Into the light!

"When you see the Southern Cross for the first time...You understand now why you came this way"
-- Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young

After long weeks under the umbrella of dust that cloaks the skies as seen from the Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman, we have left that filter of fine orange silt behind as we head down the coast of Somalia en route our new mission; supporting anti-piracy operations in these waters of the Horn of Africa. For the first time since I came aboard Joshua Humphreys the horizon is a clear, sharp dividing line between sea and sky rather than thickening haze, the air is clear and the sun rises and sets instead of fading into or out of existence through the murk. The change in our surroundings is reflected clearly in our officers and crew as well; all hands seem to quietly (and some not so quietly) rejoice at the return to the open seas. Conversation is more animated, laughter rises from the decks, and even song is heard to accompany the days' work.

For myself, I find that the sight of a whale or flying fish, the curved prow of a dhow, or the brassy sunlight on the wind-ruffled water brings me a greater happiness here under a clear, open sky than I have felt in the constrained quarters of the dusty Gulfs; the change in our environment is reflected in my attitude of the past few days. I know that as we become accustomed to this area our joy will be tempered, but for now all hands seem happy to celebrate their liberation (if only a temporary one) from the oppressive atmosphere of those waters bound by Iran, Oman, the UAE and Iraq.

Of course, a large measure of my change of attitude is due to the night skies out here on the deep blue, and the new and exciting vistas revealed by our southerly passage.

The southern stars have always held a fascination for mariners. So different from those to be seen in northern latitudes, they represent the mysteries of another hemisphere, of lands and ways far from the familiar ones of our homes. As night watches pass and Polaris sinks slowly and gradually toward the horizon astern, fresh wonders rise off our bows; the shapes of odd constellations and asterisms framing alien stars and an unfamiliar Milky Way stretching across the sky and beckoning us onward to new discoveries, star clouds and lanes of inky darkness etching unusual contours across the night sky.

Even those amongst us who are not stargazers can recognize changes in the evening sky show. Stars that were only a few nights ago directly overhead now circle well to the north, while those that were once low over the horizon now climb high overhead. The sinuous curve of Scorpius' tail and Sagittarius' "teapot" now dominate the sky above us, and the contrasting yellow and blue sparks of Saturn and Spica stand high in the West at midnight. Our eyes are drawn to these changes, just as a land-dweller notes significant alterations in his home environs; we slowly approach the equator and the heavens' changes reflect our southerly course as clearly as a street sign indicates a new traffic pattern to an observant driver.

Last night was the first perfectly clear one since leaving the Strait of Hormuz a week ago...and what a night it was! Stepping from wheelhouse onto bridge wing I was struck motionless by the sight of the Milky Way, its star clouds and dark dust lanes in high relief, strewn with the familiar stars of Cygnus and Aquila and bordered by Lyra and Sagitta. Further to the south, past the Scorpion and the Archer, lay the somewhat less-intimate stars of Centaurus, dominated by the amber beacon of Alpha Centaurus, one of the the nearest stars to our solar system, and by the glowing ball of hazy starlight that comprises the huge globular cluster named Omega Centaurus. Just beautiful!

Even as I stared in wonder at this starry spectacle I could hear the splash of dolphins alongside and see the glow of bioluminescent plankton, excited by Joshua's passage through their uncountable multitudes, reflected on bridge wings awnings. My skin goose-pimpled to the touch of the warm equatorial breeze, and my inner ear registered the slow roll of our hull, its pitch and yaw in the gentle swell, the vibrations of powerful diesels many decks below my feet. And while I admired the view and soaked up the myriad sensations rendered by standing on the deck of a ship at sea under the vault of the heavens, I was already thinking ahead, drawing-up an audacious observing plan for the weeks to come; intending to take full advantage of the star-gazing opportunities inherent in our mission on these waters.

I have my portable star atlas, 10x50 binoculars, and a library of observing references and guides on my laptop, plus what looks a golden opportunity to explore in depth a region of the sky that I rarely get the chance to even glimpse. I think I am going to truly enjoy the next few months.

The Book of Joshua

Attention All Hands!

As of this evening I have been a member of Joshua Humphreys' crew for a month, and I am pleased to report that I've settled-in well to my new ship and duties. She seems a good vessel and well-founded; the crew is a happy one, the importance of which cannot be overstressed, especially in this operational theatre, and her officers and Captain are first rate.

 USNS Joshua Humphreys--a photo I took back in 2010

Joshua Humphreys is named for the Boston naval architect and shipbuilder who designed and oversaw the construction of the first six frigates built for the fledgling United States Navy (one of these fine ships, USS Constitution, is the oldest commissioned vessel still in service afloat, a testament to the skill of her creator). She is actually the second ship of the Fleet to bear the name; the first was a destroyer which served from 1920 through the end of World War II, even serving as a witness to the Japanese attack on Oahu in 1941.

The second of the 18-ship Henry J. Kaiser class of auxiliary replenishment oilers (AOs), Joshua is a bit of an anachronism. When she was finished in 1987 the Navy was surging toward the lofty goal of a 600-ship combat fleet set by President Ronald Reagan and Navy Secretary John Lehman, but with the radical reductions in the force brought about by the "peace dividend" of the early 1990s there were suddenly far fewer naval ships to support. As a consequence of this many older auxiliaries were scrapped; Humphreys was judged to be too young and potentially useful for this fate and was deactivated ("mothballed") in 1996.

And there, in the inactive ships facility in Philadelphia, she remained in suspended in-animation until in 2010 the call came for her services once again. Re-activated and with modernized power plant controls, she was then assigned to U.S. Central Command (CentCom) as the permanent duty oiler for the Persian Gulf, Arabian Sea and Horn of Africa region, where she continues to serve today providing fuel to U.S. and Allied units operating in these waters as a mainstay of Task Force 53, the logistical arm of 5th Fleet.

I wrote "anachronism" above; the mix of old and new in Joshua Humphreys is obvious and sometimes jarring. Her replenishment rigs are the current standard,with shiny titanium winch drums and controls that her original designers (back in the 1970s) could only have dreamed of, but her internal arrangements distinctly old-fashioned; I read and sleep in my own large, clean stateroom but work on a bridge which resembles a nautical museum exhibit; digital readouts and LCD displays are tucked clumsily between bulky, old-fashioned gyro- and magnetic compass repeaters and other instruments that even with my considerable experience made my first trick on the helm a real challenge!

Not to give a wrong impression, though...I feel quite confident on the helm today, and have had my qualification as Unrep Helmsman confirmed by Captain Christian, the ship's Master. This is a point of pride with me; to be trusted to "drive" the ship when aircraft carriers and destroyers come alongside, keeping within tenths of a degree of the ordered course, is a prestigious if stressful honor. Of course, the extra money helps too...

Back to the good ship Humphreys; given that I spent over six years sailing in Arctic, I'm afraid that some comparison with my last ship is inevitable. And there are many differences between the Supply-class Fast Combat Stores ships (AOEs) and the Henry J. Kaiser-class AOs, in both mission and design philosophy. Arctic with her low, almost reptilian profile, was designed and built to naval standards, with vital control and living spaces spread through her and positioned for maximum survivability in a combat environment, and with her gas-turbine propulsion she can keep up with most of the warships she supports, running with the wolves if you will. Humphreys and her sisters, on the other hand, were constructed to a mercantile motif; in profile they more resemble the commercial tankers they are based on, and are arranged more for operation by a smaller crew with much more centralized facilities--all of her staterooms, offices and engineering spaces are located in an apartment building-sized superstructure set well aft.

Both classes of ship carry roughly the same amounts of liquid cargo (Distillate Fuel-Marine/DFM for ships and JP-5 for aircraft) but while the AOEs can deliver massive cargoes of stores and ammunition (hence the "E" in their designations--for Explosive Cargo), AOs have smaller holds and no ordnance capacity to speak of.

There are many other differences, some of which I am still becoming accustomed to. Not being built for high speeds or sustained flight operations (they have helicopter flight decks and the ability to refuel visiting helos, but no hangar or maintenance facilities to support embarked aircraft), the Kaisers are intended to operate independently of the Fleet, meeting with warships on the high seas (and well away from the threat of battle) to supply fuel and limited amounts of cargo via connected replenishment (ConRep) and vertical replenishment (VertRep) using those warships' own "whirlybirds".

I guess you could say that the AOEs (such as Arctic and her three sisters) are the thoroughbreds of this business while the AOs play the vital but less glamorous wagon-team role of carrying fuel to ships at sea, and while I certainly understand the differences between these ships and their missions and am enjoying learning the ropes here aboard Joshua Humphreys I DO occasionally find myself missing the wonderful speed, maneuverability and elan of my "ammo boats". Oh, I have no problem serving in T-AO 188--she is quite comfortable and has a great cadre aboard but I learned my trade on faster, more flexible hulls and I'll probably request assignment to one of them when my tour here is done.

John Paul Jones said that he wished to have nothing to do with any ship that does not sail fast. For my part I guess I just feel the Need for Speed.

Ship Happens!

It has been a very interesting two weeks since last I posted; from a hotel room in sunny-but-cool Norfolk to an oiler in the sunny-and-hot waters between Oman and Iran this has been quite a transition! As noted on my Blog, I got a phone call on the afternoon of the 14th that my assignment plan had been radically changed and that instead of a prolonged period of refresher training in New Jersey I was penciled-in to fly out of Dulles for Bahrain on Friday the 16th to join a new ship. There followed a day and a half of semi-frantic preparation; re-packing my seabag for warmer climes, arranging to check out of my room and drop off my car at long-term parking, and shopping for necessary items for a Long Sea Voyage.

Flew out as scheduled and had a very relaxing trip; I enjoyed a biopic about Admiral Yamamoto and then slept all the way across the Atlantic and most of Europe!--I guess all that running around on Thursday had me a little tuckered-out! Landed in Manama late on Saturday afternoon, checked thru customs and caught a ride to the port in the midst of a howling sandstorm.

And that was how I first saw my new ship; USNS Joshua Humphreys was a slightly darker silhouette in the driving yellow sand and dust, with the sun setting beyond her she looked almost unearthly with halos of dazzling yellow refracted by the particles blowing past her security lighting. I checked-in at the Gangway, greeted a few old Shipmates now serving in this ship, and carried my gear aboard.

From the beginning I had thought it interesting that I'd been assigned to Humphreys so abruptly, especially since my experience with MSC has been entirely in a different type of ship, the larger, faster AOEs, which deal with ammunition and combat ordnance far more than the fuel-providing oilers. When I met the Chief Mate and Captain the next morning I learned that my selection for this posting had been far from arbitrary, however. It seems that Humphreys has had the bad luck to lose no fewer than two of her Unrep Helmsmen in recent weeks, one of whom resigned and the other suffered an accident that required he return to the States for medical attention. Thus, Humphreys's Master and the detailers back in Norfolk were faced with a conundrum in that in order for the ship to perform her duties she needs at least three (and preferably more) personnel with this critical qualification on the watchbill. Given the currency of my quals and record aboard Arctic I was a natural for one of these vacant billets--and with a series of Unreps scheduled for the following week it was essential that I get over here fast!

And so here I am, "subject to requirements of the Service" as my Royal Navy friends would say! I'll be posting soon about life and work aboard my new ship, but I wanted to get a few photos out to represent my first two weeks aboard her...I think that one certainty is that I am unlikely to be bored here!

USN SH-60B Helos of the Golden Falcons Vertrep USS Abraham Lincoln from USNS Charles Drew

Dhow in the Persian Gulf

HMS Daring in the Persian Gulf

Iranian speedboats work hard to keep us on our toes!

USS Cape St George alongside USNS Drew

All Stop!

I've heard it said that life is what happens when you make other plans...

On Monday morning I reported off-leave at Military Sealift Command's "Customer Service Unit--East" (otherwise known as 'the Pool'--for more on this particular bureaucratic denizen see my post "Back to the Sea" of November 2011), checked in with my detailer and got the gouge on my immediate future; three-to-four weeks of refresher training at the MSC facility in New Jersey and then assignment to a ship out of Norfolk, probably the T-AOE Supply or one of the local oilers.

This, of course, won't happen.  Yesterday evening, as I was standing in-line for a showing of the Disney film 'John Carter' (I'm a lifelong fan of ERB's Barsoom tales) my cell rang; it was the detailer with news.  For the convenience of the Navy I was suddenly assigned to a ship--USNS Joshua Humphreys, currently working in the Persian Gulf.  Apparently I have some traveling to do...

USNS Joshua Humphreys, from a series of photos I took off Virginia in 2010

Oh, and one more little detail.  I have to be aboard ship by Sunday morning.  This ought to be fun!

Stay Tuned...

A Tour of USS California (SSN-781), Part One

THE INCIDENTAL TOURIST

I remember the cold January afternoon when--on a whim--I simply walked up to the pier sentry of a foreign ship and asked for a look aboard. The ship was the Spanish Oiler Teide, a small, ungainly-looking tanker based at the Armada Espana base in Rota, Spain.  Her watch, and subsequently her Captain, were a little surprised, I think, to have a Sailor from an American frigate choose their ship to visit, but I was welcomed aboard with enthusiasm and enjoyed a splendid afternoon's exploration and conversation with the ship's officers and crew.  After a delicious evening meal in the wardroom--and a few beers in the crew's mess--I departed the ship with some small souvenirs (All these years later I still have my Teide tie-clasp), a greater appreciation of an allied navy and it's Sailors, and a new interest and intent--to visit ships of our own and of foreign navies at every opportunity in future.

Spanish Oiler Teide underway in 1982

That Winter day in Spain was nearly 32 years ago.  Since then I have often shown the flag in my own fashion, visiting ships and submarines of most of the world's navies, walking their decks and meeting my "opposite numbers" from around the globe.  I suppose I COULD review my journals and provide a more precise figure, but at a guess I would say that I have toured nearly three hundred vessels of all types, from Australian coastal interdiction craft to Russian "rocket cruisers", Turkish frigates to Belgian minesweeps, British 100-gun ships of the line to American amphibious assault ships.

Seeing the ships, meeting their crews, spending time comparing experiences with them, has been--and continues to be--one of the most enjoyable parts of my naval career.  Rarely turned away from a quarterdeck, and often welcomed in the spirit of the shared adversity and comradeship of Sailors, I find the experience of nautical 'cultural exchange' to be immensely fulfilling; as Sailors and Mariners we all do the same things--standing watches, carrying out maintenance, dealing with the loneliness and separation of our chosen lifestyle, and of course representing our respective nations--BUT we all do them differently, with distinct traditions and cultures, and therein lies the true pleasure of this "hobby" of mine; the joy of discovery.

Every time I board another ship, greet a new shipmate, whether they sail beneath our own flag or that of another land, I gain a little more insight, a better understanding of the true, universal meaning of this vast brotherhood of the sea; a small glimpse of what the word "Sailor" really means.  And that makes it all worthwhile.

DAS BOOT

Submarines are a fascinating type of warship, submariners a unique breed of Sailor.  "Boats" that dive deep and cruise stealthily beneath the waves; officers and crewmembers who man them, to whom silence is the greatest of all virtues.  Certainly there is a mystique surrounding these undersea warships and warriors, and while I can honestly say that I have never entertained the first thought of serving in this field (the idea of having a thousand feet of water above me is a bit chilling) I have a high level of respect for those who do, and I never miss a chance to board and study a submarine, whatever the type or nation.

Such an opportunity presented itself only a few months ago; when Arctic returned to Naval Station Norfolk from a week at sea we found ourselves sharing a pier with the slim black cigar-shaped hull and art-deco "sail" of a 'Virginia'-class nuclear attack submarine (SSN).  Simply being in close proximity to such a craft is a rare event--submarines have their own enclave on the base and are rarely seen moored outside their heavily-guarded pier complex--but this particular boat was fully-dressed in patriotic bunting, and evidenced such an aura of newness that it was plain to all that she had only just been accepted from her builders and commissioned into the Navy.

Only brief inquiry was necessary; she was USS California, and only the day before she had been placed in commission.  Eighth of the Virginia class submarines, built just across Hampton Roads in my home town of Newport News, she represents the state-of-the-art of American undersea warship development and construction.  Of course, to me, that made her quite the irresistible target for my particular brand of tourism!

USS California on Pier 12; note USNS Arctic in BG

SILENCE IS GOLDEN—Motto of USS California

I presented my Navy Employee "CAC" card to the sentry, explained that I was a crewmember of the rather large gray ship moored across the pier, and asked if it would be possible to have a look around his submarine.  At the time I was not counting on getting aboard; I fully expected to have my request refused outright by the boat's Officer of the Deck (OOD).  Usually the "Silent Service" doesn't give tours.  Imagine my surprise and excitement, then, when permission to board was granted...

My volunteer guide was a fellow First Class Petty Officer (I MAY be retired, but I'll never stop being a Sailor), one of California's IT gang, responsible for maintaining and if necessary repairing the boat's sophisticated computers and communications systems.  As a former SSBN Sailor he wore a 'Patrol Pin' with four stars, denoting his completed patrols in our nations' Trident ballistic missile sub force; I suspect he knows what he is about!

We began our tour, naturally, with actually boarding California; this was accomplished with due ceremony.  My guide led the way across the gangway (a "brow" in navalese), pausing as he crossed his vessel's side to face aft toward the national Ensign and render a sharp salute.  He then turned toward the armed "topside" watch, saluted again, and then reported his return aboard.  I followed suit, but as a "civilian" I rendered honors by facing the flag and doffing my cap; then I requested permission of the watch to come aboard.  As is proper, he verified my CAC and authorization to before granting me permission, and I stepped onto the boat's outer hull, or casing.

Walking the curved deck, I had a quick introduction to that small part of a submarine that languishes above water when the boat is surfaced; the bulge of the towed-array sonar housing stretching from sail all the way aft along the starboard side which deploys a long cable festooned with incredibly-sensitive underwater microphones ("hydrophones") to act as her 'ears'; the sail itself, from which the boat is navigated on the surface, a vertical black tower curving forward into the hull with a graceful arc; the 12 vertical-launch missile hatches forward of the sail ready to salvo 'Tomahawk' cruise missiles from hidden launch positions undersea; the retractable mooring bitts and cleats that withdraw into the casing to reduce resistance and flow-noise as the vessel moves at speed through the depths.  And of course the three hatches abaft the sail to access the interior, only the second of which was open and covered from the weather by a black awning decorated with a drawing of a snarling ursid.

MONKEY-BUSINESS

At this point I must admit to a weakness.  I have been aboard dozens of submarines during my career, and aboard each I have faced one particular challenge; getting inside the thing!   The hatches of these craft, massive circular structures that they are, conceal tiny, narrow vertical ladders that lead some ten feet to the deck below; since it would be impractical (and even dangerous) to block the rapid closure of the hatch, stepping down the gap and reaching the top of the ladder requires a bit of gymnastic skill and fine balance.  Unfortunately, I have neither of these in great measure, and am reduced to slowly groping down the trunk with one foot whilst desperately clutching the awning frame.  Of course, the sense of clumsiness can only be exacerbated by the sight of my guide's easy jump into the abyss, and by the queue of Sailors that builds up behind me as I defy gravity in my own rather less confident way!  I have no problem with heights—it’s ladders that get me every time...

Once through this trial, with feet safely on the deck below, I was allowed a moment to recover some dignity and then we continued our tour.

THAT NEW CAR SMELL

The first thing that struck me about SSN-781?  Head room.   After decades of stooping supplicant-like through the interiors of submarines, always on watch for the inevitable overhead projections--valve wheels, junction boxes, even canned goods stowed in rope netting--I was able to stroll through a sub without worrying for the safety of my close-cropped scalp.  Perhaps I exaggerate somewhat; I know that the past few U.S. Navy boats I've visited (USS Newport News, SSN-750, was the latest) were relatively roomy, but I'm equally certain that I spent a fair amount of time avoiding contact with overhead obstacles aboard them.  But aboard California?  Even with my 6'1" cranial altitude I cannot recall having to "duck" even once.

This is more than just a matter of personal comfort or convenience.  The fact that I was never menaced by "death from above" aboard during my time aboard California speaks volumes to me about her layout and design.  A conscious effort has been made by this class's architects to design a submarine that could perform her duties efficiently but also making her "user-friendly" and less of a safety threat to her own crew--especially during radical maneuvers ("30-30s"--thirty degrees of rudder whilst traveling at thirty knots--are an extreme example) when many shipboard injuries occur.  I certainly appreciated this consideration.

Commenting on the boat's cleanliness and good condition seems a waste of keyboard time.  California is a newly-commissioned warship in a Navy that raises the act of tidying-up to the level of fetish; had I seen a single dust-bunny or coffee-ring I'd have been truly shocked.  And she is far too young a ship to have accumulated the many nicks and scratches that add character to an older vessel--this patina of service will come only with time and hard voyaging in our nation’s service.

MOST ACCOMMODATING

Submarine living conditions are notorious; we've all seen photographs or scenes in war films wherein Sailors "hot-bunk", two men taking turns sleeping in a single uncomfortable-looking rack, or live and sleep atop the long cylinders of stowed torpedoes.  I'm happy to say that those days are long gone (at least in the nuclear subs of the U.S. Navy), and though one cannot by any measure refer to California's crew quarters as luxurious they are at least less Spartan than their "pigboat" forebears.  Glancing into a typical crew berthing compartment I could see stacks of three “racks”, much as I once slept in during my destroyer days, though submarine bunks appear to be somewhat less roomy than I remember aboard "tin cans".  Mattresses are thinner as well, and locker space negligible; each enlisted Sailor aboard stows all of his gear (shoes, uniforms, civilian clothes, and personal items) in approximately the space of a kitchen cabinet back home.  Nothing can be left un-stowed, of course—in an emergency such “gear adrift” could cause injury or even threaten the safety of the boat.

Junior Officers and Chief Petty Officers live in somewhat more comfort, but only relatively so; the Chief’s Mess and Wardroom each are about the size of a large walk-in closet!  The two roomiest and most comfortable living quarters, of course, belong to the Executive Officer and Captain; I got a brief look into the CO's stateroom (roughly the size of a large closet) as we headed aft into the "habitability" module.

My guide informed me that California's complement was, at that time, 135 officers and enlisted, but this number was expected to be reduced to roughly a hundred after a suitable "breaking-in" period.  On acceptance trials, only a few weeks before my visit, the boat had sailed with over 160 aboard, including inspectors and shipyard engineers--imagine trying to find a seat for dinner!

End of Part One

Evening Meal at 100 Fathoms; the Red "nonskid" arrows on the deck

indicate the locations of emergency breathing air manifolds in the overhead.

Home is the Sailor

It's Saturday morning here in the farmlands.  The night's rime of frost is already melting away as I watch crows circle over the fields I can see from my den.  According to the forecast it'll be unseasonably warm today and once I finish my second cup of tea I'll get busy on a few projects I've successfully put-off 'til this morn.  The swale out front needs clearing once again, and I'll want to finish some work on the garage today before the weather moves in again.

Home on leave.  Home after half-a-year at sea; a single month off from shipboard duty in which to experience six months' worth of life deferred--to catch up on the many aspects of life that are of necessity put on-hold while cresting an Atlantic swell, dodging pirate skiffs in the IO, or riding a gale in the Med.  A month to enjoy the varieties of color that are absent on a ship at sea, to work the "honey-do" list, to walk the dog in the woods, and to hold the hand of the one you love during a soul-stirring performance by a guitar trio.

I need this time at ease; every seaman does between long voyages.  Stargazing in the back yard, enjoying a fine meal in a restaurant, relishing the embrace of a loving partner, exchanging tales with neighbors and friends, and most of all taking the time to absorb the very idea, the essence of home, family, and community.  I need this reinforcement, every few months, as a parched land craves rainfall.  I'm home, and I need this feeling.

And yet...

This morning I dozed to the crash of surf in my ears, to the whine of rigging, and the slope of the deck in a heavy seaway.  In my comfortable bed in upstate New York, in an environment as antipodal in nature as it is possible to be to that of a steel ship cresting a heavy swell under a lead-grey sky, I sailed in my dreams.  As the rumble of screws and groaning of hull metal gave way to the purring of our elderly Persian cat and the mattress' motion as my wife rose to make coffee, I awoke with a vague sense of loss.  Loss and shame, a sense almost of infidelity.

I honestly do live two lives, and therein lies the source of my guilt.  One existence is defined by comfortable surroundings, a loving wife, family and friends, the other by cold HY-80 steel and solid Shipmates, raging storms and starlit nights on lookout duty.  The sweetness of the first accents the hardness of the second, the long separations in turn make the reunions seem magical.  This dichotomy could be said to summarize me; these two nearly opposing realities form my paradigm, and though being away hurts me and my dearest ones I can not imagine giving either up willingly.  To do so would change the very balance of my life.

When far away upon business in great waters I dream of home, and when safe in our little house I look forward to the next deployment, the next voyage.  But I can take comfort in the knowledge that I am not unique.


Many times in my career I have seen this tableau; the ship is anchored off the shore of some island, some enticing foreign port.  The crew are aching to be ashore, thronging the decks in anticipation of "liberty call".  All eyes are directed shoreward, all details noted and pointed-out as the libertymen await the 'water-taxi' or whaleboat ride to shore.

Finally, the boat arrives; boarding seems to take forever as the long line of men creeps down the gangway to the waiting tender.  Still conversation and sightseeing are concentrated on the distant land.

But once the water-taxi casts off, and the liberty party is underway for their days' adventure, a shift takes place.  Eyes that feasted on "the beach" ahead of the small craft now turn astern, cameras concentrate on the receding hull of the ship that the Sailors have just departed.  Minds pass from anticipation of the pleasures to be had ashore to consideration of the sleek gray vessel that has brought them here, and which will carry them away again.

In extreme cases I have seen Sailors in waterfront cafes and bars, on beaches alone and in groups, gazing out to sea, out to the "boat" in fascination, as if to ask how something so important, so large in their day-to-day lives, can seem so small, so insignificant in the distance.  They speak in hushed voices, as if their fascination with an inanimate shape of steel and aluminum is something to conceal from passersby.  A secret to be zealously kept.

Two weeks remain of my leave.  Already I am setting-aside items to pack, equipment I'll need when I report aboard my next ship.  My mind-set is beginning to change, day by day; by the end of the month I'll be quite impatient for the next assignment, the next challenge.  My wife has dealt with this part of my career and nature for nearly a quarter-century, and while no doubt the words "deployment" and "separation" mean very different things to her, she has always supported me in my chosen vocation.  This is what I am.  This is what I do.

Red Planet

            Through the eyepiece of my telescope I see a blob of yellow-orange, a mottled shape that ripples and boils, defying any attempt to focus it to a coherent image.  Eye and brain struggle in concert to find detail in this vision, attempting to coerce scattered, jumbled photons into cooperation by an effort of will, an effort sadly lacking in effect.

            It is neither a flaw in my equipment or perception that produces the chaos visible in my ocular, but the work of eddies and turbulence in the miles of Earth’s atmosphere that lie between my optics and the evening’s observing objective.  Having crossed a distance of 118,000,000 kilometers through near-vacuum with minimal attenuation the sunlight reflected from my target has finally had to penetrate a barrier of thickening, roiling air--leavened with smog and a hundred varieties of particulate matter--to reach my temperature-stable telescope and acclimated eye.  It isn’t surprising at all that the image resists resolution!

            Still, I bend over the eyepiece, careful not to cloud it’s optics with my breath in the icy air, keeping a watch on my ruddy blob of choice--astronomy teaches patience if nothing else!--and just as I begin to seriously consider going inside for a fresh cup of tea, it happens.

 

            The change is swift and only a few  moments in duration, but my vigil is rewarded; without warning the air steadies and the image snaps into definition.  My gloved hand races to find the fine-focus knob and what had been a hopelessly distorted and featureless globe of molten orange light is suddenly and shockingly transformed into another planet.  A “red planet“, although its defining coloring is closer in fact to an orange hue.

  

            Mars and I have a long history.  In my nearly forty years as an amateur astronomer I’ve observed it countless times, closely viewing four of it’s closest and most favorable approaches to Earth--known as Oppositions in reference to Mars’ and the Sun’s relative positions in the vault of the sky during these events--and always tracking it night-by-night as it moves against the background stars of the ecliptic.

            As the seeing improves my first rather irreverent observation of Mars is that it appears to suffer a horrific case of acne; the disk is crowned by a clear, oval patch of pure white.  This is the polar cap, a region of water ice and frozen carbon dioxide which alternates with its twin at the opposite extreme of the planet in growing and shrinking with the passing of seasons over the course of the Martian year, which is nearly twice as long as our own.

            As a volunteer at Lowell Observatory during my Senior year of high school in Flagstaff  I had the pleasurable duty of guiding Friday night guests from the elegant Library to the great dome that houses the 24-inch refractor telescope, listening to the brilliant Charles “Chick” Capen as he wove tales of myth, history and scientific discovery, and then, after the visitors had departed, seizing the opportunity to join him in viewing Mars (or whatever planet was visible at the time) through the great ‘optik tube’ before securing the telescope and closing the dome for the night. 

 Lowell Observatory Staff and Volunteers, 1980

(from left: Brian Skiff, Charles Capen, Pamela Helm, Myself)

            (One night in early 1980, only a few months before I enlisted in the Navy, I was privileged to be manning the dome and telescope control “paddle” when a distinguished guest came to visit the observatory, and so I was introduced to Professor Clyde Tombaugh--the discoverer of the dwarf-planet Pluto at Lowell in the late 1920s.  I recall that it was a beautiful night for stargazing on the appropriately named Mars Hill and that Jupiter and Mars were paired in the eastern sky in lovely “conjunction”.)

                As the seconds of steady seeing race by I search for more surface detail—a series of ripples cross the tiny disk to remind me that steady air is a luxury best not wasted—and become aware of subtle gradations in the coloring of the planet.  A dark triangular shape comes into focus, then fades into the ochre hue of the surrounding as it shimmers in my view.  Other forms appear and vanish again as I hurry to sketch them into my notebook.  Just a few more seconds…

            Lowell Observatory is named for Percival Lowell, who established it in Flagstaff in 1894 for the express purpose of Martian observation.  Lowell was of a prominent Bostonian family, a “Brahmin”, well known for his books and articles about the Orient, in which he had traveled extensively, and for his clear, persuasive public speaking style.  Having long been interested in science and the emerging technologies of the day, he became fascinated with the observations of an Italian astronomer named Giovanni Schiaparelli, who during the “great opposition” of 1877 had reported observing linear features on the surface of Mars.  While Schiaparelli himself never went so far as to attempt to explain the markings he had discovered, Lowell quickly came to believe that the “canali” (“channels”) were in fact artificially-constructed waterways—“canals” —transporting vital water from the planet’s polar caps to the parched lands around its equator.

 

 Percival Lowell's Mars

             Lowell’s “Mars Theory” would capture the imaginations of millions around the world.  From the single assumption that the “canals” were constructed by intelligent beings (Lowell was careful never to ascribe characteristics to his Martians), an intricate tale of a dying world and of a unified, peaceful civilization fighting to survive desiccation by disaster either natural or self-inflicted came to be.  And recall that Lowell was an accomplished writer and speaker; his ideas were quickly disseminated via newspaper and magazine articles and books with evocative titles such as “Mars and its Canals” (1906) and “Mars as the Abode of Life” (1908).

            While he wasn’t the first astronomer to believe in the likelihood of life on other planets, he was quite specific in his ideas and prolific in his writings and lectures; in his mind there was simply no other explanation for the “canals”.  The problem was that no-one else seemed to be able to see the fine lines upon which he based his theory. Astronomers based at all the major observatories in the U.S. and Europe weighed in; except for Lowell’s and Schiaparelli’s those features remained unseen.  Controversy erupted and debate raged as the 19^th Century passed into the 20^th, and Lowell, convinced of the veracity of his observations and conclusions, spent that first decade exchanging literary and verbal broadsides with astronomers around the world who simply didn't see what he saw.

Wikipedia defines a ‘crank’ as “a person who unshakably holds a belief that most of his or her contemporaries consider to be false” and we may comfortably place Percival Lowell in this category.  However, I think it to his credit that he did not insist his staff at the Flagstaff Observatory be as centered on Mars as he was; in fact he encouraged them to pursue other studies in addition to their primary task of Martian study.  His associates, then, proceeded to make significant discoveries and to develop new techniques in their “spare time”; pioneering the use of photography in planetary study and forging the observational tools that would bring about the discovery of Pluto in 1929.

And Lowell’s obsession with Mars had other far-reaching effects;  his ideas inspired many writers, among them H.G Wells and Edgar Rice Burroughs.  Wells’ “War of the Worlds” carried forward the idea of a slowly dying Mars launching an assault on Edwardian England, while Burroughs’ “John Carter” series spurred the imaginations of millions with “Barsoomian” canals, soaring cities and monsters on a world battling for survival.  These literary creations have kept Lowell’s Mars alive in the public consciousness, and almost certainly influence us today in our robotic exploration of the red planet.  How else can we explain the almost obsessive search for evidence of life on a world which has given us not the slightest evidence of a biosphere, either past or present?

It may be that Percival Lowell’s connection to us across the many years is the willingness to cling to a vision, a dream, in spite of all the overwhelming evidence against it.

My Mars Sketches (Opposition of 2003) 

Mars shimmers again in my eyepiece, steadies for another second, and then violently boils over as my brief period of favorable “air” abruptly ends.  I put down my unfinished sketch and rub my eyes to relieve their strain, then note the time for my observing logbook.  After checking the view again I rise from my chair and stretch, then head inside for that fresh cup of tea and a brief break before resuming my wait for that next all-too-short period of “good seeing”, when for a few moments I’ll enjoy once again a relatively clear view of the Red Planet.  There is a sense of history in this pursuit; of kinship with observers in a time before orbiting telescopes and computers, who kept the cold watch atop Mars Hill a long century ago.