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But they're also motivated—even gleeful—because we're officers. On this day, hundreds of enlisted Shellbacks get to have a go at the nine Pollywogs in the officers' wardroom who scrabble on hands and knees, at their mercy for several humiliation-inducing hours.

By the end of the crawl through the main deck, my backside is a bruised, welted, stinging, achy mess. I thought I would be thankful to reach the mezzanine deck for Wog Breakfast. To find relief from the beatings of the shillelaghs.

I am wrong.

Wog Breakfast is served in a long trough filled with noodles, cottage cheese, oysters, fish parts, and who knows what else. The whole rotten mixture is purple in color and I get a close-up view, just prior to dunking my head in it. We're required to blow bubbles.… And it's not the breakfast mixture itself that's the worst part. It's the vomit from the Wogs before us.

I lift my head to breathe, but I dare not use my nose, because if I smell this, I'm just going to add to the vomit pile. Which means … if I want air, I'm going to have to open my mouth. The slimy, chunky ick that floats in the trough now leaks and oozes into my mouth. I breathe. I spit. I scooch down the line. I dunk my head once more.

I declare a mini victory when I make it to the end of the trough without throwing up. Next to me, poor Em. She lost it before we even started.

After “breakfast,” the Shellbacks herd us to the flight deck, shillelaghs flying. You're not allowed to speak when you're a Wog, nor look anywhere but down as you crawl. Em moves in front of me, but that's all I really know. Just that she's there.

Zack is not here. He won the Wog Queen Beauty Contest last night with a lacy red bra and underwear supplied by Emily. He shaved his legs and Emily and I did his hair and makeup. It was scary, truth be told, how good he looked when we got through with him. Music blared on the 1MC, the contestants strutted across the catwalk on the flight deck, and just when I thought it couldn't get any more hilarious, they started dancing—the naked-stripper-against-a-pole kind of dancing. I actually peed my pants I laughed so hard.

A good laugh is hard to come by for me, so I took it, wet pants and all. But I'm not laughing now as we're ushered to face King Neptune's Royal Court at the far end of the flight deck. The Court consists of King Neptune, his wife Amphitrite, the Royal Baby, the Royal Police, and even Davy Jones—all played by crew members. Pollywogs are summoned before the Court to undergo trial for their offenses to the God of the Sea.

Em and I are brought up together and the powers that be read the “charges” against us. Em screws up and pleads not guilty. Crap. She's sent to the back of the line and I can hear the slap of the shillelaghs that accompany her. I'm right behind her. I know the right answer. But I don't want to get separated, so I plead not guilty as well. Back to the end of the Royal Court line I go. More waiting. More whacking.

The next time we reach the Royal Court, we plead guilty to our nebulous crimes and are sent to the stockade. Our hands and heads are inserted into a giant wooden contraption and I wonder who on earth built it and where they've been keeping it. Once we're positioned, the top is closed over us. We take a chance, turning our heads slightly to look at each other. Oh, my. If I look like Emily, and I'm sure I do, it's not pretty. Her face is green and purple and her hair … strands of slimy I don't know what. I turn away.

I turn away not only from Emily, but from the sight of what is coming next. It is foul. In fact, I'm seriously wondering if I can do this next bit. How bad do I want to be a Shellback? I don't know if I want it this bad.

The sight that makes me nauseated for the first time today is the Royal Baby. They've picked the fattest guy on the ship with the biggest, ugliest, hairiest stomach to sit in a throne in nothing but his underwear. Fellow Shellbacks have greased his furry gut and ever-so-delicately placed a cherry in his belly button.

I watch in horror as the Pollywogs in line on their hands and knees are forced to pick the cherry out of his belly button with their teeth.

I finally throw up. I'm not even in front of the Baby yet.

The Shellbacks whoop with delight as they release us from the stockade and whack us from behind en route to the Baby. I'm in front of Em this time, crawling with my head down, not wanting to look at or think about what's coming next. Without warning, someone lifts my shoulders from behind so that my torso moves upright while I'm still on my knees. My vision is filled with black, curly, greasy stomach hair on a gut that is outright offensive.

There's no time to deliberate, because it's done for me. The Baby pulls my head into his stomach and rolls it around in the grease. God only knows how I do it, but when I'm released, I clutch a cherry in my teeth. The dry heaves start in earnest now, because there's nothing left to throw up.

Next stop—garbage chute. Haven't we been crawling through what has effectively been a garbage chute all morning? So the fact that the Shellbacks are chanting that it's time to crawl through the “garbage chute” has me wondering … in a very bad way.

The chute looks like a play toy that preschoolers use—a long, plastic tube, colored in bright pinks and yellows, that runs about thirty feet in length. And the rumors are true. All the chatter about saving up the ship's garbage for weeks and roasting it in the ovens is true. They've filled the chute with it and we're slithering through on our stomachs, army crawl style. I'm not sure how anyone has anything left to throw up at this point, but I'm sludging through vomitus from the word go.

Surely this is the end. Surely this obstacle course from hell is complete. I envision breaking through this torture tube to sunlight on the other side and having it over. Done and over.

Right. Next stop—the coffin. The coffin reminds me of my time in S.E.R.E. School—Survival, Evasion, Rescue, Escape—POW training for anyone who might find themselves in a combat position. All pilots have to attend, and when we were in the prisoner phase, the guards locked us in small boxes without room to lift our heads. We sat, curled in the dark, for hours.

At least with this “coffin,” we get to lie flat. So I shimmy into the elongated box, filled with muck much the same as I have just crawled through, and the lid is closed. They've created a peephole on the top, so when they order you to roll around in the garbage, they can ensure you're doing it
properly
.

I'm starting to think this isn't worth it. Everyone was given the option to sit in the library and not participate if they didn't care to. But the stigma. And especially for me. I really want to show that I can do this. That women can do this. I think most sailors on the ship felt that Em and I were going to sit this one out. Surprise, surprise when they found out we were game.

I squint when sunlight floods the coffin as the lid is pulled back. I'm then led to a giant tank filled with something green. I climb in and am ordered to submerge. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to dunk myself. How can it be that with everything I've been through this morning, the simple act of dunking my head would garner more stress than all the other obstacles combined? I do it quickly, and when I surface, I hear the shouts of those in front of me, including Emily.

The sailors yell, “What are you?”

“A fuckin' Shellback!” she shouts.

I exhale in relief. “Yeah, what she said.”

 

29

The sailors at the end of the Pollywog obstacle course shake my hand and send me straight to the makeshift shower rigged on the flight deck. I meet up with Emily and we strip on the spot. We've worn our swimsuits underneath, so we take our T-shirts and khakis off—clothing that will never be worn again—and dump them in the trash pile with everyone else's.

We're able to get the worst of the muck off our bodies before trudging to our stateroom and the showers that await.

We flip for it. Em wins and jumps in first.

She's a long time in the shower and when I finally get my turn, I realize why. I shampoo and re-shampoo my hair at least five times and it still feels like the ick of a lake bottom. It's going to take several more washings to make it fully right again.

When I exit the shower, Em gapes as she looks at the backs of my legs. I peek over. I'm black and blue and covered in welts. Lovely.

“They got your arms, too,” she says.

Oops. I had completely forgotten. But, hey, I'll take it. An excuse gift from the sky.

“I guess so,” I say.

Em slips into a light pink stretch camisole and form-fitting black shorts and reaches into her closet for a pair of flip-flops. “Going to the steel beach picnic?” she asks.

All newly christened Shellbacks are being rewarded with a steel beach picnic—the first of the cruise. For these “picnics,” barbeque grills are set up on the flight deck—made of steel, and thus the name—and it's a chance for the crew to eat and relax on a good weather day.

“I'll wait if you're coming,” she adds.

What's this?
Maybe our flight hours truce is going to last longer than I thought. Thank heavens. I so want it to be normal between us.

“Yeah, give me just a second.”

I throw on my running shorts, a moisture-wicking technical T-shirt, and lace up my running shoes.

“This is a picnic, not a workout,” she says.

“This is all I have,” I say, making for the door and stepping into the passageway. “Besides, it's too hot to wear anything else.”

“Good thing we're pulling into Singapore tomorrow. Looks like another shopping trip's in order.”

“It's not that bad—”

“It's that bad.”

I roll my eyes, but there's a skip in my step. Please let Em and me be back to normal.

When we emerge onto the flight deck, smoke and a delicious barbeque smell fill the air. Hamburgers, hot dogs, and rows of chicken breasts vie for space between giant vats of baked beans, all of it spread across three extra-long barbeque grills. Mess cranks cook, ladle, and serve it all with marked efficiency to sailors formed in three makeshift lines behind each grill, paper plates and cutlery in their hands.

All evidence of the Wog Day obstacle course has been cleared and the decks have been hosed down and cleaned. The sounds of Jimmy Buffett play through the ship's intercom system and crewmembers sprawl over the deck, some sitting with their legs dangling over the side, and some, like our male pilots, resting on lounge chairs, shirts off, tanning in the equatorial sun.

After we receive our food, it hurts to sit, so I stand instead. As I look around, it occurs to me that I've never seen the ship's crew this happy. The laughs, the jokes, the smiles. The activities both last night and today were a definite morale-builder.

But I'm exhausted. I can't believe they've scheduled night flight ops after a day like today. It kind of puts a damper on the steel beach picnic for me. I'm imagining sitting in the cockpit for hours when I don't want to put my bum on anything. But the operational tempo of the strike group never slows. No SEAL ops tonight—we'll just be moving cargo—but damn, I could use a break.

“What are you huffing about?” Em says.

“Um, nothing,” I say.
Tell me I wasn't just talking out loud.

“Damn? Damn what?” she asks.

Crap.

“I just … I have to fly again tonight—”

“Of course you do,” she says, not hiding the sarcasm.

“Oh, no … I didn't mean—”

“Christ, it's not even a SEAL flight.”

“No, Em,” I say. “Please don't do this.”

“Whatever,” she says.

“No! I talked with Chad. I asked him why I had to fly and he said because I've been a regular on nights, he was just keeping me there. That's the only—”

“Hey, Em!” Zack calls from his lounge chair. He and the other pilots are waving her over.

She waves back, before turning to me. “Wouldn't want to keep you from resting up before your flight.” She moves toward the group. “Later,” she says over her shoulder.

*   *   *

By the time I'm in the aircraft, Wog Day is a distant memory, save for my derri
è
re, which is a constant, painful reminder. It's also hard to shell the image of Emily walking away from me, which is why I've decided I need to put my foot down about the scheduling. It's not fair to Emily or Zack and it's putting a wedge between Em and me that doesn't need to be there.

I keep telling myself, if I can just get through this flight, I'll be in Singapore tomorrow. Eric will be there and I know he'll lend an open ear and maybe even have some suggestions for what to do with the SEAL flight bunk. I don't have any idea yet how we're going to meet, but he said he'd find me, so I'm not going to worry about it.

I'm flying with Matt tonight, and it's close to midnight when the radios erupt in chatter. All airborne helicopters are told to switch up to SAR common, which is usually not a good thing. The search-and-rescue frequency is exactly that—used for coordination of SAR efforts.

The H-60s have already been listening to this frequency.
Nimitz
is calling all of its Nighthawk aircraft to land on her deck.

“Shadow Hunter six six,
Lake Champlain
Tower, confirm your position, over.”

“
Lake Champlain
Tower, Shadow Hunter six six, four miles due east, one hundred feet. We've begun our search pattern based on last known position, over.”

It's Brian Wilcox. And they're starting a search pattern. A search for what? Man overboard? Aircraft?

“All airborne helicopters check in with
Lake Champlain
Tower for search coordination, over.”

I quickly dial in the
Lake Champlain
navigational aid.

“
Lake Champlain
Tower, Sabercat five five, three miles to the south, three hundred feet, over,” Matt says.