E-Mail Capability Changes Lives of Sailors Far Away

ABOARD THE USS CARL VINSON IN THE NORTHERN ARABIAN SEA--In smeared khakis and scuffed boots, they click away. With grease under their fingernails, goggles shoved high on their foreheads, helmets dropped at their feet, the sailors are studies in silent concentration.

They sign up a day in advance to spend half an hour at a computer in the ship’s sweltering library. In spite of war, hunger and sleeplessness--or perhaps because of them--they steal this electronic pause beneath the eaves of the flight deck.

The Internet’s power to revamp the landscape is obvious here aboard the aircraft carrier Carl Vinson, where more than 5,000 men and women are literally and figuratively at sea. In the tight rooms of this labyrinthine ship, men and women face bleak conditions: the innate loneliness and claustrophobia of a sailor’s life; sinister tales of hijackings and anthrax back home; the roar of warplanes heading off across the Arabian Sea to bomb Afghanistan.

If the Internet holds a promise for the crew, it’s this: Even on the edge of war, life goes on. A father and son swap Navy tales in a macho match of one-upmanship. With Halloween on the way, sailors order candy corn and a copy of Henry James’ “The Turn of the Screw.” A young man downloads applications to Yale Law School.

“This is the first Internet war,” said Barry, a 25-year-old lieutenant from Tryon, N.C. “This is the first time the sailors are logging on from the ship to get news from home. It’s made it a lot more bearable.” Working under wartime conditions, the sailors aboard gave only their first names or nicknames.

The military provided more limited access to the Internet during the 1999 Kosovo conflict.

Just a few years back, the sailors jostled to glimpse a summary of current events tacked to a bulletin board. They still have fresh memories of waiting as long as a month for a paper letter to arrive from home.

Not so now: These sailors watched the World Trade Center towers collapse on satellite television, read newspaper accounts on the Internet and exchanged instant letters with worried family members.

“Without e-mail,” said a 20-year-old sailor named Malcolm, “I’d be going even crazier than I already am.”

The native of Page, Ariz., slipped into the library last week, logged on and pored over his mother’s electronic account of an aunt’s birthday party. He read intently, then smiled a little. “A lot of times I feel like I’m just typing to nobody,” he said, studying the initials tattooed on his forearm. “It helps to get something back.”

Beloved privilege it may be, but Internet access is also a tenuously held pleasure. The computers are off limits for days at a time to stamp out viruses and prevent leaks of strategic information. Earlier this month, when the Vinson’s pilots were about to begin bombing raids against Afghanistan, the sailors were stripped of e-mail for six days. Inevitably, that well-worn phrase was tossed about: “Loose lips sink ships.”

When the digital plug is pulled, there is plenty of grumbling. Crew members write and read a total of about 60,000 e-mails a day. When the Internet is shut down, sailors say, morale dips palpably.

“It makes my days go downhill,” said Angel, a 19-year-old laundry worker. The North Carolina native uses e-mail to keep an electronic eye on her younger sisters. When they need school supplies, she sends money.

“You get really upset when you get cut off out here,” Angel said. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

Sailors can also lose their e-mail privileges for breaking security rules. This month, a sailor lost his account for describing the ship’s location. Before e-mail leaves the ship, computerized scanners look for geographical and political terms. If a word or phrase triggers the scanners, the e-mail is passed to security workers. Commanders are unapologetic for the rigorous censorship.

“This is a government-owned ship,” said Deb, who oversees Internet access on board. “We can monitor it, and we do monitor it.”

Nobody takes the threat of e-mail exile lightly. These sailors put to sea from Bremerton, Wash., nearly two months ago and have few opportunities for escapism. They are not allowed to drink beer. They have signed a contract promising, among other things, not to engage in sexual activity. The sailors rarely see the sea unless they’re sweltering on the flight deck, scurrying past the hangar door or taking a smoke break. Some go as long as a week without a glimpse of daylight or a whiff of fresh air.

“E-mail has made the biggest difference in the world,” said a 29-year-old pilot who calls himself Skeletor. “It’s night and day. We’re out here getting e-mail from people from home, people we haven’t heard from in years.”

Back in the library, where a lone electric fan did growling battle against the midday heat, John Paul slid before a computer. His earplugs were poked behind his ears like cigarette butts--he had only a few minutes before he was due back on the flight deck.

He opened a message from his father, a retired sailor in Bremerton. The two have taken to trading tales about misadventures in port. “We’ve actually gotten closer through e-mail than we were at home,” John Paul said. “We’re able to swap stories about things we’ve both been through. We kind of laugh.”

Meanwhile, Barry was perusing law school Web sites, musing over Duke and Harvard as alternatives as the roar of jets rattled the ship’s walls.

“Look, I’m applying to law school from the middle of the Arabian Sea, in the middle of a war,” he said, chuckling. “A deployment is no longer a gap. You can get on with your life.”