RIB

The first time I almost got someone killed, I was in the Pacific, between Hawaii and Japan. On a wintertime transpacific crossing, the crew of my Arleigh Burke class destroyer was approaching the last section of the voyage over an area that our maps named "The Haunted Sea," also known as "The Devil's Triangle."

At the time, my main billet onboard is First Lieutenant. I am responsible for the deck equipment, including ropes, anchors, and my favorite, two seven meter rigid hull inflatable boats, or RIBs. I am also our search and rescue officer and lead rescue swimmer. By the end of my time onboard, I am qualified as a small boat engineer, able to conduct maintenance and troubleshooting on the RIBs. I have probably completed over 50 successful small boat operations as either onboard rescue swimmer or small boat officer by the time my tour is over. I was the captain's point man for all search and rescue and small boat operations. When other officers needed training on the small boats, they come to me. Over the year leading up to our Pacific crossing, whenever we are launching our RIBs, I am involved.

So during our crossing, when the ship needed to conduct a surprise man overboard recovery drill, I was on the assessment team. The team had two other members: my boss, the operations officer, or Ops, and my chief, or BMC. With 15 years of experience, he was more knowledgeable in all things Navy than I was. I relied on him to inform my decisions, especially in technical equipment matters.

Ops rubs at his heavy eyelids and gathers our small group. "Ok team, let's do this pre brief." It has been dark for two hours, and lunar illumination is low to nonexistent. The three of us stand in the red light of the port brake, not quite inside the ship, but not exposed to the elements. The wind whistles harshly out on the open weatherdeck, just beyond the threshold of the brake. Even outside the skin of the ship, the machine oil-paint-wet garbage ship smell is inescapable.

We talk through the evolution. The beginning is simple. Ops will drop a smoke float, a bright floating incendiary, into the water to simulate a man overboard. The aft lookout (hopefully) will report it to the bridge, and the bridge team will maneuver the ship to position it near the man. We will take muster of the crew as quickly as possible, and once all are accounted for, we can reset and practice the actual recovery via the RIB. That's the tricky part. The dangerous part.

"BMC," Ops looks at my chief, "What do you think of these waves?" Wave height is the most important environmental safety consideration for the RIB. By instruction, the line between permissible and non-permissible waves is about four feet. Anything greater requires special permission for operation. "It's fine, sir." Chief is about five foot two, but his voice is cutting and he speaks with confidence. We believe him. The wave height is right on the edge of the four foot threshold, the RIB can handle a little more, but it's best not to test it.

"So then we'll lower the RIB, pick up the man, and recover the RIB. Simple enough," Ops says.

I know it isn't going to be simple. Operating a RIB in four foot seas alongside a destroyer's 30 foot freeboard is dangerous enough during the day. I've almost crushed my hands multiple times doing it. Operating at night with no moon is going to be sketchy, but it's something we need to be able to do. Ops doesn't have the small boat experience I do, not by a mile. It doesn't occur to him that this is going to be anything other than routine. He looks at me. "First, who's the swimmer on the small boat?"

I think for a second. In addition to myself, I have two enlisted swimmers on board. Both are very inexperienced. "Well sir in an unannounced man overboard it could be any of us, but I think Cape is on watch right now, so it will probably be Skolnick." Skolnick is the older of the two. He is maybe slightly more mature, but still a goof.

The swimmers onboard, or "The Locker," as the group is called, is close knit. As the only officer, I'm the leader, and play big brother for my guys. I look out for them when they need it, and give them orders when we as a unit need it. I do it because it is my job, but what's more important to me is that I do it because I like them. Some days, their dumb jokes are the only thing that make being onboard bearable. I would never tell them that, though.

I'm also responsible for training them. Swimming isn't the only skill a rescue swimmer needs. I have four priorities written on the wall inside our small equipment locker: "Physically Fit," "Proficient in Emergency Medicine," "Proficient in Technical Rescue Skills," and "Proficient Small Boat Operators." It's my responsibility to make sure that each of us is ready for a rescue in all four skill sets.

At the time of the drill, Skolnick isn't ready, and I know it. I had only been able to take him on a few small boat operations since he graduated from Search and Rescue Swimmer School. He isn't confident on the boat, but more importantly, I'm not sure that he knows the hard skills required of him to safely operate it. I had been trying to get him on the boat since he came back from school, but our previous captain kept shooting me down. He said it was inconvenient. I knew it was bullshit, but I didn't realize how dangerous it was. Our new captain took command right as we began crossing the Pacific, and we hadn't had time to drill the boat crews since he took command. I could explain how things worked to the swimmers all I wanted, but there was no substitute for experience.

In the second after responding to Ops, I think all of this. I hesitate for a moment, then speak up. "Sir, I think I should go down with the RIB to watch Skolnick and the crew and make sure they're alright." Ops gives me an 'I don't care but want to assert that I'm in charge' pause, as though considering it. "Ok." He says.

Then my chief speaks up. "No. They need to learn to do it themselves." I look at Ops, who could not care less, then back at chief. "You sure?" Chief doesn't even consider it for a second. "Yes. You should stay up here, sir."

I trust BMC. He always gives me good advice. Why should this be any different? I don't think twice and look at Ops' glazed over eyes. "I'll stay on the boat deck then, sir." He doesn't even pause this time. "Ok, fine. Let's get this going guys. I've got to get to bed."

Back on the flight deck, I hide in the shadow of the helicopter hangar so the aft lookout can't see me. The lack of illumination works to my advantage. I peek over the side of the flight deck and a swell throws salt spray into my face. I shiver as I wipe it off. Those waves were higher than 4 feet for sure. The combined thunder of the sea and the ship's machinery noises overwhelm all sound until the smoke float passes within three feet of the ship. Its hissing flame blinds me and shoots its white light up to the flight deck. I step back again into the shadow and watch the aft lookout, opening my eyes wide to readjust them to the dark.

The aft lookout fiddles with her headset, speaking with the bridge. The foghorn sounds six times, and a voice breaks with urgency over the ship's loudspeakers. "MAN OVERBOARD, MAN OVERBOARD, MAN OVERBOARD STARBOARD SIDE. THIS IS A MUSTERING EVOLUTION. DIRECTION OF TRANSIT IS UP AND FORWARD STARBOARD SIDE, DOWN AND AFT PORT SIDE." It's on. I make my way up to the boat deck. The whole ship is being timed now, and they know it. Sailors, some half-dressed and bleary eyed, rush past frantically. The ship swings around wildly to close distance with the smoke float and some of us are flung into the wall. The acceleration of the gas turbines engines below cause the hull to shudder. As I make my way back outside and pass by the two RIBs, I plug my ears so the roar of the engine exhausts doesn't burst my eardrums. Some of my deck team is already up there. Seaman Smith, in the yellow hard hat of the Petty Officer in Charge, or POIC, is shouting orders. He's running the evolution. Sailors rush out, zipping up their coveralls and tying their boots. I station myself out of the way to observe.

Skolnick, fully dressed, rushes past me and into the locker "You couldn't have warned me about the drill? I was halfway through watching La La Land."

"Shut up and change out. The clock is running." I say as he closes the door.

I look warily over the side of the ship at the waves. Definitely more than four feet. My eyes flick back up. The blackness of the sea is complete save for the white scorch of the smoke float, almost off our bow now.

As the ship completes its maneuvers, the rest of the boat crew arrives on station. Rogers, the coxswain, reports to the POIC, then the engineer, Sanchez, and finally the Boat Officer and my friend, Jack. I'm thankful it's him. Second to me, he's probably the best boat officer we have.

The team gears up and Jack checks them over as Skolnick bursts out of the locker in his Tri-SAR harness and wet suit. His mask, snorkel and fins are neatly packaged in his left hand, and his medkit is in his right. He bundles a grey wool blanket under his arm. "That's gotta be a lightning change speed record" He shouts over the thundering background noise.

"Shut up." I say again. I point out into to the dark swells, barely illuminated by the floodlights on the deck. "Be careful out there."

"Will do, dad!" He should be more concerned about this.

I see Smith, competing with the background noise, shout over to us and wave an arm. Even at the top of his lungs, we can't hear him. I know exactly what he's saying, though. It's time to load, lower and launch.

I motion to my buddy. "Jack! It's go time." Jack turns around and leads his crew over to the small boat. Skolnick gives me a goofy thumbs up.

The boat crew settles in. The RIB is suspended over the side of the ship, connected above to the steel cable of the slewing arm davit, the crane we use to raise and lower the small boat. Thirty feet of destroyer freeboard separate the fiberglass hull from the black waves below. The rocking ship swings the boat out, then back in, jostling the crew as its inflatable sponson bounces off the hull. I clench my jaw as Rogers grabs the wheel to stay upright.

Smith's voice strains over the roar of the sea and the exhausts. "DAVIT OPERATOR, DOWN ON THE HOOK."

"DOWN ON THE HOOK, AYE!" comes the response, and the RIB lowers.

Some of the most dangerous times in any operation are the times of transition. The landing of an aircraft, the merge of a car onto the highway, and the launch of a RIB all pose higher risk than normal operating conditions. When I'm on the RIB, I usually try to keep time alongside the ship down to thirty seconds maximum. When you're side by side like that, everything is moving relative to each other. The ship rolls, the small boat pitches as oncoming waves crash into its bow and side. The heavy hook on the end of the davit cable swings around. If the relative movement is bad enough, the heavy steel hull of the ship can overwhelm the RIB's inflatable sponson and push the whole small boat down into the water, risking a capsize.

As I watch our small boat approach the sea, swinging on its steel cable, I remember a case study I read earlier that week. Another Arleigh Burke was recovering a RIB at night. While the small boat was alongside, preparing to be raised to the deck edge, the slewing arm davit stopped working. The RIB was caught in its most vulnerable spot, in its transition time, tethered to the ship. The small boat took a bad wave, and that was it. It capsized, throwing everyone overboard. Two sailors were able to hang on to the hull, but the others were thrown backwards, past the boat's whipping propeller blades. RIB accidents like that are not uncommon, and as the small boat expert onboard, they are what I most want to avoid.

I lean over the side of the ship to get a look as the small boat approaches the water. Twenty feet of air separate the two, then ten, then six. The waves jump and slap the fiberglass.

"COXSWAIN, START YOU ENGINE." Smith screams over the background noise.

"START MY ENGINE AYE." Rogers flips his switch, and the diesel fumes cough out of the exhaust port.

Three feet left. The ocean reaches up and lifts the RIB three feet into the air on a wave's crest, then disappears with a trough and drops the hull. The davit's cable takes the shock load. The crew catches its balance as the RIB fully touches down into the waves. Skolnick, no longer joking around, looks up to the deck of the ship.

"DAVIT OPERATOR, AVAST." Smith calls out.

"AVAST AYE."

"CAST OFF HOOK." Smith yells over the side, down to the boat crew.

Skolnick fumbles with the end of the steel cable. Jack helps him and the swinging hook pulls away, back to the ship. That's one danger out of the way.

"CAST OFF AFT STEADYING LINE." Orders Smith.

"CAST OFF AFT STEADYING LINE AYE." Sanchez, the engineer sitting at the rear of the small boat, unties the line next to him. Skolnick, at his station at the front of the RIB, takes a wave to the face.

"CAST OFF FORWARD" Smith shouts.

Skolnick wipes the brine from his eyes as he repeats back the order. "CAST OFF FORWARD STEADYING LINE AYE." He has no problem, holding the line up to show he's done it before he tosses it away from the RIB.

One line remains: the sea painter. It's the most important line, designed to tow the small boat alongside the ship in perfect position. It's the rescue swimmer's job to untie it when ordered, and when recovering the RIB, re-tie it in a specific way so that it can be quick released if needed to get the RIB out of danger with little delay.

"CAST OFF SEA PAINTER." Calls out Smith.

"CAST OFF SEA PAINTER AYE." Skolnick leans over the front of the RIB to release the line and takes another wave to the face. As he throws the line loose into the sea, Rogers slightly cheats the RIB's bow away from the ship.

One final directive from Smith: "COXSWAIN, CARRY OUT YOUR ORDERS." And the RIB pulls away. Over my handheld VHF radio, I eavesdrop as Jack calls up to the bridge. "RIB is away, four souls onboard. Ops normal." I take a deep breath. The RIB bounds out over the waves, slowing, then speeding up again to ride the chop. Distance increases until I can only see its white sternlight bobbing by the smoke float, still flickering in the dark. This is the safe part.

After a few minutes, Jack comes back over the radio. "Evolution complete, beginning our return." The RIB's green starboard light replaces the stern light, then the combined red and green lantern indicates its approach. It takes a position about 500 yards astern of us on our starboard side.

My radio pipes up. It's Jack again. "Requesting permission to come alongside."

The bridge responds "Come alongside." Smith waves his hard hat, calling them in. My brows furrow. If there's a most dangerous part of the evolution. This is it. I'm most concerned with the sea painter. Anyone can unite one, but to tie it back up correctly is a different story, and I'm not positive that Skolnick knows how to do it.

I lean over the deck edge again to watch the RIB approach. The wind whips past my exposed face as sea foam leaps up thirty feet to fill my nose. The modulating growl of the RIB's diesel engine grows louder. All of a sudden, the boat is below us, tossed up and down by the roiling darknesss. I mark the time. Come on boys, let's keep it below 30 seconds. I think to myself.

When recovering a RIB, the order of lines is reversed. The sea painter ties first. I know that Skolnick at least knows this, and he stands ready in the bow of the RIB. His legs are slightly bent, acting as shock absorbers in the bounce of the waves.

Smith takes control again "MAKE UP SEA PAINTER."

"MAKE UP SEA PAINTER AYE." Skolnick shouts back. This is it. My eyes lock onto Skolnick's hands. He takes hold of the sea painter dangling in front of him and hesitates. Immediately I can tell he doesn't know how to do it. He thinks for far too long, then just wraps it clumsily around the forward post of the RIB. Not even close. The ocean continues to toss the small boat back and forth.

Smith doesn't notice the mistake. "MAKE UP FORWARD STEADYING LINE."

I'm about to speak up when one of my more senior petty officers up on the Ship's deck does. "AVAST." He shouts to Smith, then turning to Skolnick, yells "THAT SEA PANTER IS WRONG. YOU NEED TO REDO IT."

Skolnick looks up at him. Confused, he can't make out the sentence. The petty officer repeats himself, but it doesn't help. Skolnick has no idea what to do. They go back and forth trying to hear each other as I check the time: 45 seconds. A wave slaps the bow of the RIB. It rolls hard to the right, away from the ship. Rogers turns the wheel to correct course.

This is taking too long. I pull a flashlight from my pocket and click it on. Reaching over, I aim it at the sea painter and draw circles with the beam. Given the background noise, the only way to communicate verbally is by one or two word phrases.

"SKOLNICK." I shout. "SEA PAINTER." He understands and removes the wrap. I check the time. A minute and a half has passed. Everyone knows something's wrong now. I look up to see silhouettes on the bridge, staring down and wondering what is going on.

Skolnick tries a second time. He simply passes the end loop of the sea painter over the RIB's forward post. Wrong again. He looks up at me for approval. I wave my flashlight beam back and forth. "NO." I shout down. Skolnick looks up, confused, anxious, and a little scared. This is dangerous. I try my best to act out the correct attachment of the line, but it's too complicated to pantomime.

Skolnick tries twice more. At this point, four minutes have passed. No number of attempts will help. I look down at the RIB to see Jack staring confused at Skolnick, unable to make out what's happening in the chaos. He has been both trying to keep things in order in the back of the RIB and communicate with the deck above. Next to me, a few senior sailors are shouting directions. What I can hear of their voices is unclear and overlapping. The danger increases as control of the evolution slips away from Smith and begins to fall apart.

Suddenly, a nasty wave crest slams into the starboard side of the small boat and soaks everyone onboard. The RIB pitches up and rolls left, towards the steel hull of the destroyer towering above it. Jack stumbles forward as the RIB rolls back the other way. Skolnick lowers his center of gravity and the fiberglass hull slams down into the following trough. The engineer at the stern rocks back towards the engine, then rights himself with a lurching grab at a handle bolted into the RIB. Contact with the ship's hull momentarily pulls the back left corner of the RIB down, then releases it. It shoots back up, shaking the crew again. The RIB swerves to the right, 45 degrees off the ship's course, as Rogers turns the small boat to the safer seaward side. His knuckles turn white on the wheel as he corrects back left and takes position again. That could have been very bad.

Only one thing is going to move this forward and get the crew out of trouble: the correct attachment of the sea painter. I shine my flashlight beam at Jack's face to get his attention. He looks up.

"YOU NEED TO DO IT." I yell. His face shows that he has not understood. I turn to the petty officer yelling next to me. "SHUT UP, DUDE." No time to be polite. I circle my beam at Jack, then the sea painter. "YOU NEED TO TIE UP THE SEA PAINTER." He still hasn't heard me over the surrounding roar, but understands. Realizing what's been going on the whole time, he nods and makes his way to the bow of RIB. As he moves forward, he dodges the swinging heavy end of the steel crane cable. With firm control, he moves Skolnick out of the way and within seconds correctly makes up the sea painter. He looks up to Smith on the deck. "SEA PAINTER MADE UP."

I check the time: six minutes. Smith gives the rest of the orders. The crew makes up all lines and the cable lifts the RIB out of the water. As it rises, one last wave crest slaps the bottom of the fiberglass hull. The davit raises the RIB to the deck edge, and the crew disembarks. I take another deep breath and check the time again: seven minutes. Skolnick walks directly to me as the deck crew secures the RIB for sea. We're face to face but he doesn't say a word. He's visibly shaken.

"That wasn't your fault." I say. "Go get changed." As he closes the locker door, all I can think is that it wasn't his fault, it was mine.

Now we have to debrief on the bridge. I know that there will be one major question: why was the RIB alongside for so long? I think about what I'm going to say as I climb the stairs leading to the pilot house and the weight of my mistake hits me. I'm the last one up there. The captain is silhouetted against the bridge windows in his elevated chair. The relevant crew members are gathered in a circle around him.

The debrief begins. I can barely listen to what is being said, but people keep mentioning the alongside time. Seven minutes, I think to myself. Those guys could have died out there.

"First, you got anything?" Someone says to me. It's my turn. I zone back in. What can I even say?

"Ummm, yeah. The crew performed well, but we were alongside for seven minutes. That was bad. That's my fault. We know how to fix it." I look to the captain. "Sir, can I talk to you after the debrief?"

"Yeah, you probably should." He replies. That wasn't a suggestion. We finish the meeting and everyone leaves but Ops, BMC, the captain and I.

It was quiet for a moment. I watch the captain's black outline until finally he speaks. "So what happened?"

I answer. "Sir, Skolnick didn't know how to make up the sea painter."

"Why not?"

"Well, I didn't train him well enough. We tried to practice out of the water, but there's no substitute for the real thing." I pause, then try to take it one step further. "Not sure if you remember sir, but captain Boza kept shutting me down." Maybe it was childish not to just take the reputation hit, but I wanted him to know that I at least tried.

Luckily, he remembered his predecessor well. "That's right." He says. "Well I need you to make sure everyone gets trained. This can't happen again"

Ops parrots the captain. "Yeah, First, we can't let this happen."

For the first time that day, I get angry. Well Ops, maybe if you gave half a shit and backed me up when I said we needed more training, we wouldn't have just almost lost a boat crew. I think, but I keep it inside. I look at the captain.

"I understand, sir. Honestly, Skolnick wasn't ready, and I shouldn't have kept that to myself. Tomorrow, I'm going to walk it through with all of them."

The captain pauses for a moment. Then speaks again. "Ok. Do it. Now go to your rack and get some sleep, First."

"Thank you sir." I reply, and turn to leave.

BMC joins me inside the airlock before descending to the lower decks. "Thanks for covering for me." What the hell is he talking about? I think. This was my fault. There was nothing to cover.

All I say is "No worries, chief."

As I walk down to my rack, it feels wrong. How did I get off so easily? The captain should have at least yelled at me. Someone could have easily died. That's a fact. It's my responsibility to keep boat operations safe. That's also a fact. I didn't do that today. From a selfish standpoint, that fact may be the worst one. In a practical sense, everything ended up fine, and that's great, but as I get ready for bed, I think about how this reflects on me.

What should I have done? Fought BMC and insisted on going down with the RIB? Fought the old captain months before and insisted on getting training time for the locker? Yes to both, but I didn't.

Does the fact that we got lucky and no one happened to die when they could have make me a better person than I would have been if someone had died? I don't think so. I did all of the things that I would have needed to do to lead to the death of a sailor. The fact that nothing bad happened as a result of my reckless actions does not rectify them, and completing that evolution with no injuries was nothing more than a coincidence. On top of that, I'm an officer and am responsible for the lives of my sailors. That makes it all even worse.

There's nothing I can do to change what happened, so then what do I do now? I ask myself as I brush my teeth. Don't do it again? Make sure everyone is trained? While of course that's the logical thing, and that's what I will do, those answers feel incomplete. Continuing to beat myself up won't help, so again: What do I do?

As the ship rocks me to sleep in my coffin sized rack that night, I don't have an answer. I don't even know if I've come to an answer today, but I do know that the answer isn't to stop operating. Someone has to do it, and it's probably best if those who have made mistakes use them to get better.