s u m m e r
red dog 209 {2}
The blue water off the fantail spreads out in a huge white foaming wake, miles long. Soon the harbor at Pensacola Florida comes into view. Lines are thrown, anchors dropped, engines shut down. He's long gone. He's with the rest of his squadron on the hot tarmac taking one last look at the Cougar for the day.
The F9F-8 Cougar was a transitional plane for the Navy and in many ways ended an era. It was the last Navy plane to carry the sleek solid coat of midnight blue before the sickly gull gray and white scheme of the late 50's and 60's took over.
Looking back now from the comfort of shade and the smell of wisteria he thinks to himself the Cougar was more than a transitional fighter plane. More than an aircraft put into service briefly after the Panther, but before the much improved Tiger. It was an aircraft that defined a feeling, the shoreline between exploration and growth and the beginning of something much more sinister.
Years later on the deck of the Forrestal he'd be thankful for those moments in the sky with the Cougar. Moments that let him know flying wasn't all death and loss. And many times as he left the flightdeck he'd be thankful for that sickly gull gray and white. He'd be thankful for it's ability to blend him into the clouds of southeast Asia making him a hard target for ground fire. He'd be thankful for the demarcation provided by the Cougar, and on days like today he'll think and speak with a tone of admonition about the days spent in it.
***
He saw wisteria bloom for the first time that year. He'd taken a flight of four and led them low up the east coast from Pensacola Naval Air Station. It was a tradition they'd started just out of flight school when long cross countries were the norm. With speeds of Mach 2 a reality the United States was suddenly very small and one of the group had asked where they could or should go.
How about Maine?
And the idea stuck.
They hugged the beach and enjoyed watching the sun-bathers stare in disbelief as they streaked by at almost 760 miles an hour. Later, closer to Maine he'd pull the flight up and for a few short minutes he'd push them to just over 1500 miles an hour. Just enough to reach Mach 2 before they'd land in the cool Spring weather of coastal Maine. They'd made it by lunchtime which was usual for their flight. They'd head down to the docks in "borrowed" Navy jeeps and eat lunch while one of them would barter for a jeep load of live lobsters.
Planning ahead they'd cut weight on the planes and left the gun racks empty. But now, riding back with a jeep full of lobsters they pulled up next to the dark blue Cougars and popped open the empty racks. He stood on the edge of the jeep, one hand on the leading edge of the wing, one arm cradling as many lobsters as he could shove into the gun rack at one time. They did this twice for each plane until all eight racks were full. The tarmac smelled strong with the lobsters and coastal Maine air. His flightsuit was a mess and he picked a small bit of seaweed off his shoulder as he buckled into the cockpit for the quick flight home. Sliding the canopy closed he ignited the engine and ran through preflight before taking off in formation and quickly climbing to 40,000 feet. The lobsters froze in seconds and he pushed the four planes well past Mach 1 to a comfortable 1200 miles an hour. That'd put them back on base by late afternoon and give them ample time for a shower while the gunnery crew unloaded dinner and sprayed out the racks.
goodnight 8.18.99