Bootcamp, Part 2: Morning Colors

“Morning colors” is the official start of the day, marking the time when the flag is hoisted for the day, and always happens at 0800. Typically, there are already a lot of things in motion long before this time, or they may even still be going on from the previous day. You can always tell when morning colors is about to happen on base because the public announcing system will sound a five minute “warning,” which sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a race down at the horse tracks, or by a ship or shore station announcing “first call.” One interesting thing to see is what happens when a ship is in port along with guest ships from other nations. The U.S. National Anthem is still played at 0800 precisely, but it is then followed by the national anthems of all of the guest nations. And yes, you hold the salute until ALL anthems are played. During the Rim of the Pacific Exercise (RIMPAC), when their can be up to two dozen different navies, you either run indoors when you hear first call or you get that saluting arm strong buffed up.

Everybody ready for part 2? Excellent! Then we’ll start off with what is perhaps the most interesting part of this whole segment:
 

1. What is it like the live onboard a ship?

The answer to that question is as varied as the ships themselves. Life aboard differs greatly depending on the size, class, and age of the ship; geographic location and time of year; and the duration of underway and size of crew onboard during that time. A modern carrier, with a crew complement numbering in the thousands, is often called a “city at sea” and that is an accurate description. Smaller ships, like destroyers, have crews that don’t often push past 300 souls but even they can be considered “villages at sea” or maybe even suburbs. “Suburbs at sea.” I like the sound of that one. 

How about some photos right up front? Everyone loves visual reference aids!

Here we have your typical, unassuming passageway or “p-way” on a carrier. Now imagine, if you will. I’m 6’2” and if I leaned against one wall (bulkhead) and stretched my arms out, I can almost touch the opposite bulkhead. And all that piping in the overhead? Thankfully, the exposed sections are covered in a foam material that is softer than the actual pipes. So when I hit my head on something, which does happen at once a day, it only cause embarrassment instead of a concussion. Next up is a typical p-way on the ships I’ve spent most of my career onboard.

Looks a bit more cluttered than the previous one, doesn’t it? When you’re dealing with a situation where space is always at a premium, everything has to fit and fit in way so that it is accessible yet still functional. This makes finding problems less arduous, but it does increase the probability of clumsy injury. Not pictured is the valve wheel bolt that left a small scar on the right side of my skull.

And here’s one more from a larger ship. Fun fact: we call the raised portions of those hatches “knee knockers.” For someone of my height, they’re more like “shin shatterers.” This p-way is a bit wider than the previous picture, but if you meet another person coming the opposite direction, the two of you need to twist in order to slide by each other while still walking. Not pictured are the vertical components of p-ways, called ladders or ladderwells. They stairs, but naval jargon doesn’t often conform to any normal vocabulary standard of any country. Ladders lead from one deck to another and are often far more steep in incline than any set of stairs you’ve likely encountered. In fact, they’re usually steep enough to be classified as...wait for it...ladders! Learning!

Not just a funny cartoon from a great series, but also a story. It was my first tour aboard a ship. Part of the process of being a junior officer is the seemingly endless number of qualifications that you must learn, study, and attain via tests of knowledge, judgement, and application. The basics of damage control, conning a ship underway, the workings of the combat center, and, in the case of this sea story, the operation of the ship’s engineering plant and auxiliary equipment. 

It’s difficult to fully explain the process of a qualification because although the prerequisites and required knowledge is all standardized, the method of instruction, temperament and willingness of those who are teaching you, and the rigors of learning the necessary information while holding down your own divisional job, collateral duties, and watch rotation will vary greatly between ships, crews, and individuals. In this case, I had migrated from my duties on the bridge down to the control center for the engineers of the ship. Going from a great view, fresh air, and walking around the pilothouse for 4 or more hours at a stretch, to sitting down and listening to reports while staring at a large set of indicator consoles was a tiny bit intimidating. The change of environment along with the change of personnel and the looming responsibility that the mobility of the ship along with the electricity, fresh water, and environmental comforts all rested on the shoulders of this position sent me into a state that I find very comfortable and is perfect for situations like this one:

Research mode: Activate!

The binder I built for myself and carried around tested the strength of the 3-inch binder that I had procured, and the combined weight of the references, diagrams, and notes I eventually accumulated probably came close to 5% of my own body weight. Doesn’t sound like a lot, does it? It really isn’t. I’ve never been a heavy guy. But, you see, there’s a little issue I do have. My balance is okay, but it’s never been what I would consider to be on par with the vast majority of the average population. I also suffer from occasional bouts of over-excitement that have the side-effect of overriding my normally paranoid tendency towards everyday dangers. It’s like a switch. One moment I’m preparing a bug-out bag for the house with a backup pack in my truck that includes the necessities of wilderness survival for up to a week, and the next I’m on an anniversary vacation going “Let’s go swim with sharks!”

So when I had what I judged to be a terrific evening of watch, with great leaps made in my understanding and execution of my required tasks, I was not thinking about the pitch and roll of the ship as I was hopping--yes, I hopped--over a kneeknocker and through the hatch, with this binder that could render a linebacker unconscious in my arms, so I could move on to my next duty of the day. At that moment, the ocean decided it had had enough of my cheerfulness. As my feet cleared the lower bit of that hatch, the ship pitched up into the crest of a wave. This brought the deck UP towards me. The tip of my boot caught on this edge as I was sailing through the opening. Normally, I believe that I would have been able to grab hold of something or shift my legs quickly enough to arrest what now was playing out in slow motion. And yes, folks, I can confirm that in this situation, and others like it later on, the world does indeed feel like it’s slowing down. As I’m falling, I realize that I had the disadvantage of not only both arms being occupied, but also this great weight being held at chest height. This was like a seesaw, and the heavier kid was on the wrong side. I had a marvelous view on my way down of not only the five people in the space but also the three hanging around just outside.

I bounced when I landed, binder still clutched tightly to my chest. My legs had slid back into the room and thus I was folded across this kneeknocker on my back. Even though every witness burst into raucous laughter, one did have the compassion to ask, “You alright, sir?” I did the only thing I could think of. I put the binder under my head, stretched out, and said, “Yeah. I’m just going to lay here for a minute till my pride decides to come crawling back.”

I think I squashed a piece of it into oblivion.

One thing that I did not include in the misconceptions from the previous segment is on the subject of where we sleep, called berthings. If you watch military movies, most of them, with the exception of those taking place aboard submarines, might have you thinking that everyone, at worst, shares a roomy place to sleep. And that’s a tiny bit true. I don’t have a photo of my room aboard a destroyer, but I do have one of the previous room I stayed in on a carrier.

A cozy, two-man officer stateroom. What I’m most used to is about half this size, and the officer berthing on a minesweeper is almost identical to that of an enlisted Sailor, minus their own head (aka bathroom). Mine was the one on top with the mostly made “rack” [i.e. a bed].) By this point it's probably going to be easy to imagine that the mattress, springs, and pillows are not what you would call hotel quality. I’ve slept on inflatable mattress that have more support, but it’s fairly common to find personal sheets and foam mattress toppers. Especially amongst those willing to haul a $200-300 memory foam topper and high thread-count linens onboard knowing that they might not last more than a year or so under these conditions. But in spite of that glowing review, during the quiet hours of night when you actually have the opportunity to sleep, there is little else in the world that is more effective than finding yourself in heavy seas and being rocked to sleep by the waves.

While officers have staterooms, the vast majority are enlisted and they sleep in the ship’s berthing compartments. Think of the ship’s berthing as one big bunk room, with racks stacked three high. Then imagine these stacks are packed tightly into a room that is sometimes small enough for you to be able to reach out from your rack and grab the person sleeping across from you. All packed with 40, 50, or more snoring, talking, and sometimes hygiene-challenged shipmates. 

Also consider that above you, below you, or to one side is probably a fuel tank, an ammunition magazine, a machinery space, or the ocean. Or all of the above. And I have experienced this too. During a month-long stay on an amphibious assault ship, I was berthed down in the overflow Marine compartment. This happens to be right below the weight room. On a ship full of Marines. Rather than gently rocking waves, I was lulled to sleep in a coffin-like slot in where my shoulder would get wedged into the bottom of the rack above me if I turned over while deadlift weights were dropped on the deck above throughout the night. Sweet dreams.

And speaking of dreams, it’s likely that you won’t be having many of those while you’re onboard a ship. A typical schedule from my last ship while we were out on deployment usually started before 0500 in the morning and was filled by the half-hour through 2000 at night. And this is not including the 4, 5, or 6-hour watch that still needs to be stood on a daily basis. That basis also rotates so that unless your ship happens to have implemented a circadian rhythm schedule that gives you the same watch, at the same time every day. At least, it’ll be the same for a few weeks. Then you switch it around. Also not listed: working out to make sure you don’t fail the two fitness tests each year; general admin and paperwork; emergent problems with equipment, schedules, and/or personnel; and personal time. You learn to delegate and prioritize, or you burn out hard.

All that work has to be fueled by something, and you can tell that it isn’t sleep. So what does that leave? Caffeine and anger? Sure, but both need to burn something...

It really isn’t that bad. It certainly isn’t as bad as the media and jokes often make it out to be, but in all honesty it isn’t great either. There have been relatively few times for me when I looked at what was being served and ended straight for the bread slices, packets of jelly, and tiny tubs of peanut butter. There was a time when we were down to nothing but beans and rice, but it’s a very rare occasion that requires several people to drop the ball. 

Navy Culinary Specialists are unsung heroes that sometimes manage to produce true delights despite what they’re given to work with, but often are hamstrung by lack of time and a standardized menu that must be followed except for special occasions. These folks turn out three full meals a day, plus midnight rations, for hundreds or thousands of people every day of the week. Some days you end up looking forward to more than others. Sunday brunch is especially prized because waffle bars are a thing we do, and it gets so that you start to measure the length of time until the next port call by how many waffles you have left to look forward to. Other meals, like Mondays, fade into obscurity. But there is one sacred item that stands above all other food items. It is even greater than the hallowed Slider Wednesday or Taco Tuesday. It is...The Hamster.

No, not this hamster.

This Hamester! The “chicken cordon bleu.” The greatest meal the Navy has ever brought onboard. Go ahead. Look at a frozen one from your grocery store for a minute and tell me you can’t picture a hamster.

2. What is a deployment? How about a surge or exercise?

It’s rough. It’s exciting. It’s what we do. Depending on the ship, squadron, or strike group a deployment can last anywhere from four months to a year. That does seem a bit more insignificant when you hold it up against the deployments of many of our ground-based brethren, who might be stationed overseas while deployed for two to three years, but I refuse to cheapen the experience of anyone that must be separated from the friends, families, and loved ones for months on end. Communication is still possible through email, internet, and the occasional phone call while in port, but you can imagine the volume of electronic traffic that must pass up and down a digital pipe from a shore facility, to a satellite, down to a ship, and then back again. The portion of the traffic that is allotted for personal use is very, very small and sometimes cut completely because its needed for more essential tasks. And a note on the time away. I’ve never seen it get shortened. 99% of the time, a deployment only goes on longer than originally scheduled. 

Remember the underway replenishments from the first segment? Here’s another view of one in action. Note the fuel lines as well as the connected wires that allow us to receive pallets of goods like food, parts, and the all-important Amazon packages. As mentioned before, this remains a major part of our time at sea. Care packages and the like are always a huge morale booster, and teams of family members back home are usually really well-organized so that they can make sure their Sailors are getting a constant stream of letters, cards, and well-wishes in the form of pictures and snacks. There’s an unbelievable amount of joy that can be packed into a small box with a few photos, a letter, and maybe a bag of cookies from home. It really can make all the difference to get something that shows people are thinking of you, and took time out of their days to doing something thoughtful despite their own busy schedules.

I’m not kidding. I’m so serious that this is getting its own praagrahop. I still have all the letters and pictures that have been sent to me while at seas from the last nine years.

If you happen to know a Sailor and they talk about a surge, that’s simply another deployment that’s coming up far, far sooner than expected because of some need. On my previous deployment, we were out and about for just over seven months and, once back home, were not scheduled for another for almost two years to account for follow-on maintenance and training schedules. Two months after having gotten home, we were gearing up to go back out for a shortened surge deployment of four months to fill in a gap. Exercises and other events usually fall into one week to two months, depending on where they’re happening and how complex they’re supposed to be. When I stop posting things later on this year, it’s because I’m going to be participating in two, month-long exercises separated by two weeks. But I always bring along plenty of notebooks so I can keep up the progress. 

 

Evidence from the last time I was onboard a ship with printed chapters of “The Great Parent Rescue” to edit and scratch notes for upcoming projects. Also, the place where “Ludicrous Scene, Go!” was born.

Now, just to be clear, I am saying that time at sea is hard. I’m not saying that it’s all doom and gloom. The next segment is going to be based on exclusively on personal experiences and opinions, because that’s where we’re going to examine the overall goods, the bads, and everything else that might factor into the perception of the U.S. Navy. And there are plenty of positives to go along with the negatives.

Hopefully this has given you a look into life onboard a ship. Some things I couldn’t go into because then I’d have to file a report, delete this blog, get into trouble, and probably have to stand in front of my superiors in my dress uniform while they informed me of my punishment. And nobody wants to do that.

Wait, what’s this? A bosun getting ready to ring the ship’s bell? What could it mean? Why, the next segment, of course! “8 Bells” is continuing to take shape and in it we’re going to take a very personal look at what is enjoyable about this type of career, what many would rather not have to deal with on a regular basis, and the matters of perspective and perception as they apply to looking inward at an organization from an outward position that is often times makes it difficult to relate to what you’re looking at.

Till next time, I’ll leave you with a POV shot of a day being the Conning Officer on a transit in the North Atlantic during winter.

And for those actually reading what I write, the second to last chapter of "The Great Parent Rescue" is going up this weekend.