24 hours aboard a carrier

SOMEWHERE IN THE ATLANTIC -- One bronze propeller for the aircraft carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower is 25 feet tall and weighs 66,200 pounds. And the "Ike" has four of them.

Put the pedal to the metal of this nuclear-powered, Nimitz-class ship and she'll go from zero to more than 30 knots in five lengths of the carrier.

That's the kind of sports car handling that makes this massive machine such an amazing marvel of mechanical engineering and American ingenuity.

With more than 4 acres of flight deck with the ability to launch F/A-18 Hornet fighter jets along with SH-60 Seahawk helicopters, E-2C Hawkeye early warning aircraft and EA-6B Prowlers, this fighting platform leaves visitors slack-jawed from the time they land until they are catapulted back to the real world.

I was among 11 civilians lucky enough to make a carrier landing on this ship Thursday morning, get the cook's tour during a 24-hour visit and leave on Friday with a gentle push that shoves you off the deck from zero to 150 mph in three seconds.

This is how the U.S. Navy shows off. But the only thing more impressive than the sheer size and technology of an aircraft carrier is the crew that makes it all work.

Groundhog Day

The Navy eats well at sea. With a crew this size, the mess on board serves 15,000 meals a day to maintain the men and women who fight the fight.

Mostly they are enlisted sailors between the ages of 18 and 25, kids really, who swarm the flight deck, launch jets like bottle rockets in the dead of night, maintain high-tech equipment and do a thousand other jobs that come with keeping this huge ship going, around the clock.

"You've got an airport right above you and a gas station right below you," a sailor said of his bunk. "It's a busy place."

This is, in a phrase, a life of danger. The recruiting posters don't say it, but if you don't do your job out here, somebody gets hurt. Maybe killed.

Even in the mess there's a table in the corner with a place setting and an empty chair. It's the Missing Man Table. It represents those who went to war and didn't come back.

That's a distinct possibility in this noisy world of jet engines whining, steam-driven catapults exploding and wires snagging planes from the sky and slapping the deck with the sound of gigantic bull whips.

Even deep below deck, where the worker bees sleep three high in bunks that afford them only 18 square feet of personal space, the war game currently raging off the coast of Florida stirs the sleep of young and old.

Battle rhythm

Battle rhythm is what they call it. It is a way of life. Mondays are like Saturdays and Wednesdays are the same as Tuesdays. Sundays, for an hour, they stop and pray.

"Eat, sleep, work," one sailor said. "Every day onboard ship is Groundhog Day."

This past week the Ike was going through drills in preparation for yet another deployment to the Middle

East. The latest one was for six months and ended in June.

There is nothing about life aboard a modern-day aircraft carrier that makes you think it's a leisure cruise. No one is jogging on the deck or sunbathing on the fantail. Everyone is scurrying around the maze of hallways and up and down a thousand ladders.

They are even too busy to honor ageless traditions.

Once this ship is underway, saluting is suspended until further notice. And you can stash that ball cap until you make port.

Working a 12-on, 12-off schedule is the routine, for days, weeks and months on end. It takes a toll, which is why this is a young person's game.

"You look at these kids and they are so young," one old salt said. "You want to ask them, 'Do your parents know you're here?' "

But passing them in the passageways, you see that look in their eyes that says they are glad to be there. They volunteered for this. When they compare it with what their peers are doing back home, well, there is no comparison.

This is an adventure of a lifetime in a city at sea that never sleeps.

"You can be onboard for months and see people you've never seen before," a sailor said. "It's mind boggling."

'I love my job'

Shavondra Heyward stands at attention in the "Ike Room," a small space set aside to honor the ship's namesake and hold special ceremonies.

On this day, we watch as AO-3 Heyward of Sumter is re-enlisted. She's served five years as an aviation ordnanceman. She's signing up for two more.

"I love my job," the 23-year-old says shyly.

Most of them do. They wouldn't live in these cramped conditions and put forth the effort they do without a genuine desire to serve and advance.

For re-enlisting, Heyward gets a few extra days off and "head-of-the-line" privileges for a month. No small perk in such a small world.

Up on the bridge, a hundred feet above the sea, Lt. Cmdr. Liz Higgins enjoys the best view on the boat, an uninterrupted, 12-mile scan to the horizon.

Since she graduated from the University of South Carolina in 1999, she's worked her way up to Officer of the Day, a prime position among 15 males who occupy this precious spot.

She, too, says she loves what she does as she squawks orders to keep the 1,000-foot craft on course.

"Where else can you get a job like this?" she asks.

Cat shot

Truth is, you can't buy a ticket on this ride and the Navy knows it. That's why they invite civilians to get a glimpse of life onboard, so they'll tell their story for them.

My partners on this visit were businessmen and women from around the country, including an information technology guy from Philadelphia, a sports executive from Houston, a banker from Iowa.

One chief said there are 330,000 people in the Navy and fewer than 3,000 will ever get to land and take off from an aircraft carrier.

For the record, it is an experience of a lifetime. The landing was like hitting a brick wall at 125 miles an hour. The "cat shot," or catapult takeoff, was better than anything you've ever ridden at the fair, times a thousand.

We left in such a hurry, in fact, I didn't get a chance to tell all these young sailors how proud the country is of what they're doing, day in and day out, around the world.

Maybe next time they're in port, when you see one in uniform, you'll tell them for me.

Reach Ken Burger at kburger@postandcourier.com or 937-5598. To read previous columns, go to postandcourier.com/burger.