Tailhook Tale: Life Aboard the Theodore Roosevelt

A forest of antenna and weaponry dot the Roosevelt's island, from which the ship's captain and the Air Boss reign supreme.

The noise overwhelms all. Even with the helmet-and-headset rig strapped on my head, the high pitch vibrato of uninhibited jet engines cuts through the ear protection.

It is a startling scene. Unabated organized chaos. People moving in all directions, intent on their own actions but intently aware of the actions of others around them. A bright, oily palate of colors covering the torsos and heads of the people hurrying across the gray deck. Beyond the edge of the flat parking lot, the ocean, big and blue, is racing past. The wind is a steady, hot gale. There are gray jet fighters just a few yards away.

Suddenly a slamming BANG 30 feet away announces the sudden stop of a hurtling F-14 Tomcat. Twenty feet in the opposite direction, an F/A-18 Hornet spools its engines before disappearing in a cloud of white steam, emerging in the air off the end of the carrier.

The assault on the senses is interrupted by a barking crewman. "This way, sir!".

I fall into the line of people wearing the blue life jackets I wore out to the carrier. The line snakes its way to the edge of the deck, next to the superstructure of the TR.

The edge of the deck is just that. No ropes or wires or anything to keep a hapless wanderer on top of the deck and out of the rushing white water 50 feet below the metal grate catwalk. The view is mesmerizing, but the snake keeps moving, now into a black hole on the side of the gangway.

BANG! I instinctively hunch down as another jet slams its way onto the deck, now above us. A series of hisses and groans and metallic noises ricochet against the narrow passageways. People are moving down here, too. Quickly, politely moving through the labyrinth. The passages seethe with movement.

I am fairly well stunned. Like a deer caught in the headlights.

Young sailors and marines, many not old enough to drink, are responsible for the movement and upkeep of multi-million aircraft.

While the boat is just 100 miles out at sea, it might as well had been the middle of the Indian Ocean. I had never been out in the blue water before. The first moments on deck I remember the vivid cobalt of the water. Damn, I thought to myself, it really is blue.

The USS Theodore Roosevelt became the U.S. Navy's fourth active Nimitz-class carrier on October 25, 1986. It's a fitting tribute to our 26th president and one of the architects of our modern navy. When Roosevelt was assistant sercretary of the Navy in 1898, he suggested a study into the military applications of Samuel Langley's proposed flying machine. It launched the Navy's early interest in the airplane.

In its brief decade of service, the TR has lived up to its namesake's favorite proverb: "Speak softly and carry a big stick." The TR gained distinction at sea during the Gulf War, launching more than 4,200 sorties. Its air wing, Carrier Air Wing Eight, CVW-8, dropped more than 4.8 million pounds of ordnance on Iraqi targets.

Named as the best ship in the Atlantic fleet on several occasions, TR also played a major role in the flight denial operations off Bosnia and in the Red Sea to control the southern Iraq no-fly zone.

A row of F/A-18s, the Gunslingers of VMFA-105 line the port bow of the TR.

During my visit, the TR was engaged in qualifying the air wing for carrier operations, an ongoing process that keeps pilots current for the rigors of carrier landings and takeoffs.

To get the planes in the air, the TR utilizes four steam catapults that slingshots airplanes down the 310-foot-long runway at speeds up to 160 mph every 20 seconds.

In a ballet of coordinated bedlam, airplane handlers direct jets into position on the "cat" using choreographed hand signals and body english to communicate above the din. When the yellow-shirted Shooters confirm all of the details, a smart salute is issued to the pilot and two seconds later another bird is flying.

It is during recovery, particularly at night, when the full measure of the skills Navy pilots possess becomes apparent. From high above the flight deck along the catwalk known as Vulture's Row, I watch in awe as the planes come down out of a clear dark sky and slam onto the deck. At night, after the pilots go to full military power on impact with the deck, the flying sparks and noise and heat are palpable.

Occasionally, a pilot bolters, misses the wires and flies off the deck, the flames from the engines lighting the waters around the ship.

Landing on a carrier at night is no small feat. I couldn't do it.

Aircraft occupy every square inch of the hangar below the flight deck. With more than 80 aircraft aboard, space is always at a premium.

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The floating city image stands muster when one considers the scope of life onboard. Below the flight deck, a seagoing civilization exists in a steel-hulled city. The myriad passages and stairways honeycomb an industrial workplace in which 5,500 men and women labor and live. The TR carries nearly everything it needs for six months along with it to sea. Barbers, dentists, pipefitters. A television station and a newspaper.

All of the crew seem polite to one another. Respectful. As it would have to be, when confined in such small spaces for such a long time.

All the while, the TR fairly breathes with it own existence. It whistles and rings and groans. There are vague bangings and knocks and sounds. Steamy sounds, water sounds. A hum, a buzz.

Everywhere, sailors and marines, like ants, are taking care of the TR. Cleaning it or painting it or shining some portion of its 4,000 spaces.

There doesn't seem to be any privacy. In some living compartments, 90 to a 100 people crowd into a space where two foot high bunks and two-inch thick mattresses take on the solemnity of home.

When a young sailor shows us to our stateroom, her mouth drops open at its opulent spaciousness. It's about 7x10 feet, with three bunks and a sink. All metal, bare floor. Bathroom down the hallway. To our sailor, it must seem a palace.

Our stateroom must be located just beneath a catapult. I attempt to get comfortable on the thin rack, but everytime I try to relax a huge noise overhead works its way through the walls and floors below. A massive shhooosh provides a startling clarion followed by a trembling rattle from the metal stowage bins in our room. Laying there, I feel the ship moving slowly in the ocean, and hear a thousand noises. The cacophony finally becomes a background noise for a few fitful hours of sleep.

Everyone looks tired. As they should, for it seems they work all of the time; 14-, 16-, 18-hours a day. Water is at a premium. Showers happen when the need is apparent. Sleep is a precious commodity and the narrow racks provide all of the creature comforts needed.

Master Chief Petty Officer Dean Leonard stands next to the "bubble," the Intergrated Catapult Control Station.

Chow is good and plentiful and available around the clock. Even so, long chow lines for the enlisted crew wind their way around the hangar deck. In the officer's mess, linen-covered tables and stewards provide a few moments of relaxation and civility. Coffee is everywhere, the liquid energy that keeps the human half of the boat running.

The incessant activity is numbing to the first time visitor. But the sailors don't seem to mind. They are there to do a job.

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When it is time to leave, the drill is the same. Life vests and helmets, grab your stuff. Join the snake, this time a Marine rifle platoon returning to shore. Out of the hole into the bright sun and warm wind of the deck. Into the COD, rearward facing, strapped in, cinched in.

Next to me is a Hawkeye pilot going back to Norfolk to pick up another airplane to return to the ship. He tells me he would rather not be riding backwards in the rear of the COD. With a brief yell from the flight crewman that it is time, I sink into my seat, braced for the cat shot.

When it happens, it is more violent and sudden than I could imagine. I am pressed against the loose harness, my face feeling contorted and skewed. It takes a long time, it seems. Another BANG and all is still again and the pressure that forced me against the seatbelts is gone. The droning whine of the turbine-driven props is all that remains.

Naturally, I have become a dedicated TR fan. Since I made an arrested landing onboard the carrier I learned that I qualify for memebership in the Tailhook Association. I'll order the patch, I'm sure, to add to my "been there, done that" collection.

One visit to the TR is not not enough to assimilate the vast complexity of an aircraft carrier. I am ready to go back. And in the meantime, I keep abreast of the TR through its World Wide Web site at http://www.spear.navy.mil/tr/ .