I spent last night and this morning in Norfolk, VA, with my hometown friend Dylan Schoo. Dylan was the first boy I met when my family moved to Montrose, CO, in 1989; we went to prom together junior year, and have remained friends throughout the years and across the distance.
Dylan is pretty much the biggest badass I know, since he is a pilot for the Navy. He was exceedingly patient with me as I asked incessant naive, girly questions about the military: “How many outfits do you have?” “What does this knob do?” “Who is our biggest enemy?” “Can the government see through my walls?” “Who builds the submarines?” “Do they train you how to withstand torturing?” “Can you kill a rabbit with your bare hands?” “If a mission has been compromised, do you say, ‘Code up the GPS!’?”
Code up the GPS? Thank you, Dylan, for not abandoning me on the side of the highway.
He took me to see the E-2, which is the plane that he flies. People – he lands this thing on an aircraft carrier! On his own! It has an 80 foot wingspan, and a frisbee-like radar on top. There are few jobs in which one’s knowledge and skill and clarity of mind have life-or-death ramifications, but this is one of them. Mind-boggling.