Jet noise is as much a state of mind as a state of the ears

Is there anything more relaxing than sharing a pitcher of margaritas with old friends on a screened-in porch near the beach?

That's what I was doing a couple of months ago when a woman from out of town literally jumped out of her chair.

"Oh, my God!" she said, "What is that?"

"What's what?" I asked.

"That noise," she said.

It took a moment to realize what she was talking about. Jets, of course. They were screaming above us.

"Oh, that," I said, offering my pat explanation. "That's the sound of freedom. F/A-18 Hornets, courtesy of the U.S. Navy."

"It's terrible," she gasped. "How often do they fly right overhead like this?"

I was stumped.

I have absolutely no idea how often they buzz my house. I live in an area saturated with jet noise, but I stopped hearing it years ago. I can sleep soundly through the racket. So can my family.

Even my jittery dogs, who are terrified of mustaches and tall people, are oblivious.

Like many who have settled here, jet noise has been the soundtrack to my life. In the late '80s and early '90s, I lived in Shadowlawn, where F-14s rattled the windows, especially during Desert Storm. After I moved a few dozen streets north, the Navy switched to the shrieking F/A-18s. Today's Hornets make the old Tomcats sound like mewling kittens.

For years, I found the cacophony maddening. I learned to lip read. I complained. A lot.

But after Sept. 11, 2001, I decided the jets sounded comforting and swore I'd stop griping about them.

Gradually, over the past decade, the noise went away, even though the aircraft didn't.

I've either adapted or gone deaf, I guess. So have many of my neighbors. When we're outside, we alternate between talking and shouting to each other, without being conscious of the jet roar.

Others haven't adjusted. The master jet base gets between 400 and 500 noise complaints a year. That number will spike soon because the Fentress practice field in Chesapeake is closed for repairs and the traffic has been moved to the Beach.

The noisiest exercises are the "field carrier landing practices," essentially an aerial ballet involving five jets that take turns touching down and immediately taking off again.

That's right. Up to 40 touch-and-goes in an hour.

Kelley Stirling, Oceana's public affairs officer, says initially these blaring exercises - they require darkness to simulate a carrier at sea - can be conducted early in the evening. Come summertime, those whose hearing is still intact will want to crank up the air conditioning late at night and stay inside with the windows closed. Or leave town.

I asked Stirling if she'd heard of people who are immune to the babel.

Yep. In fact, she's one of them. Stirling recently moved to a noisy part of the Beach from Norfolk.

"I find it kind of soothing to listen to the jets when I'm in bed," she confessed.

Well, I wouldn't go that far. And let's face it, there are studies that show some people are stressed by noise.

But to some of us, not only do the jets sound like freedom, they also sound like loot.

Oceana employs more than 10,000 people. If the jets ever leave, so do most of those jobs. That would be catastrophic, no matter what some short-sighted people wearing earmuffs would say.

You know, some of the people around Franklin used to gripe about the stench from the International Paper mill.

Bet they miss that lovely aroma now.

Kerry Dougherty, (757) 446-2306, kerry.dougherty@cox.netPilotOnline.com/dougherty