Cargo net

It’s funny. Our brains tend to catch and hold onto things that at the moment may seem small — the smell of freshly blown out birthday candles, your grandmother’s perfume, a lover’s smile — while letting things you think are important fall through the holes — a locker number, the status of your stove after leaving the house, the last name of that really attractive person you met at the bar last night. The important stuff gets trapped in the cargo net of our minds, safe and secure, stowed away with other memories, accompanying us on our journey, much like cargo aboard a C-130 aircraft.

I can remember the hum of the C-130 as a child. The vibration that you could feel down to your balls. The smell of strength. A premonition of a journey.

My father worked on the flight line at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi. He used to load cargo on to the C-130s. Every now and again, we got to go see dad at work. The smell of the stuffy hangar permeated everything; a smell of southern humidity, diesel fuel, and sweat. I remember the way his fatigues smelled when he hugged me, just like the hangar with a bit of cigarette smoke.

On more than one occasion we were allowed to climb around the C-130s which were typically empty but full of thousands of pieces of gadgets and machinery. One of those occasion was during a severe thunderstorm crossing the runway. The plane had been parked outside the hangar for viewing. As the storm intensified and moved towards us, the crew directed us to get into the plane. We all sat around in the cargo net seating as the storm raged outside…wet from the rain and sweat, the engines humming, the noise deafening. The view out of the window was of the neighboring C-130s — the Air Force’s Hurricane Hunters. It was this experience that started my love affair with the weather.

I can remember the hum of the C-130 as a man. The vibration that you could feel down to your balls. The smell of strength. A premonition of a journey.

Dad’s funeral was quick — almost too quick. I was just talking with him about my upcoming work in Afghanistan…and then he was gone. I never got to tell him about the C-130 that took me back and forth from Kabul to Kandahar. I remember my the marines sleeping under the tank wheels and on top of the other vehicles, all dressed in camo with tan undershirts. I can remember the hours of silence — engines roaring too loudly for any of us to speak. The rest of us all sat around in the cargo net seating as the storm of war raged down below.

One of the flight crew came by and gave the signal. We knew this meant we had a few minutes to strap in and prepare to descend. This isn’t your typical signal. There is no pleasant ping of a speaker to indicate it was time for your seats to be placed in the upright position. There are no tray tables to fasten. Just you, your bag, and lots of anxiety all strapped in waiting…. All at once, the plane plummets, spiraling down to the airport below — an evasive maneuver needed to prevent the enemy below from shooting you down. Your stomach climbs up into your throat, the angle steep enough that everything hanging on the walls leans into the spin.

I don’t remember touching down, nor the guy’s name with whom I was traveling. I don’t remember the pilot’s last name on his nametag. And I can’t remember if I used the bathroom or not. No, all I remember was sitting in the red cargo nets, the vibration in my balls. The smell of strength. A premonition of a journey.