Evening is coming to the ship. Things grow quiet. We slow down to about ten knots. The sun touches the water in the western ocean, fighting until the last possible instant to stay in the sky, as if regretting the upcoming rest of 12 hours. The sky darkens and even the ship seems to become a quieter place, as if it too needs to rest.
Few people are moving around on the flight deck; the planes are securely tied down with chains to keep them from rolling around on the deck with the pitch and roll of the ship. In the east the first stars can be seen. The flight deck outlines become indistinct as the sun vanishes beneath the sea. It is quiet; the only sound is the breeze across the flight deck and the hum, felt more than heard, of the ship’s machinery. All that can be seen are the stars, the black surface of the ocean, and indistinct shapes on the flight deck. The metamorphosis is complete. It is night on the Kitty Hawk (CV-63).
Suddenly, the peace and quiet are shattered by a bellow from the flight deck speakers: “The aircrew are manning their trusty steeds for the next event. . . .”