ABOARD THE USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT, SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTH ATLANTIC

Aircraft are launched from one of four catapults: two on the bow, and two on the angled deck.

When we embarked to the Roosevelt in early October, the ship was conducting a typical training exercise or "evolution" prior to engaging in a large exercise with simulated war games on the South Carolina coast. After that, the ship would return to Norfolk briefly, re-supply and head off to the Med and the Persian Gulf for another six-month deployment.

Carrier training or "quals" can take many forms, but all of it is designed for a single purpose: Developing and honing the demanding skill of landing a jet on a short, slippery deck that's often pitching, rolling and heaving in a heavy sea. By bitter experience, the Navy has learned that carrier landings are a highly perishable skill. By comparison, the FAA 90-day requirement for carrying passengers is a big juicy softball. To be current for day traps, a Navy pilot must have done one within the previous 14 days; at night, the period is an astonishingly short seven days. Effectively, then, when pilots return from one cruise, they usually drop out of carrier currency until training begins for the next deployment. Even during a cruise, keeping the entire airwing night current is an ongoing job.

But really, is landing on a carrier actually that hard? Experienced Navy pilots say day landings in calm seas are fun; sort of like practicing touch-and-goes at the home drome when you know you're in top form. Night traps or day ops in ratty weather are an order of magnitude more demanding. (Think of it as practicing touch-and-goes on a rainy night, with a half mile of visibility, to the shortest runway you've ever seen.)

Consider the numbers: On a Nimitz class carrier such as the Roosevelt, the angled deck -- which is where recoveries are always done -- is 786 feet long. If everything works as it's supposed to, the actual arrestment is done by a series of four wires or cross deck pendants rigged across the first third of the deck's length. The first wire is 169 feet down the deck, the last is 291 feet. That's a very small target area if it were perfectly stationary, which it isn't. Besides rolling and pitching, the deck heaves by several feet. At 135 knots, an F-14 travels the length of the deck in only three seconds; it's over the wires for less than a half second.

The fresnel lens optical landing system, also know as the "ball," provides pilots with vertical guidance.

The essential skill a Navy pilot has to have is "flying the ball." Formally known as the fresnel lens optical landing system, the ball lives on the port side of the flight deck, about 500 feet forward of the stern. The ball -- which really isn't a ball at all, but more like a slot or square of light -- is a little like a VASI or PAPI system, but much, much more accurate. It projects a 3.5 to 4.0 degree glidepath, which the pilot picks up about three quarters of a mile from the stern. A computer system adjusts the ball to suit each type of aircraft flying the approach and it also senses the ship's movements, compensating for roll, pitch and heave. Up to a point. In very heavy seas, the ball can't keep up with the deck and the landing signal officers rig a manual systems called MOVLAS. Normally, the third cross deck pendant or "three wire" is considered the ideal target and the ball is set up to guide the pilot so his tailhook touches down 20 feet ahead of the three wire. To be successful, the pilot has to follow the ball's cues to pass through a very narrow wedge of airspace over the stern. If he's more than a foot low, he'll catch the two wire instead. A foot too high will put the hook into the four wire. (When we were aboard, the three wire was down for maintenance; the LSOs were targeting the two wire.)

Good ball fliers must have a deft touch with pitch and power. To hold the right sight picture and stay exactly on speed, pitch corrections must be decisive and sometimes aggressive. Pilots with the best landing grades are the ones who can anticipate the ball's cues and respond with just the right elevator and throttle movements at precisely the right instant. Centerline line-up is critical. The angled deck clear area is only 125 feet wide and there are frequently aircraft parked just outside the foul lines. At 130 knots, uncorrected lateral drift of five or 10 feet can be disastrous. Moreover, the ball's vertical guidance is accurate only on the centerline; lateral misalignment reduces vertical accuracy. It doesn't take much to get the aircraft into what LSOs call an "ugly pass." The pilot will get a wave off and be sent around for another try.

Approaching the stern or "ramp," the pilot must be ready to contend with the inevitable turbulence from the wind passing over and around the ship. A starboard quartering wind will swirl around the carrier's island, possibly creating some bumps close in. The faster the wind speed, the worse the "ramp burble," air that flows down the deck, creating a sharp downdraft just ahead of the stern but an updraft further aft, when the flow hits the water's surface and is deflected upward. Contrary to popular belief, it's not always desirable to have the maximum amount of wind flowing down the deck. Like everything else in aviation, extremes entail tradeoffs.

The LSOs -- a minimum of two on the platform (controlling and back-up) but sometimes a gaggle just watching the action -- monitor, assist and grade every carrier landing. (The ball is not even supposed to be turned on unless the LSO platform is "manned up" and ready to go.) When we were aboard the TR, the pilots weren't flying initial qualifications, but experienced aviators training up for the next cruise. In other words, we didn't see any ugly passes.

Sailors inspect one of the Jet Blast Deflectors while an SH-60 Seahawk rescue helicopter departs for its duty station near the TR.

Nonetheless, the LSOs watch every phase of every approach. During the day, the pilots fly an overhead pattern, break off the port side, dirty up the airplane and roll into "the groove," a 3/4-mile visual final to the deck, using the ball for vertical guidance and the deck and LSO's calls for line-up. At night, the deck appears too short to provide any line-up cues; pilots follow electronic guidance until they see the ball, then the LSO assists with brief calls.

LSOs are a critical link the carrier operations. Their chief job is safety, keeping pilots off the ramp and lined up well enough to land safely within the deck clear area. LSOs -- universally referred to as "paddles" even though they no longer wave with the fabric paddles from days of yore -- use three kinds of calls: informative calls, advisory calls and imperative calls. Informative calls give the pilots a heads-up on deck conditions or on a deviation that needs slight correction: "You're a little high" or "You're drifting right." Advisory calls are similar, but contain a command of some sort: "Hold what you've got" or "Power back on." Last, imperative calls are used when the pilot must take immediate action to keep a pass from becoming dangerous. If the LSO sees a settle-in, for example, he'll use the word "power" drawn out to get the pilot's attention: "Poweeeeeer." And every LSO has his or her own "Buffalo call," a soothing phrase used at just the right moment to advise a pilot who's having trouble getting aboard.

As pilots, we tend to think that only pilots need to practice to stay current and sharp. But on a carrier, the job of recovering aircraft is so demanding that everyone needs practice to requalify and remain sharp. LSOs, for example, have to have an effective scan, just as instrument pilots do. They must learn not to fixate on an aircraft's vertical performance at the expense of the all-important line-up. Also, LSOs must constantly sense when the deck is clear and ready for a trap, or "foul," with aircraft or personnel cluttering up the clear area.

A sailor, writing backwards, updates a flight status board in the Combat Air Traffic Control Center.

Elsewhere on the deck -- and below decks -- during recovery, lots of unseen activity must happen like clockwork in the 45 seconds between each landing. The ball has to be set for the aircraft type, the arresting gear has to be reset into "battery" and adjusted for the weight of the aircraft about to land. Many eyes scan the deck to make sure it clear and safe for the trap. On the LSO platform, one sailor's job is solely to eyeball the incoming aircraft for proper configuration: wheels down, flaps down, hook down. When he sees it, he shouts across the deck: "Hornet, all down!"

Below decks, in the arresting gear spaces, the crews swelter in the heat thrown off by 500 gallons of glycol, the fluid that dissipates the energy of each landing aircraft. Unlike other members of the crew, the arresting gear sailors stay on duty until every aircraft is aboard. Eighteen hour days aren't uncommon.

Further forward, the controllers and air operations officer in the CATCC, the carrier's onboard air traffic control center, monitor every approach, with a careful eye toward each aircraft's fuel state. (For obvious reasons, fuel is always a critical concern for Navy pilots, no more so than when the ship is operating "blue water," too far from land to divert aircraft to the beach.)

What's most amazing about watching a carrier at sea is not that the Navy does it well, but that they do it at all. On its face, the task of landing jets on a 786-foot deck seems insurmountably difficult. Yet when carriers like the Roosevelt steam out to sea to qualify the airway, they usually manage to pull it off without a hitch.