“Launches” and “traps” create the kinds of forces on the human body rarely found outside of vehicle collisions. During a launch, a massive steam-powered catapult hidden belowdecks slingshots the jet off the front of the boat with such speed—zero to roughly 180 miles per hour in two seconds—that the otolith organ, the little bowl of jelly in the brain pan that orients the body in space, plasters itself against the back of its chamber and screams to the brain that the body is on its back, shooting straight up. The disorientation can be so strong that the natural impulse is to push the jet’s stick forward and bring its nose down—directly into the water. To address this risk, a pilot leaves his left hand on the throttle, pushed to max, and salutes the shooter on deck with his right before reaching up to grab a stationary handle called the “towel bar,” leaving the stick completely untended. For the first few seconds after it begins its climb, the jet flies itself. The launch, evidently, yields one of the most potent adrenaline hits there is, strong enough in most cases to balance out the trap, and in particular, the near-blind act of faith that is the night trap.
A trap involves threading the needle of speed, glide path, angle, altitude, and lineup all while listening to an LSO on the radio, reading the instruments, and looking for the tiny light on the boat called the “meatball” or the “ball,” accurate only when you’re perfectly lined up. A hook lowered from the back of the jet searches the boat’s deck for one of four retractable wires laid across it, ideally grabbing the third from the back, the “three wire.” The jet makes its pass at full speed in case the hook misses the wire, so the jolt when it does catch is brutal—something like 150 miles per hour to zero in two seconds. Certain kinds of corrective eye surgery used to be forbidden because it was worried that the force of the trap would cause the altered, unanchored cornea to separate.
Many more lives are at risk in the complex choreography of bodies running back and forth in color-coded jerseys on deck. An aircraft carrier deck is commonly called “the most dangerous three and a half acres in the world.” Fuelers in purple gas up the jets; plane captains in brown inspect the exteriors; ordnance personnel, or “ordies,” in red handle the missiles and bombs, loading and unloading them from hard points on the undersides of the wings; “greenshirts” maintain the catapult and the arresting wires; plane directors in yellow guide taxiing jets to the catapult and use hand signals or lighted wands to run through checklists with the pilot; a catapult officer, or “shooter,” also in yellow, operates the catapult; and “blueshirts” tow the jets, chock the wheels, and chain the jets back to the deck. Safety observers and medical personnel wear white, as do the LSOs, who have a safety net suspended just below the deck and off to one side so they can jump out of the way if it looks like a jet is about to hit the boat. In the base of the tower, the “handler” coordinates all movement on the deck with the aid of the “Ouija board,” a flight deck in miniature with little planes and colored tokens to account for all the action outside. Watching over everything and calling the shots on the deck and in the landing pattern is the “air boss.”
It’s an environment that doesn’t tolerate failure. Ross took it hard. He had one more chance to pass, and to prepare for it he would complete another round of FCLPs, field carrier landing practices, at the runway in Lemoore. In the meantime, I was discovering his biggest weakness, a debilitating frustration from making a mistake. He dragged around the house during the day, distracted and silent, and then at night he tossed and turned in the bed, kicking off the covers and heaving big sighs. All of my reassurances felt hollow in the face of this death-defying stunt he would have to repeat, and when I tried to bury myself in work and school, it was with the knowledge that if he succeeded, there was a very good chance I might have to quit both to move again.
I’m not sure why I got the invitation one day to come out and watch a round of practice landings with the landing signals officer at the runway. I know other wives who have done it, and the only thing I can guess is that it’s something like Lady Redhawk Day, a rare chance to see some real details about an event that was having a huge impact on our lives at home. It was generous and compassionate, this opportunity to hang out with the LSO helping Ross to get out of his own head.
I met Ross out in the hangar parking lot as he was “about to walk,” which is different from walking because the end destination is the plane you’ll fly that day. Otherwise the movement is the same. He tossed me a package of earplugs and gave me directions to get to the ready room where I was to ask for a man named Frumba. I carried a notepad and pencil, prepared to pepper him with questions.
Inside, I approached the duty desk and said, “Hi, I’m looking for Frumba Hines,” and then immediately blushed when I figured out the call sign. Call signs are professional nicknames, official shorthand identities that have an uncanny way of insinuating themselves into off-duty life. They are assigned by colleagues, and the Navy’s approach to assigning them differs significantly from that of the Air Force. In the Air Force, you get to be “Slasher” or “Diablo.” In the Navy, you get caught one time in Rollerblades and you’re “Fruit Boots” for the rest of your career.