01 April 1990

ROTA: APRIL FOOLS

We slid out of the wine-dark Mediterranean Sea via the Straits of Gibraltar during the night, and there were no glimpses of the Pillars of Hercules. By morning we had arrived off the Atlantic coast of Spain, near the bustling little town of Puerto Real and the naval base at Rota. That is the harbor from whence Chris Columbus had sortied in 1492, when the ocean was blue.

We were to accomplish a threefold mission this day:

First, we had to pick up 115 Naval Reservists, who were to conduct their two- week annual active duty period (ACDUTRA) on our peaceful little transit back across the steel-gray Atlantic to our home port of Mayport in sunny Florida.

Second, we had to offload the same number of people to accommodate the Reservists. There was not a wasted rack in Forrestal’s massive gray flanks, and the lucky individuals who were ousted got to fly home.

Third, and perhaps most important, we had to pick up the booze buy from the Navy Exchange warehouse at the NAVSTA Rota. It was entirely legal for the squadrons to pitch in an purchase wine- and particularly the famous tawny port wine of the region- so long as there was room and it was bonded until we clear customs in the U.S.

There was an unspoken fourth mission, which was for Lutt-man and I to get ashore and have a few drinks before we headed back across the Atlantic.

I awoke with the alarm at 0620. Lutt-man and I are scheduled on Lift ‘E’, on a H-53 Sea Stallion scheduled to depart the carrier at 0900, arriving Rota at 0930. I grabbed my briefcase out of my locker and wondered idly whether I should pack a change of underwear and my shaving kit. After all, the unexpected does happen in the Air Transfer business…

We rendezvoused in FID’s Mission Planning spaces to pick up documents for Rota and have a cup of coffee before our 0846 muster. Mark joined us briefly, as he was headed out on the ‘A’ lift. We turned on the electronic window of the landing platform monitor and the view was grim. White caps topped the waves and the wind was gusting to twenty knots or more.

The ship called away the Low Visibility Watch, and we could hear the fog horn start to sound. Mark rejoined us presently with the news that nothing was going anywhere for an indeterminate period.

This did not bode well for Helicopter Adventures. It was a classic military morning; waiting for the weather to do whatever it was going to do. Lutt-man and I drank coffee and smoked cigarettes to kill time. If anything, the situation was worse overhead the field at Rota; the weather-guessers were reporting thunderstorms and low visibility. No one was going anywhere for a while.

We got a new back-channel OPNOTE from John, the Ops Officer ashore at the Fleet Ocean Surveillance Information Facility (FOSIF). He wants to know if we are really still corning. We answered that we didn’t know, but that we were eager to have the important liaison meeting between ship and shore intelligence offices. And just about then­ 1033, the weather began to break and Air Ops said the mighty Sea Stallions were inbound to FID’s deck.

They called away our lift muster down on the hangar bay about 1100. We waited down there and watched the sky clear and suddenly turn to brilliant sunshine. The coast of Spain beckoned. After an hour or so, they called us up to the flight deck, and up the ladder we trooped. Then we were trapped in the passageway outside the ATO shack for twenty minutes while they loaded the outgoing mail the last time we would be able to send anything until we reached CONUS.

After the wait, we staged to the ordnance handling area starboard of the Island, where we were again directed to stand for another twenty minutes as we waited for the helos to launch for the ‘D’ lift and return. As I have mentioned elsewhere, they don’t select Nobel Laureates to be the Air Transfer Officers of the world.

It was interesting to stand there and watch the people and booze arriving. Just because regulations say you can’t drink on a Navy ship doesn’t mean you can’t carry it in bonded storage, you know?

Tony MacFarlane (The Handler) and CAGMO also decided they had some critical business ashore and our party quadrupled. Tony has a lot of drag with virtually everybody because he controls who gets the good spot on deck and who has the power to make it easy or hard to get to their airplanes for maintenance and ordnance handling. At length we grabbed those dorky-looking cranial helmets and life-vests from the inbound crowd and we finally made it out between the catapults .

There was an H-53 on Spot One and another on spot four. We were buffeted by the turning rotors.

The shore looked inviting; the load-masters took their time getting the cargo strapped down. I concur with whatever time they take, as there is nothing quite like a shifting load in the helicopter to put a real dent in your day. It is a naked feeling, stuck between two turning behemoths on the big flat black nonskid deck.

We finally got loaded to the satisfaction of the Load-master; Lutt-man and I were seated aft. The cavernous interior was piled high with outbound cargo. Over the stern ramp there is a sign bearing the legend “Vehicles Turn Right.” This was a big-ass helicopter.

We launched at 1430; after the seven hour delay the flight was anticlimactic. I watched the blue of the ocean lighten as we approached the beach, then going feet-dry over the Playa de las Lun Hotel and the passing over some fields and then the concrete apron of NAS Rota.

Fifteen minutes later we are standing in a long line in the Rota Terminal trying to find a Spaniard to look at our orders so we can walk the last ten feet to talk to John and his lovely wife Natalie, who have patiently wasted an entire Sunday in an attempt to be nice to the Fleet.

So we have finally made it ashore. Now, the only question is whether we can get back to the ship before she goes hull down over the horizon to the west. The ATO rep says he will call us in the Snack Bar and tell us when we have to get back on the helo.

That assurance having been made, we start yammering as we go.

“Never thought we would see the Wall come down in our lifetimes,” I said. “Makes you wonder if the Soviet Union is going to go away, too. What are we going to do for a living if that happens?”

“Back to Iran,” I bet, said Lutt-man.

I debrief John on the strange case of the sighting of a Soviet Intelligence collecting ship- an AGI- that actually wasn’t, the successful identification of a drug smuggling ship, the exchange visit with the Israelis to the airfield we are not supposed to mention, and how the ‘Women in Ships’ Program was doing when they brought a few female officers out to visit us underway.

“I have never been so attracted to another Lieutenant Commander,” I said. “I am not sure how this is going to work.”

John gives me back the scoop on what has been happening ashore during our imposed exile, the internal Navy politics and intra-Nicene warfare, who was getting promoted early or getting passed over. Who is cracking up from the stress and who is getting relieved. Natalie looks great. Women are ver cool.

We have two beers in the snack bar and the ATO rep comes out and says we have until 1600 for our important discussions. We check our watches. That is 43 minutes. We are talking a mile a minute. I explain to Natalie that we are running on 78RPM but not to worry, it will be over soon.

Then we hit the old Chief’s’ Club because that is the closest dispenser of alcohol to the terminal. John and I are covering action items as I order beers for everyone and shots of vodka for Lutt-man and myself.

I explain to the bartender that we now have 25 minutes before we must leave for the ship again and he keeps them coming. We pour down two or three beers and another shot and the clock has ticked around. We have only stopped talking long enough to raise the bottles and glasses to our lips.

We race back to the parking lot and cram into John’s little GTI. We pour out of the car in front of the terminal at exactly 1600; after protestations of gratitude for their hospitality and undying friendship, we were back in the military cocoon again.

We check with Base Ops and there is a minor miracle; we have fifteen minutes, and it is back to the snack bar where we get two more beers.

We join Tony and CAGMO and suddenly the ATO is there and it is really no shit time to go. We get into our cranial helmets and life-vests when Lutt-man asks the key question. He leans over to the ATO rep, who is looking remarkably relaxed, and says “When are you going?” He admits there is one final, no kidding, last flight-of-the deployment in another fifteen minutes and that is the one he will be on. We strip off our gear and head back for two more no shit last beers.

We are just beginning to wax poetic about the wonderfulness of life when two cranial helmets fly into the booth and we can no longer forestall the inevitable.

“That’s it, gents. All aboard for those that want to go home.”

We hit the head, just in case, and give the Spanish controllers some of the ubiquitous squadron decals all aviation units use to advertise they have been somewhere. These are a selection of Air Wing SIX and the IDF. They in turn usher us through the flight crew door. We load ’em up with three giant spools of double-ply nylon rope in cargo, a last sack of mail and finally the ATO rep who has been drinking along with us.

Home, James!

The peaceful green fields of Spain give way to beach and to ocean and suddenly the black steel of the deck appears behind the ramp. The Sea Stallion clumps down and we pile out, a little wobbly, but delighted to be pleasantly lit up and with nothing but home in front of us. The sun has set, but a warm orange glow still tinges the horizon that will lead us home.

We gave a ‘thumbs up’ hand signal to the pilots and a last wave in the general direction of the beach. That is it for Europe. Nothing before us now but the grey Atlantic and a week and a half of trying not to bump our heads too hard on the bulkhead in the rack getting in and out. Which is precisely what I intend to do while the great ship hoists the anchor and makes turns for a westerly course.

Farewell to Europe, to the lands of the Roman Imperium, to the dust of the Pharaohs, to the Holy Land and maybe the USSR.

Call it a Med Cruise.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303