A Perfect Day for the George H.W. Bush

Saturday, Jan. 10, 2009, was one of those days I felt lucky to be alive. It certainly was a day I won't soon forget.

Clear blue skies, cold breeze coming across the waters of the Chesapeake Bay to the world's largest naval base, in Norfolk. As we walked down the giant Pier 14 -- there can't be too many docks like it that can hold 20,000 people -- we gaped at the sheer size of the U.S.S. George H.W. Bush. It's roughly equal to the Empire State Building laid on its side, with a flight deck on top that takes up four and a half acres.

By luck, we got seats in the front row, and happened to sit between the former chief steward of Air Force One and a builder of the memorial to soldiers and sailors killed in Special Operations. We all told stories and took pictures of each other, figured out friends we had in common, people-watched, and smiled and took it all in.

Soon enough, the choppers carrying President George W. Bush and the first lady and former President and Mrs. Bush landed on the aircraft carrier's flight deck, and the commissioning ceremony began.

After "Hail to the Chief" was played by the Navy band, we all stood for a 21-gun salute in honor of the president. The only other times I'd been present for a 21-gun salute were at military funerals at Arlington National Cemetery. Instead of rifles, though, this time they used anti-aircraft guns aboard the ship.

The sound was so loud it made your heart skip. The boom and crackle bounced through the canyons of battleships and destroyers lined up and down the pier. But the effect was the same as when I'd heard it graveside . . . a piercing sense of your own mortality, of the passing of life, of being a part of something far bigger than yourself. The white smoke from the guns puffed away in the breeze as the crowd watched in silence.

Sailors from the ship comprised a small amateur choir that sang the National Anthem, and the colors were presented. The governor of Virginia spoke briefly, and then Defense Secretary Robert Gates introduced President Bush No. 43. They both gave great speeches, but the president's was especially good.

He talked about his parents' great 64-year love affair, and his feeling that his dad was the best father anyone could ever ask for. "For as long as we live, we will carry with us Dad's other lessons: that integrity and honor are worth more than title or treasure, and that the truest strength can come from the gentlest soul." That pretty much sums up why every one of those 20,000 people were there, because that is what we all love best about George Bush.

Then former President Bush got up to speak. Betting was heavy among friends that he wouldn't make it through his remarks without choking up, but he did beautifully. No one could have written for him what he said; he's been waiting so long for this day that there was no doubt he penned his own remarks, maybe even years ago.

He reminisced about another commissioning ceremony, 65 years earlier, for the U.S.S. San Jacinto. That was the ship he was sent to World War II on, and that commissioning day was so momentous that he proposed to his fiancée, Barbara, on the spot.

And to those sailors standing where he did 65 years ago, he turned and said, "I wish I was sitting right out there with you," his voice cracking at the memory of being a 19-year-old again, starting a life of adventure that ended up with him in the center of just about every major event of the late 20th century.

He talked about standing night watch on deck, in quiet solitude, and how he found comfort and inspiration in the starry midnight sky . . . "for it is in basking in the splendor of the stars that you will truly understand the majesty of creation and bear witness to the certain hand of God." He ended not by thanking the sponsors, or the shipbuilders, or even his family seated all around him on the deck. He ended by asking God in the heavens to keep each and every young sailor safe.

There were many Navy traditions: The captain talked about each sailor on the maiden voyage of a new ship as a "plankowner," a reference to the days when sailors slept on deck, and each got to claim a certain plank as a bed. When ships were retired, many sailors took their plank home with them. And so when Doro Bush Koch issued the traditional command to these plankowners to "bring this ship to life," the thousand or so of them all ran up the four gangplanks, circled the decks, and then scrambled into place to stand at attention facing the crowds. The band played "Anchors Aweigh" over and over and folks clapped to the beat.

I noticed that the higher they climbed up the levels of the ship -- 10 stories high, some of them -- the windier it got. And the harder it blew, the tighter they held their white sailor caps with one hand, and secured their medals to their chests with the other. Every one of them seemed to have as many medals and ribbons as the Joint Chiefs down on the dias. The captain later explained they all were from the top of their classes, because competition was tough to get assigned to the George H.W. Bush.

Once they were in place, everything was turned on -- fog horns, whistles, bells, that alarm that sounds like "ah-hoooo-gah." You name it, they turned it on. Huge radar transmitters started spinning high above the bridge, and a jet fighter with engines running moved into place on the edge of the flight deck above the president's head. The anti-aircraft guns started up again. It was spectacular.

Then came the part we all expected . . . four F-18s buzzed the crowd, low and loud. But wait, there's one more coming! We all squinted into the sun as a lone plane followed. It was a WW II Avenger, the kind President Bush flew off the "San Jac," as he calls it. Every head turned from the torpedo bomber to 41 at the podium. He threw his arms up in the air in surprise and delight, a human exclamation point. The Avenger headed toward the horizon to great cheers.

Former President Bush handed a beautiful spyglass to the captain, signifying the start of the first watch -- which, once started, will never cease until the ship is retired decades from now. The captain in turn handed the spyglass to the first-, second-, and third-place winners of the Sailor of the Year contest, who went to go man the bridge for the first time ever.

One was an immigrant from India. Another was a shipbuilder who had been in the Navy Reserves, but who asked to be assigned to the ship on active duty in order to stay with the carrier he had helped build. The three of them seemed to personify Duty, Honor, and Country standing right in front of us.

There was a real sense of time starting here and now, going forward from this place . . . to the eternal and infinite. You couldn't help but feel insignificant, one small person looking up to the skies and out to the wide horizon. It wasn't just because we were all looking up at the biggest ship we'd ever seen. Or because we were thinking about all the distant oceans it would sail and ports it would navigate.

We felt this way because we were all participating in a tradition dating back to when man first ventured out to sea. We heard men speak of journeys filled with danger and excitement, but also with duty and routine. We saw young people with ideals worth dying for, like freedom and peace and honor. It made you want to do great things with whatever time you have left. It made you want to live a life of meaning and adventure, like George H.W. Bush has.

One closing prayer from the chaplain, one final playing of the Navy Hymn, and suddenly it was all over. The last of the Nimitz-class carriers had been built, the last of the World War II presidents had been honored, and the last hurrah floated toward the skies. The crowd filed out slowly, not wanting to leave. It was the end of an era, not only for George Bush, but for all of us.

I don't think any of us will ever forget it.

Mary Kate Cary is a former White House speechwriter for President George H.W. Bush. She currently writes speeches for political and business leaders.