SEMPER PARATIS

It's 2:00 AM and I am sleeping soundly in my bunk room at the Coast Guard Air Station. I am suddenly awakened by this "excruciating" sound: WHAAAAAAA......WHAAAAAA.......WHAAAAAA. It's the Search and Rescue (SAR) alarm announcing an emergency rescue mission. I throw the cover off and roll out of bed thinking: GHEEEEZ, I am getting too old for this stuff...WHAT IS THIS ALL ABOUT? I am glad this is my last mission!

I have been in the Coast Guard for six years and am in my early thirties. It has been a wonderful experience being a pilot and performing SAR missions in the Gulf of Mexico...but it is time to move on to a different job and some quality time with my little kids. I separate from the Coast Guard in a few days and this is definitely... my last midnight SAR mission.

There is a Coast Guard crew that is "Always Ready" (Semper Paratis) for service...24-7 as they say nowadays. We can be airborne in about 20 minutes...welllllll maybe a few minutes more when the old pilot has to roll out of bed at 2:00AM.

It's 2:05 AM and I am already in my flight suit with boots on, washing my face and brushing my teeth. I kept the flight suit hanging next to my bed and my boots at the side. It's an easy thing to get into the suit: two legs and a long zipper from the crotch to the chest and throw each arm into the survival vest packed with flight gear. Boots are also easy; they are laced about half way up and then hooks instead of grommets for the upper portion of the boot. I look down at my boot laces and see my "dog tag" laced into the boot. When I was in Navy Flight School I asked: why do we lace our dog tag into the boot? The answer: The foot inside the boot is usually the only portion of the body that is recognizable after a fiery aircraft crash. Therefore, by lacing the ID tag to the boot, it facilitates the confirmation and identification of the casualty; it's a tradition that comes from WWII. So I noticed the dog tag around my neck and the one neatly laced into my boot. I wondered how life would be in the coming months and years without dog tags...I have gotten so used to the tinkle-tinkle of the metal on my chest and the tucking away of the tag into the laces of my boot.

It's 2:10 and I enter the SAR control center. There is a lot of commotion with radios blaring, charts being plotted, and people scurrying everywhere. We don't really have much time, I get the minimum information about the case and it's reported position...I can get the rest via the radio enroute to the scene. It's a shrimp boat taking on water (sinking) about 200 miles to the southeast. The weather is stormy since a cold front blew in earlier that evening. I nonchalantly take the stairs down to the hanger floor and meet the other pilot. He is senior to me so I am "technically" the Co-pilot. As we stand at the edge of the hanger and observe the airplane being prepped for service... we discuss the weather. We watch the thunderstorm with it's sheets of rain peppering the hanger roof and cascading along the tarmac as the wind carries it in rhythmic waves. The wind is from the north and the storm is moving southward. It should be clear of the field by the time we takeoff but will be in our flight path as we depart towards the scene. The commander turns to me and says: "you want to fly the left seat since this is your last mission?" I said: "sure...why not"; I was elated!!!! We throw our leather jackets over our heads and calmly trudge towards the plane and do a quick walk-around of the aircraft; we never run.... Coasties are the coolest pilots!!!!!

It's 2:15 and I get buckled in and the checklist is going fast and furious:
"Battery?"
"ON"
"Flaps?"
"Up",
"Gear?
"Down and Locked"
"Electrical system?
"Checked
"Power Levers?
"Set"
"Left Engine?
"Start"
I push the engine "On" button which is a "black bulls eye" about a half inch in diameter located over my head...and off it goes. Jet engines are the "easiest" to light... not like those old radial engines we used to fly; those were an art to start, requiring multi-tasking and excellent finger dexterity. I scan all the engine related instruments as the engines warm up. The panel of the Falcon Jet is quite attractive with its green back-lit instruments, orange indicators, light blue background, little ruby colored bulbs called "jewel lights". The cockpit is engulfed in a reddish hue. There are no white lights because they effect night vision...even our flashlights have red filters. I look towards the left wingtip to view the red navigation light and the green one on the right. They are illuminating the tarmac and adjacent hangers...it is all quite colorful.

"Ready to taxi?"
"Ready"

The inertial navigation system is set and I start the taxi while the other pilot busies himself programming the navigation system for the search. I call the tower....errrrrh...I wake up the controller at the tower. We are the only ones out here at this hour...he gives me clearance to taxi.

It's 2:25 and are about 5 minutes late...must have been that extra few minutes rolling out of bed...but we are still better than the pizza man!

"Navy Corpus tower Coast Guard Rescue 2001 ready for takeoff...runway 31...southeast departure...VFR"
"Rescue '01 cleared for takeoff"

We take the runway and I notice that the rain has subsided, but a wet wind is blowing at about 30 MPH with a right-to-left crosswind; the runway is wet so I have to be careful about traction and hydroplaning in case of an aborted takeoff, I notice a skuzzy layer of clouds at about 500 feet, and think...it's awful dark up there.

I have my left hand on the steering wheel which maneuvers the aircraft while on the ground. It is a wheel of about 10 inches in diameter and located barely within reach of my left hand and adjacent to the seat. My right hand is on the throttle or "Power Levers" as they are called in the jet age. There are two levers that split the throttle handle, one for each engine. My hand fits the handle perfectly...it splits my four fingers with the middle and index fingers on the left portion of the handle and the ring and pinkie on the right portion. My thumb is positioned horizontal and caresses the small thrust reverser latch button on the side of the handle. The handle has an aluminum knurled finish. The texture of the handle feels so good and I often push the button with my thumb as a soothing jester; it doesn't do anything except releases some pent up energy...the two levers travel in unison and sooooooo smooth...it's exhilarating to know there is so much horsepower (5000 horsepower per engine) connected to those levers and available through the action of my hand.

Once cleared I gently push the power levers forward with my right hand and the aircraft starts moving past the yellow "hold short" line. With the steering wheel I position the aircraft inline with the runway centerline and bring the throttles to full thrust position.

Naval ships and aircraft are regarded as female and this vessel remains true to it's namesake...she responds so very well to gentle even movements. She starts rolling down the runway, the speed increases and the rudder becomes effective; I commence steering with the peddles, my left hand departs the steering wheel and I place the tips of my three middle fingers on the underside of the yoke with my thumb lightly touching the vertical portion. I maneuver the yoke with smooth gentle movements to compensate for the crosswind; she fly's like a dream when treated with affection.

As we accelerate down the runway, I feel the transition of the aircraft from the burdens of gravitational forces to the gracious effects of aerodynamics. The co-pilot is calling out the speeds as we accelerate: 60....80...100. At 120 he says: "Rotate". I gently pull back on the yoke and set the nose up 10º and she becomes airborne.

"Gear up?"
"Selected"
"Three up-Pilot" I touch the indicators with my fingers to confirm indications
"Three up-Co-Pilot" The Co-Pilot also touches the indicator
"Flaps up?"
"Flaps up"
"Power Levers?"
"Set"

I glance at the engine instruments to note the ITT (Interstage Turbine Temperature) and N1 speed (the speed of the power turbine), these instruments give an indication of the power output of the engines; lack of power will slow the climb and excess power can damage the engine. I also notice the airspeed and notice it is approaching 200 MPH. I pull back on the power levers to set the airspeed at 200 MPH; there is a "speed limit" at this altitude.

Still flying with the tips of my fingers on the yoke, I start a gentle bank to the left while adjusting the pitch and power to maintain 200 MPH and 1500 feet-per-minute climb rate. The turn puts me over the city. The city lights are illuminating the tumultuous overcast sky. I can see the ominous dark water laden clouds in the skuzzy layer glaring at me like evil demons. I can also see the various storms scattered around with the shafts of rain falling to earth like a painters gray strokes on canvas. Corpus Christi is a pretty city at night from this perspective. The bay shimmering with navigation lights, the well lighted harbor with an array of anchored sailboats, and a very attractive skyline. As we fly over the residential areas, I can't help but think of all those "mere mortals" sleeping comfortably in their beds dreaming of flying like us... "The High and Mighty" Coast Guard Aviators. I feel privileged to have this opportunity to be airborne, fly this wonderful aircraft, and be on this life saving mission...PRIVELEDGED INDEED!


It's 2:35 AM as we head out to sea. Our enroute flight profile will be a parabola with the apex at 10,000 feet and a ground track base of approximately 200 miles; this will give us optimum fuel efficiency. It will take us about 45 minutes to reach the boat-in-distress. We have left the lights of the city and all that remains to light up the sky are patches of starlight and the aircraft navigation lights; I don't' see a moon but there must be one out there somewhere illuminating the night. I can see the ocean waves below with seas of about 30 feet. I also notice the wispy white caps of the sea produced by the storm. Adding to the colorful display of the panel is the weather radar. We use it to pick our way through the thunderstorms. It's like an electronic computer game as we navigate through the light greens of the screen and avoid those deep red sections where the heart of evil thunderstorms reside. But the game is real...outside the windshield we can see the dark canyons bounded by those dark towering cumulonimbus clouds, feel the aircraft movements caused by turbulence, and hear the sound of the rain strike the fuselage.

It's 3:10 and we are descending to the reported position. We have received the pertinent data about the vessel while enroute to the scene. The vessels name is the "Cajun Princess" ; it's homeport is Morgan City, La; it is taking on water; and there are three persons on board. I call her on the radio:

" Cajun Princess Cajon Princess, this is Coast Guard aircraft 2001, over"
The skipper answers with a Cajun accent
"Cooosta Gard this is Cajin Princess, cuume back"
"Skipper this is Coast Guard '01, got you loud and clear, we are approximately 15 minutes out, request a
ten-count, come back"
"Capt'n I got you the same, glad to hear your voice, what is a ten-count?, cuume back"
" Roger skipper, just count up to 10 and down to 1, come back"
"10-4 Capt'n, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1, come back"

We have the direction finder (DF) tuned into the emergency frequency. The ten-count allows enough on-air time to home into the ships transmission. As he calls the ten-count the DF needle swings around the compass dial like a drunken sailor trying to locate the boats direction....it finally picks up the signal and swings back-and-forth between the left and right side of the compass dial till it fixes the head of the needle directly towards the ship...like an arrow that has found it's mark. SWOOOOSHHH-----WAAAANGGGGGG.....GOTCHA!

There is no greater feeling in SAR than to know that you have established contact with the distressed vessel and know there is a good chance of saving the persons onboard. It is the first significant milestone in the mission. I advise the radar operator about the direction of the vessel and he locates the vessel on the radar screen at about 50 miles.

"Cajun Princess we have a fix on your position and will be there in 10 minutes, how you holding up,
come back"
"Capt'n, we are still taking on water and barely afloat but the engines are still running."
"Roger that skipper, we will be dropping you a dewatering pump to keep you afloat and a Coast Guard Cutter
is on it's way to tow you back to port"
"10-4 Capt'n"

Such an easy thing to say, "drop a dewatering pump", but it is one of the most difficult maneuvers to perform in a Coast Guard HU-25 jet. A dewatering pump is a small gasoline powered pump stuffed in a 2 X 2 X 3 foot fiberglass canister; a couple of gallons of fuel are also stuffed in the canister. The canister has a parachute and a 400 foot manila rope; the parachute serves to reduce the impact at which the canister hits the water and the manila rope is used to pull the canister aboard the boat. In addition, just before it hits the water an explosive device is detonated separating the chute from canister; this is to prevent the chute from becoming a drogue.

The aircraft has to be flown as slow as possible (131 MPH) to prevent damage to the canister but not so slow that the aircraft looses altitude; the aircraft has to be flown at a precise altitude (125 feet +/- 25) so that the timed parachute detonator releases the canister before it hits the water...too late will drown the canister and too early will cause damage; the aircraft has to be flown directly upwind so the manila rope does not drift away from the vessel; and the drop point has to be..."PRECISE"...so the rope does not overshoot or undershoot the vessel. This...of course...has to be done with gusty winds, high seas, driving rain, and a moving target.

Ideally, the drop is made directly over the ship. The manila rope unfurls the free end with it's momentum while the parachuted canister anchors the other end. The parachute drifts downwind and away from the boat as the rope falls downward and drapes the deck of the ship. Approximately 50 feet upwind from the boat and a few feet above the water the chute separates and the canister and hits the water...hopefully still attached the rope. The crew then pulls the canister onboard and begins the dewatering process.

It's 3:25 A.M. and we have a visual fix on the vessel. As we fly over the vessel, I can see that she has very little freeboard; her outriggers are extended and is carrying a few knots of way-on (forward movement) as she struggles with the waves. She is cruising perpendicular to the waves and her bow dips the sea swamping the deck at the bottom of every trough. I can see two crewmen on the deck struggling to bale water as they hold on to dear life. The wind is driving rain and sea mist across the deck causing crewmembers to lean against it and fight for footing as the boat rolls and pitches.

We drop a smoke flare after our first pass so we can get a visual indication of the wind and the sea conditions. We are 500 ft above the surface as we take our downwind leg of the drop pattern using the smoke flare as a wind indicator. The aircraft has a hatch at mid-fuselage just large enough for the canister. The canister is suspended from an overhead hook with a manually operated release latch. The dropmaster rigs the canister as we go through our check list. We complete the check list abeam of the Cajun Princess and we maintain a "sterile cockpit' as we turn base leg and prepare to give a "10 second warning". Sterile cockpit means...there is absolute silence in the aircraft; any sound may cause the dropmaster to prematurely drop the cannister.

We turn final approach and I see the Cajun Princess directly ahead.

"10 second warning"
"Roger, 10 seconds"

There is absolute silence except for the sound of the engine, rain stiking the fuseladge, and the friction of the wind. With my fingertips of my left hand on the yoke and my right hand on the throttle levers I maneuver the aircraft down to 125 feet, maintain airspeed at 131 MPH, and adjust the heading to keep the boat directly on the nose. I am getting close enough now that I can see the two crewmembers on the deck, their haggard faces fixated on the aircraft with anticipation of the drop. I can see the skipper at the helm struggling to keep the ship on an even course as he turns his head to see the approaching aircraft...we make eye contact as the ship disappears under the nose. I count a second-and-a half with the beats of my heart.

"DROP"
"Drops away"

I add power and commence my climbing left turn.

"Capt'n we got the rope....good drop"
"Roger that Skipper"

The crewmembers in the back of the plane are cheering and "high-fivin" each other. I turn to my commander co-pilot and he gives me a reassuring smile and a thumbs-up...I smile back at him and return the thumbs-up.

We continue to circle the boat till they get the pump operational and the Cajun Princess begins to refloat.

"Skipper, looks like you got things under control. We are departing back to home base."
"10-4 Capt'n, have a good trip"

It's 4:00 A.M. as we depart the scene for an uneventful return flight to Coast Guard Airstation Corpus Christi.

It's 5:00 A.M. when I get back in bed and thinking...two more hours of duty...and it's over.

It's 3:00 P.M two days later and am in the station office on my last day in the Coast Guard. The CO hands me a crumpled note and says; it's from the Cajun Princess. The note had been written by the skipper of the SAR case a couple of days ago. It had been handed to the CO of the cutter Point Hope that towed her into port. He handed it to a helicopter pilot who had flown it to Corpus and given it to the Operations Officer, who then gave it to the base CO, who then gave it to me. It had salt water stains and the ink was running. In cursive it read:

Capt'n

That was a really good drop. The pump worked like a charm. Y'all saved my boat.

Thanks,

Henri Limineux
Skipper, Cajun Princess


I knew then....WHAT IT WAS ALL ABOUT!