p.m. on weekdays, and guess what happened: The expectation of immediate response after that time was quickly reduced.
The best part?  The people who work for me have become more efficient and they're all home for dinner too.

5) Don't opt for the extra work phone.
Compartmentalize your work life.  Also, see #4.

6) "Quick to listen, slow to speak."
I recently intercepted an e-mail from a subordinate, meant for someone else, dogging my organization and - bonus - assuming I'm a man.  I've been sitting on this one for about 48 hours and have come up with several witty responses, none of which I've sent.  I probably won't send any of them.
a) E-mail war is beneath you.  E-mails can be kept forever!
b) James didn't mean for others' words to be held against them when he wrote this scripture.  I know what I need to know about this young man (the e-mail author, not James), and now I know how much I can trust him the next time we work together.
(Plus, he'll probably figure out the intercept on his own in time, and the anticipation of retaliation may cause him protracted agony, which is better.)

7) Give the people who work for you the benefit of the doubt.  But be careful who you choose to follow.
I've been commissioned in the Navy for 17 years and I still can't figure out who to look up to. 
But the people for whom I'm responsible have never let me down.
I can't explain this one.  The data speaks for itself.

8) Ignorance (and inexperience) really is bliss.
I can not count the number of times a scenario went down like this:  Hairy situation in a helicopter with someone less experienced.  After landing, I'm actively praying my thanks for another day on this earth, and the youngster says "That. Was. AWESOME!!!"
If you are currently ignorant, enjoy the bliss.  

9) Garbage in equals garbage out, and Crossfit is good for you.
Yup. Work out until you pass out, but if you are eating and drinking whatever you want, you'll just be a strong frame under a layer of happy fat.  Own it or change it.
Also, don't hate on a good Crossfit organization.  I'm at my mental-health peak when I'm part of one.

10) Call your mom.
I can't get to mine.  It's killing me.

More to follow; love to hear yours!

"I land at zero."

"Hiccckk!  Hicckk!!  Hicckk!!! Hi--"
Darkness.
Rock music?
Why is there a blue jet in front of me?
Oh!  I'm part of the Blue Angel practice today!

I successfully made it through the first 7.5-G maneuver.  On the second, I lost a bit of vision around the edges.  On the 3rd, naptime.  Repeat.

I've kept up with my friend Declan for years.  He was in my first fleet squadron in San Diego and I've bumped in to him sporadically since then.  He's on his last tour before retirement:  Maintenance Officer for the Blue Angels (the grand finale of an impressive career!).  A few months ago he asked if I'd be interested in flying with them, to which I answered, "Yes! and When?"  Yesterday he made it happen.

I will not do this day justice in writing with regard to its level of Epic.  Judge my priorities if you must, but it will remain in my memories alongside life experiences such as the births of my children and Andrew's & my wedding on the Blackwater River.  Perhaps this is the category of 'Things I will never regret but also have the ability to completely kick my a$$.'

Declan escorted me and my Aunt & Uncle in to the squadron spaces where he gave us a brief tour, showed them to VIP seating, and ushered me to the ready room.  The BLUE ANGELS' ready room.  Soon after filed in a trickle of support personnel and pilots, and despite the level of celebrity present, I felt at home in this environment of Naval aviators and the people who safely send us off.  I won't go in to the seemingly sacred rituals and professionalism that I witnessed throughout the brief, because I believe those are for the folks who have earned their place in that room, and the few of us fortunate enough to be invited in for a glimpse.  But I will share this:  The last thing the pilots did was pray together.

Nate Barton is the #4 "Slot" pilot and he'd hold my life in his hands for an hour.  We went through API (flight school indoc) just a few months apart.  My peer is now a senior Blue Angel.  Nate reiterated much of what Declan said would happen during the flight and added, "I have zero expectation for you to contribute to the flight today."  Well, good!

My very own crew chief got me strapped in, showed me how to turn on the GoPro pointed at my face, and reminded me not to pull the ejection handle once it's "hot."  Roger that.  How about I just keep my hands on these 'Oh sh!t' handles conveniently located at shoulder height.

Then the boys sharply marched out, hopped in, closed the canopy, and fired up the engines.

Oh. My. Word.

This is happening!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We taxiied out in an organized fashion that reminded me of Kindergarteners heading out to recess.  Boss (squadron CO, an O-6), was lively and calming on the radios from the get-go until after landing.  His voice was a constant presence with an experienced cadence that could not help but be followed with graceful precision, obedience, and the urge to please.  (Not that it was any of my business.  But his leadership seemed so natural, and appropriately tailored to the team.) 

And we were off.

The first half of the flight was a lot of, "Ooohh, wow!"  What a gorgeous day!  Look how close that airplane is!  I wonder if his wingtip will lightly bump our canopy?  (It's only 10-12 inches away, after all.)  "Wheeee, we're upside-down!"  "Look, Ma, I'm hanging by my seat belt!  My knees are floating!"  Boss said we could take pictures!  Aileron rolls are fun!  'So that's what afterburner looks like 5 feet over my head!'  We're screaming down at the earth but I'm not afraid!  "I'm .... so ..... happy.......!!!"

The second half of the flight was GAME ON.

Nate impressed the hell out of me.  Not only was he DOING THIS, he was narrating everything that was coming up so I'd have some warning - especially for the high-G maneuvers.  Once things got ... 'heated,' I could hear him breathing and working hard over the hot-mike while still keeping his passenger in mind.  Somewhere in between blackouts the narration became abbreviated to, "here comes another tough one," and, "you still with me, T-Rex?" 

I will admit that I started watching the clock on the Go-Pro sometime during this phase of the flight.  My barf bag came out but was surprisingly not needed. 

We finally pulled through one more turn which I miraculously remember, and came in for landing.  "We'll be doing this landing at 140 knots," No. 4 says.  "I'm used to landing at zero!" I reply.  Apparently that's pretty funny to a jet guy.

As we rolled in and waved to the mob standing in front of the museum, I reiterated, "I can't believe you do this EVERY DAY."  Nate assured me that he's used to it and said, "I'd probably be sick to my stomach landing a helicopter on the back of a boat in pitching seas at night time."  His humility blew my mind.  Or maybe we just understood each other since we all do start with the same indoctrination.

As soon as we shut down, I puked in my bag and wiped my mouth on my sleeve.  Gross.

I somehow made it down the ladder and then the Blue Angels decided to play a joke on me and take my picture with the entire team.  The world was spinning and I wasn't sure what my body was going to do next.  "Cheeeese!!!"

During the debrief Declan stood me up for a few words.  I was floored by what he said about my friendship.  I underestimate what kindness and keeping in touch means to people, because the two are so rarely, consistently received. 

I got some pretty sweet SWAG which only pushed the team's hospitality over the top.  They had been nothing but welcoming from the moment I stepped in to the ready room.

My good friend also pointed out to the team that he'd chosen me for the flight because, having left Active Duty and come back, I had a real appreciation for Naval Aviation.  He's right.  I have tried to quit three times and this is the path to which I always stagger back.  In order to be volunteered for a ride, one has to be Active Duty or a high-[positive]-press celebrity.  To the list of things I would have missed out on, add "Best seat in the house."

'Appreciation' is only one word to describe my relationship with this calling.  I occasionally cross another pilot who has that twinkle in his/her eye for what we do -- one which I constantly tried to impart on all my students at Whiting -- And I am beyond thankful for the re-charge of that spark today.