So it was bittersweet, I knew, when Brad proposed to her and our long talks started turning toward her wedding. I was happy for her, of course, but the wedding was part of the long-term future, a future that inevitably included Jessie and Brad’s moving to another city and following the separate fork of a Marine aviation career, which would rarely, if ever, intersect with a Navy one again. We got a wedding invitation after they moved away, and I hung on to it even though some training exercise or our perpetually strained finances meant we’d RSVP’d regrets. It ached, watching on Facebook in the intervening years as Jessie and Brad raised a beautiful baby girl, and knowing that no matter how many times I hit “like” on her pictures, or exchanged short Messenger updates with her on our lives, our kids, and moves, we’d probably never again be as close as we were then, back when we both felt like outsiders in the community of military spouses.
The reality of close friendships among military wives is that they have a half-life, often one both members of the friendship calculate at the beginning—how long are you here for and where are you likely headed next? There is always that chance that fate and BUPERS (the Bureau of Naval Personnel and the mysterious hub from which relocation orders emanate) can reunite old friends, and indeed it’s what we all hope for. “See you again soon,” is the phrase this community uses instead of “good-bye.” Still, every one of these friendships, no matter how dear they are, no matter how essential they feel to making it through a particular posting, can also feel like pouring your heart into building an elaborate sand castle. You know, at the end of the day, that the odds are excellent that you will lose this beautiful thing. It’s not a reason not to build one—in fact, when they are at their best, friendships among military wives are so intimate and intense precisely because the tide is so reliable. We build fast and we take risks in how much we reveal and how deeply we trust, risks a normal friendship would take years to earn. While it’s still standing, what we have built is wonderfully strong.
CHAPTER 7
The YouTube window expanded to full-screen mode and we stared at blackness. No sound came through the attached speakers except for occasional radio transmissions, the low whine of electrical instruments and wind, and the jagged, irregular sound of someone trying not to hyperventilate. Taken from a tiny camera mounted in the cockpit of an F/A-18 landing on a carrier at night, this video was a pretty accurate vision of what Ross would see for the first time in less than three weeks. We hunched in front of the computer, the overhead light off for effect.
“Two one zero. Left of course, correcting. Four miles.” Still nothing but blackness.
“That’s the approach controller,” Ross said quietly. “He’s in the air traffic control center on the boat watching and talking to this guy on the radio.” Ross was using the common aviation parlance for an aircraft carrier—dismissive, belittling, this massive moving city in the water is called a “boat” by the aviation community and a “ship” by everyone else. Partly this has to do with perspective—from a mile away, it is small—but it was also about a different kind of perspective as well. Already, he was learning the disdain of the aviation community for its surface warfare counterparts.
The pilot’s acknowledgment came over the speakers. “Two one zero.”
“I don’t see anything,” I said. A small, wry smile crossed Ross’s lips. Carrier qualifications were the last hurdle he had to clear before moving from the RAG to his first fleet squadron, and in many ways, it felt like the final high-stakes culmination of the previous three years of flight school.
Seconds later, the approach controller again:
“Two one zero, slightly below glide path, slightly right of course. Two miles.”
“Two one zero.”
And then a slight flicker, like a dying firefly. Barely four pixels across, I confused it at first with lint on the computer screen, so I reached out and wiped at it. It wobbled uncertainly and refused to resolve into a shape.
“Those are the tower lights,” Ross said.
“Two miles? That’s all he can s—” And before I could finish, a warning tone blared. “What’s that?” The tone sounded like a tiny British ambulance, like the kind of sound Nintendo games make when Mario accidentally leaps into a flaming pit.
“His RADALT. It’s an altimeter warning when you descend below a certain altitude.”
More transmissions: “Three one zero, ACLS lock-on, say needles.”
“Now they’re talking to the guy behind him.”
This seemed unfair to me. Why should 210 have to hear about everyone stacking up behind him? What if he got confused about which message was for him? The breathing sped up, shuddered between breaths.
“Two one zero, slightly below glide path, on course, three-quarter mile. Call the ball.”
“Two one zero rhinoballsixfive.” 210 was smashing his words together and breathing hard, but his voice was pitched low and even. He sounded like someone quietly trying to alert you that there’s a rattlesnake in his lap.
“Roger ball. You’re a little low.”