And Then There Were Bears

I roll out of my bed a full hour-and-a-half before my usual, lazy time. My muscles don’t ache anymore. It’s been too long since my last workout. I wheeze as I clamber down the coffin racks. The Undes girl who sleeps below me is already gone for the day – thank the gods.

I hack up a lung before I get the chance to brush my teeth. I push my face into my towel, hoping to both muffle the sound and prevent the spread of this terrible plague. The girl who sleeps across from me whines in her sleep.

I arrive on the mess decks and grab a bowl of cereal. I need at least some form a brain food. All the other third-classes are already there; plates of eggs and pancakes already devoured. I settle across from my division mates at the combat-systems table. They glance up at me with bleary, sleepy eyes.

“You nervous?” FC Chief asks, slapping a hand on IC3 Childstasche’s shoulder. He looks at the group of us. Beaver sips her coffee, grimaces, but refuses to respond. IC3 plasters one of his usual I-give-no-fucks smiles on his face.

“What’s there to be nervous about?” he asks. A too-giddy laugh escapes him, revealing the truth.

FC Chief looks at me, questioning me. I cough into my already snot-covered coveralls. His nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Well, good luck, you guys,” he says, shaking everyone’s hand but mine. I don’t take offense – I wouldn’t shake it either.

The mess deck slowly fills. As the first classes and chiefs separate divisions and friends so they won’t cheat, nervous eyes begin to dart around the room. The guy who took Beaver’s seat’s leg bounces as he watches the minutes tick by. IC3 lets out another nervous laugh and his head twitches to the side.

I feel nothing.

I feel nothing other than the annoyance of my persistent cough. My napkin is practically shredded from use by the time they start reading out the instructions. I’ll need someone to get me more. More annoyance. Nerves? Nothing. I have total apathy for the advancement exam.

I have no intention of passing.

It’s a hard concept to explain to people. My scattered, foggy brain keeps thinking about bears in the Russian launching tubes. Not that there really is any (so they want us to think), but it would be an interesting concept. How terrifying would it be to have an enemy cannon shoot a bear onto the flight deck? So, with these thoughts coursing through my head, explaining that as a new arrival to the fleet, I shouldn’t be making rank, well, that’d be nearly impossible.

The argument of, “Don’t you want more money?” keeps cropping up. Of course I do! Do I think we have ranks for a reason? Yes. As a brand new, fresh-out-of-the-box ET, being a second class would completely undermine the system. As a second class you have a little bit of power. You are no longer bottom of the food chain. You are expected to be a leader. I barely know my own gear at this point, let alone everything I need to know to be a supervisor.

As a second class, you have E1-E4s looking up to you. They see your crows and expect you to know a thing or two. If you are a second class and you know nothing, all respect for you is gone (trust me, there are a few of those here already). I would rather be a third class for a little longer and earn my way up, than be one of those good test takers who make it on their first go.

As I am still sick, this may still only make sense to me.

After the test, after comparing notes and trying to figure out just how many we all got wrong, we throw our legs up and relax. We chit-chat about whatever when the subject of the Russians comes up. Or possibly, it only comes up in my head.

“You know, they still use typewriters on the Russian ships,” I say, my words slurring. “And they don’t have email, they have carrier pigeon. And instead of tomahawks they have bears in their VMS…VLS….tubes…”

“What?” Beaver asks.

“You realize most of what you said makes no sense, right?” ET3 Bodybuilder says (he was busted down).

“Why would they have bears?” Someone else asks.

“Think about it,” I grumble.

I trail off, no further explanation given. Although, in my mind, no further explanation should be necessary. Why wouldn’t the Russians have bear missiles?

“She’s dying,” ET2 says, waving off the others. “Let her be.”

And with that I coughed and have no idea what happened from there. Probably more coughing. At some point I went to medical.

It turned out that the last ship that went to the Ukraine got super sick too.

Windy as Balls

Some familiar sound stirred me from my slumber. I had been sleeping so well. 4 hours of beautiful, deep sleep. My hand lazily searched under my pillow for my phone. The bright, happy colors of the alarm screen blurred in and out as I blinked sleep from my eyes.

1245.

I had the Rev. Midnight (or as we so lovingly called it, “balls”) to 08. Plus quarters where Chief would talk about the plan of the day, DivO would repeat everything chief just said, only in a softer, more nervous voice, and then EMO would talk about upcoming port visits and the alcohol that you could get there for cheap – plus how far the red light district was and if it was off limits.

I swiped the alarm off.

1246.

Why? Why was I awake?

Underway replenishment (UnRep).

We were to be re-fueled by a Spanish supply ship in the middle of the ocean. I had never seen one before, but I was on the watchbill to help. If what I was told was right, it would only be an hour or two process then I could go back to bed.

I curled to the foot of my bed, unable to sit up fully without hitting my head on the overhead piping or my light. I grabbed my flip-flops and attempted to put them on. The right one slipped from my fingers and fell to the ground with a slap. I let out a sleepy whine.

Was I really necessary for this? I wasn’t even line-handler qualified. Maybe they would cancel it. Did we really need fuel, anyway?

My foot searched for the little foot-rung below. I twisted my body down, clinging to the metal frame so I wouldn’t plummet to my death. My bare feet hit the floor. I shuddered and quickly slipped my flip-flops on. Did the five-second rule apply to athletes’ foot? Or leprosy?

After a quick morning routine I trudged aft to our shop. I sank into one of the broken chairs and stared at the Keurig longingly. But, I knew better. Only an hour or two and I’d be asleep. I just clung to that hope.

A whistle blew over the 1MC (intercom system of sorts). “Good afternoon. This is your XO speaking. The Spanish ship we were supposed to get our unrep from is having a delay with another ship. We should be able to start in about an hour-and-a-half. Stand by. XO out.”

“Sweet,” I said. It was half a croaky groan and half true enthusiasm. “I’m going back to bed. Beaves, could you wake me up when it’s time? Just in case? Or just facebook message me. I should hear it.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she said.

I shuffled up two decks and forward, back to my berthing. As I peeled off my coveralls I realized something: my cell doesn’t have internet. I really hoped she’d realize that and not just try to message me. I shrugged it off and took another nap.

Exactly 90 minutes later Beaver was at my side. “It’s time.”

We made our way topside. The break was filled with people putting on blue and white construction helmets and bright orange life jackets. By the time we made it, however, there were no helmets left.

“You, without the helmets, you’ll be faking out the lines,” Boats 2 called to us. Beaver and I exchanged a look and shrugged. He rambled off a series of instructions and safety warnings so fast I couldn’t hear it.

Thanks for the tips.

The wind whipped about us as we stood on the bow of the ship. My curls were everywhere. They threatened to blow clear off my head. FC3 Q lost her cover. It blew straight off her long, straight black hair. It stuck to the safety lines, then somersaulted over the side. Now I wasn’t the only one.

It took us about 30 minutes before we caught sight of our replenishment ship. Another ship was still attached to it.

“So, turns out they’re having an issue with their probe,” BM Chief yelled out. His voice was surprisingly loud, even over the gales and waves. “It’ll be about another hour before they’ll be ready for us. So everyone just stand by.”

Beaver and I let out a mutual sigh and slid down the missile platform. Using our life jackets as pillows, we napped in the sun. The sun kept us warm while the wind kept us cool. Occasionally the sound of helicopter blades would cause my eyes to flutter open. They flew right off our bow, their door wide open. They were so close I could almost touch them, if I leaned over the side of the ship. My eyes shut again. The wind muted out all other noise.

“Alright! Man port!” BM1 called out, his voice not nearly as loud as BMC, despite the fact he was twice the size.

Everyone scrambled to port side. We lined up in a single file, hands clasped behind our backs. We pulled alongside the ship. It was long and grey, its middle stretched on and on like a limo; a limo with thick tentacles of fuel lines. On one of the higher levels, a man laid out in a blue lawn chair. Whether or not he wore pants, I couldn’t tell. His chest and legs were bare.

As soon as they determined we had rendered honors long enough they called for us to man the lines. Everyone scrambled to position. Me, Beaver, and a couple others without helmets took to the rear.

One long whistle. Then, a deeper, strange-sounding whistle replied three times. Pop! Pop! Ropes were sent flying across the sea to the other ship. The wind caught it; the line arced from the bow to the middle of the ship as they reeled it in.

We ran the line back and forth as it came. A dozen or so people pulled it, they heaved, leaning back into the weight of the rope. BMC screamed at the top of his lungs. “Two from the back!” “Hold!” “Heave in unison!” “BM1 what do you think you’re doing!? Don’t make me come up there myself!”

Then we stopped. We waited for the thick black tentacles to make their way from the Spanish ship to ours. We waited. And waited. Then…

“Goddamnit! Release the lines!” BMC screamed. “They gave us the broken probe!”

Everyone groaned as we eased the line back over and then took shelter as our ship pulled about. Another hour later, on the opposite side of the ship, we waited to re-man the lines.

“It’s windy as balls out here!” Beaver yelled to me. She thought about it a second, the wind blowing strands of hair out of her bun. “Because…you know, balls are super windy.”

My own hair was threatening to become something the 80’s would be envious of. It was being environmentally teased into a frizzy, white-girl afro. I cocked an eyebrow at her as I attempted, in vain, to push my hair out of my face.

“Could you even imagine?” I asked.

We exchanged a look. Then, simultaneously, thrust our hips out and made wind noises with out mouths.

“Give you a blow job,” she said, laughing. “Whoosh!”

“Whoooosh! Ha! Ha!” I added.

FC2 Q cast us a curious look. Just then BMC called us back to the lines. This time, we pulled everything over and attached the fuel probe to the side of the ship. It was 1900 before they released us to dinner. My stomach growled. A quick meal of mashed potatoes and chicken covered in sweet breading (I mean, seriously, who breads chicken with sugar?) and then I crawled back into my rack. A few more hours of sleep…that’s all I wanted. A few more hours of sleep.

I Never Want to do Colors Again

We were anchored just off the French coast. Our big, grey, floaty thing spun around leisurely off its forecastle. I stood there, on the very front of the ship. The water mirrored the setting sun. Purple faded into blue; orange splashed sherbet streaks across the waves.

A cool breeze blew my hair beneath my combination cover. I placed a wary hand on its brim to stave off the embarrassment of losing it to the Mediterranean, too.

Yachts the size of cruise liners speckled the bay around us. Their owners sat along the sides, their naked bodies freckled by the sun. They watch as our speakers blared, “first call. First call to colors.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes to go.

.

I craned back my head; the Jack fluttered red and white stripes in the wind. The snake across its front danced and writhed. It was almost time for bed, Jack.

A sound behind me caught my attention. I glanced back and found a small child running towards the enormous gun sitting dead center on our forecastle. Behind him came a group of people, most of which I didn’t recognize. The boatswain mates followed my gaze from their camping chairs next to the anchor. The Captain and Master Chief were amongst the group.

My heart froze.

This was my first time doing evening colors. I was alone on the bow of the ship. At least two people retired the Ensign, they had each other to rely on. I had no one. No senior shipmate to give me guidance.

“Pssst!”

Boats 2 looked at me in a panic. He motioned with his hands in a circling motion. His lips moved soundlessly at me.

“Untie. The. Rope.”

The large group of spectators were distracted by guns and the ocean. I quickly turned back to the Jack and undid the rope I had tied this morning. My hands trembled. I had no idea what I was doing. What if I screwed it up? The Captain would be furious with guests on board.

I glanced back at my watch. Still two minutes to go.

What if I wasn’t holding the ropes right? Was I supposed to be at attention? That sounded dangerous. With the wind, the rocking of the ship, and a giant hole right beneath my feet, that sounded like a bad idea. What was that hole for anyway? It was more than wide enough for me to slip through. I widened my stance a little further – just to be safe.

A whistle echoed through the air. I swiftly brought the Jack down, glad I pulled the rope the correct way. With still unsteady fingers I unlatched the flag from the tethers, careful not to let it touch the ground.

Once nestled into the crook of my arm, I attempted to get the rope back around its hook. It was too short. I tugged and pulled, attempting to stretch out the rope. The clasp wouldn’t reach the ring.

Three more whistles popped out in quick succession. Carry on.

I glanced over my shoulder. The Captain and his party were sure to turn around and see me struggling any moment. I caught Boats 2’s eye.

“Help!” I mouthed.

He looked at me funny, his head cocked to the side.

“Help. Me.” I mouthed again.

He heaved a heavy sigh. He made his away around the anchor chain. Why did it have to be so big? And then made his way towards me. I kept trying with the rope. I tried clipping it and then stretching it around the hook. I tried unclipping it and clipping it underneath. Nothing seemed to work.

“I can’t get the rope,” I said as he came up beside me.

“Hold the Jack and for the love of God don’t let it touch the ground,” he said, casting a wary look over his shoulder.

Despite being an inch or two shorter than I was, he managed to reach the hook over his head without issue. His tatt’d biceps bulged with effort as he stretched the rope with all his strength. The metal ends shook with effort. Then they latched. Barely.

“Want me to help you fold it?” he asked, nodding to the Jack.

I kept it close to my chest, like a baby bundle. I shook my head then glanced over at the Captain.

“I’ll do it at the quarterdeck,” I said.

He laughed.

As we walked back, me with my head as high as I could managed, I heard laughter to my right. Boats 1 guffawed at my expense.

“Poor little girl couldn’t manage a little rope?” He called out over the chain. His large belly rolled with every laugh. His dark eyes gleamed with mischief.

I harrumphed and made my way around the gun, so as not to run into the group touring the ship – and not to give the Captain a chance to yell at me for screwing up colors.

“Never do that to me again,” I said as I reached the quarterdeck. NC1, who was acting OOD, stared at me, his dark hand up to his ball cap in a salute.

“No?” he asked, keeping his salute.

I stared at him dumbly.

“Colors have been properly executed in accordance with the plan of the day, aye,” He said and dropped his salute. He grabbed one end of my bundle from my arms, in an attempt to fold it.

“It was terrible,” I said as I folded my two ends together. “The Captain was up there. Boats made fun of me. Boats 2 had to help me. My neckerchief is all screwed up…”

“Mmm.” He shook his head.

“Next time we should switch,” I continued. “You do colors, and I’ll be OOD.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “You aint even gun-qualled.”

“Not the point.”

He laughed and left me, the Jack now in his arms.

“Permission to lay below?” I called after him.

“Oh, you know that part,” he called back. “Permission granted.”

With that I hurried into the skin of the ship, eager to take off my Whites and hide my face. And to tell everyone I knew how terrible colors was before they found out about it from someone else.

Woah, I'm Bleedinng

"Today I am taking your aloft virginity," ET2 Bodybuilder said to me and the only other female in our division, ET3 Beaver.

I was excited. I had wanted to go up the mast since I decided to enlist. I had images of me climbing up a rope ladder, knife between my teeth, until I got to the top where I would have to inch along the yard arm to my radar antenna. I was so ready!

We donned our harnesses, got our hazmat, and began our treck to the mast. ET2 Bodybuilder, thankfully, took the aloft bucket full of hazmat. Carrying that thing from our aft shop to our forward shop was enough for me. Taking it all the way up the mast would have killed me.

Behind the pilot house were metal rungs built up the wall leading to what I would have considered the roof. Beaver went up first with me just behind her. As I went up, climbing at an awkward angle, I felt as if I should start rock climbing more. Perhaps it would make this easier. At the top were a couple antennas, neither of which we were concerned with. ET2 maneuvered around us, the bucket attached to a rope and looped across his chest.

He walked up to the base of the large metal mast. A few turns of some latches and a door swung forward. Beaver and I peered inside. A ladder was set against the aft wall of a dark tunnel leading upwards. Metal grates separated each level. ET2 went first, disappearing into the darkness above. Beaver went next and then I followed, leaving the door open for light.

I looked above me. There was a clunking noise, then a creek. A tiny sliver of light appeared above me. ET2 had opened a door to the next level up. But he kept climbing. We continued up, stopping at each level, the clunking of latches and squeaking of corroding hinges breaking up the consistant metal twangs of boots on steel. Each door let us see the tunnel we were climbing up -- not that there was much to see. Wires tracing up the length of the mast and dusty metal was all that there was to the belly of the mast.

We stopped again. ET2 braced his feet on the inches of metal grate that lined the sides of the mast. Metal scraped against metal, he grunted with effort as he lifted a narrow, circular scuttle door up. Rays of bright sun shone down and illuminated the entire tunnel within. He climbed out, disappearing to whatever lay above. Beaver went next.

My head popped through to the fresh air. A platform surrounded by steel railings and containing a few different antennas topped the mast. One looking like a long rollo topped with other rollos was to my right. A large, dull-grey dome stood behind me. I grasped at the air, looking for a way to pull myself up. I grabbed a hold of the antenna closest to me and heaved. Luckily it didn't give way.

Staying hunched over I clipped my safety harness to the railing and stood up, ready to take in the sights. A loud thud reverberated through my head as sharp pain erupted. I fell back to my knees and clutched at my head. A square plate attached to the antenna I had just been holding attacked me. It's corner now tinged red -- and it wasn't from rust.

"You okay?" Beaver asked me.

I hissed but nodded. "Yeah, yeah I'll be fine. Just a bump."

But my mind was swimming with the possibilities of concussions and internal brain hemmoraging. I slowly stood back up, making sure to stay away from anything that would hurt me. Standing up, I finally had the view I wanted. The pain dulled as I looked at Souda Bay below me. Olive trees scattered across the mountains on all sides of us. The tug boats looked tiny in the distance. It was beautiful, with a lovely gust of wind that blew the smoke stack's fumes right into our faces. If it wasn't for that, the moment would be perfect.

ET2 took a few moments to point out each antenna and tell us what they did. Then he broke out the rags, gloves, and HAZMAT and we began cleaning the dome and oiling its hinges.

Afterwards he lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing.

"When you get the chance to come up here, you can't just do your maintanence and leave," he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "You have to take a few minutes and soak it up. Ain't nothing like this."

Beaver and I leaned over the sides to watch the drills going on below. Someone had just been simulated as being shot, their body sprawled out across the quarterdeck. I couldn't tell who it was though, we were too high up. But it was fun to watch them train, anyway.

Standing at the top of the ship with a couple good friends is one way to just let the world go.

I ran my fingers through my hair, pain radiated through my head as I passed over one particular spot. I winced and pulled my fingers down. Blackened with whatever had latched onto the ladder wrungs, with grease and dust, and now tinged red with blood.

"Woah, I'm bleeding," I said as I stared at the blood.

"You really hit your head that hard?" ET2 asked as he leaned over to look. His blonde eyebrows knit over his eyes. He had a look of being half impressed and half annoyed.

"Apparently," I said.

"Just don't tell anyone you hit your head your first time up here," he said. "They'd never let you come up again."

I nodded, my head pounded with each movement. "Of course, I hit my head in berthing on my rack."

"Good girl," he agreed. He stomped out his cigarette and opened up the hatch. "Now let's see what's on the other levels."

Hunting

I stalked through the narrow and cluttered passageways of the ship. My eyes were peeled. I would find my prey. I would pounce.

Hull Technician Chief (HTC) had been avoiding me for days. I had finally gotten my claws on his henchman, HT2 Ginger, but Chief had been elusive. I needed to sick my teeth into him. I needed him or else I would continue to be useless to my department. My entire existence on the ship depended on me hunting down this one man. I wouldn't fail. I refused.

My fingers clenched the dirt-filled rim of the scuttle just beneath HTC's office door. I rose up and peered inside. Empty. I climbed out and slid around the corners, heading for the galley. I figured he had probably taken to hiding in engine-spaces or some other hot, dirty place I had no interest in going. But that day, I would search every inch of the ship if I had to. I was ready for him.

I found a little DC3 talking to one of the cooks. Engineers are engineers are engineers. They stick together in a pack. DCs with HTs with GSEs with MMs. Maybe she knew where I could find HTC. If anyone did, one of the pack-members was my best bet.

"Hey, have you seen HTC around?" I asked her with a deceptively sweet smile.

She looked me over, obviously wondering what a topsider would want a HT Chief for. Not just an HT, of which there was one other, but a chief. Her eyes glanced down the hallway, along the mess line. I followed her gaze. There, in sagging coveralls, dingy and faded, was HTC. He towered over LtJg. DCA, a tiny black woman who was always smiling. Perfect.

I pivoted 90 degrees and stalked towards him. He sensed my presence. He turned towards me. His eyes widened, the fear showing for a brief moment. I grabbed DCA by the elbow and led her away from me. She followed him without question. Whatever warning he whispered into her ear, I didn't hear. All I heard was the thudding of war drums.

Adrenaline coursed through  my veins as I neared my target. My mouth salivated. I was ready to attack. I would complete the initiation into my division, my own little pack of hyenas.

He turned strait into a hatch. The door was closed due to the A/C being broken. He had initiated an all-doors-closed initiative. This was his own undoing.

He un-dogged the hatch as quickly as he could. He shoved DCA through. The door began swinging shut. I lashed out and grabbed the handle. Our eyes met through the tiny, round porthole. It was like the sight on a rifle. He knew he was done for.

"HTC," I cooed, a wicked smile plastered to my face. "I'm so glad I ran into you."

"I'm kind of in a hurry," he grumbled. His eyes whisked to DCA for help. She watched the scene, clueless.

"I'll only be a minute," I assured him. His death would be quick. "I was hoping to get my craftsman test from you."

His frown deepened.

"Didn't you promise her yesterday that you would give it to her today?" DCA said, giving him a knowing look.

He was mine.

"Fine, but lets get it over with," he growled.

I won. I got it. Hell, I even passed the damn test.

Next time someone wants to keep me from my quals, they should think twice.

ET3 out.

FNG

A line of sailors traveled up the brow, across the wind break, and down into the depths of the food store room. Boxes were tossed from the pallet and all the way up the chain. The wind kept me cool as I passed crates of energy drinks and cartons of cigarettes from FC2 to my left to ET2 on my right.

ET2's blouse had been tossed to the ground. His brow was beaded with sweat, his face was red from heat. FC2 kept rendering smart-ass remarks down the line at a few chiefs who happened to join us on the brow for the working party. He tossed the boxes as if they were feather light. I received them with a muffled "ooph."

First day actually on the ship. Despire the labor, I was filled with joy. I had survived the evils of Great Lakes, IL. I had survived terrible legal accusations. I had thrown it back into those bitches' faces when I got my orders to Rota, Spain. There was no reason not to be happy. I was wearing my command ball cap with pride.

I wore that ball cap for a total of 4 hours and 16 minutes.

A gust of wind blew inland. My curly hair blew back. My beautiful ball cap flew off. I followed it with my eyes, my neck craining to follow it. The case of Monster's in my arms was forgotten. It fluttered off the brow, along the side of the ship, and fell with an unceremonius splash into the water below.

"Noo!!!" I screamed as if I had just found out that Darth Vadar was my father.

ET2 grabbed the Monsters from my arms and tossed them to the next guy.

"Good job, FNG," he said.

FNG. F-ing, New, Guy Girl. That was me. Way to go, me.

"We have search and rescue swimmers don't we?" I pleaded as FC2 shoved another case into my hands.

"Search and rescue swimmers?" ET2 asked, his eyebrows raised. I passed him the case, looking over my shoulder as I did so. The ball cap was becoming ladened down with water. It would sink soon.

"To rescue my ball cap," I said.

"It's lost," FC2 said, "Forget about it and buy a new one"

My heart sank. That was my first ball cap. The one I would cherish forever and ever. I had stenciled my name into it in bold, silver letters. I glanced into the water again. It had disappeared beneath the murky water.

Hours later I found myself in the Aft Shop. I settled down next to ET3 Radar on the floor. The half dozen of mis-matched, broken chairs were already taken up by the senior members of the department: IC2 McMoney, IC3 Doesntshower, IC3 Kidstache, ET2 Bodybuilder (the one from stores onload), ET2 Kermit, and ET2 Seriousface. And that wasn't even everyone.

"Hey, you're not that new girl, are you?" ET3 Radar asked me.

I frowned at him. "What new girl?"

"The curly-haired one who lost her ball cap on the first day," he said.

The conversation stopped just for that second. Of course it did. All the guys turned and looked at me. ET2 Bodybuilder grinned mischeviously.

"Hell yeah she is," he said. "Right off the brow and into the water."

The room erupted in laughter. Laughter and teasing and pointing. The story of how I lost my ball cap travelled around the entire ship and back to the division within only a few hours. I hoped that wouldn't foreshadow my stay on the ship.  

Tour De Rota

It took me over a week to actually get off base. My excuse was that I was both sick and lethargic from jet lag. So I spent most of my time either in my room or at La Plaza with my sponsor (pool, pizza, and beer).

The first time I actually got to see the town it was on a mandatory cultural field trip. I had two buddies on the trip: one who flew into spain with me and one from my division who had never gone (he was just doing it to get his spanish license).

The town was beautiful. It was everything a European town should be. Filled with tight alleys, clothes hanging from lines outside third-story windows, and topless girls lounging on the beach.

We saw a 16th century cathedral. It was breathtaking.  I'm not religious at all, but I could spend hours in there. The smell was a mixture between old wood and books. It was reminiscent of an antique store, but not so musty. It's a hard smell to describe, but definitely my new favorite.

Inside it had different chambers which were each ornately decorated. The alter in the main area had a 16th century carving of a dozen or so saints or prophets, each with set glass eyes. The detail was amazing.

And, of course, it set on top of a crypt. One I wish we had had access too. unfortunately we didn't.

We also saw a castle that took several hundred years to finish. They had recently restored it and found that some of the pillars were made from solid marble, and that hand painted ceramic tiles had been covered with paint and plaster.

We ate at on the patio of a place decorated in bull-fighting memorabilia. Posters lined the outside rafters, forming a barrier from the sun. Against the main restaurant wall were mounted bull busts and racks of horns.

For 10€ each we had an assortment of tapas, chicken or fish, a dessert, and this mixture of wine and lemon soda I don't remember the name of.

Tapas are like appetizers. They can be a smaller version of almost anything. We had bread, spanish tortilla, fish sticks, and some kind of meat pie. And Spanish tortilla is not like the kind of tortilla we have in the states. It's more of a vegetable cake that anything. It's thick and filled with potatoes and bell peppers and onions. Very dense but very tasty.

And in Spain it is rude to eat with your fingers. It was a concept I had trouble remembering. When you see appetizers you automatically go to eat them with your hands. They're called finger foods for a reason.

But no, every thing is eaten with utensils. Including chicken on the bone.

Next time you have KFC, I challenge you to try it.

But the food was good even if a little bland. They don't do spicy in spain. At all. Even pepper is a little iffy for them.

But being so excited about my little adventure, the following day I went to town by myself. I work flip flops planning to put my feet in the water.

This was a bad decision.

Halfway through my tour my feet were destroyed. The toe divider on my flip flops have a little metal sea horse on them. They rubbed the skin clear off. It was so painful.

But i trudged on like the soldier I am (*cough*).

The cathedral was closed much to my disappointment. I had really hoped to take some photos with my good camera in there.

In fact, everything was closed. I couldn't find an open shop no matter where I walked. By 6 P.M. I was utterly lost, hungry, and in pain.

I stopped in to a McDonald's (the only one I've seen) and looked at the menu. Some of it I could figured out. Much of it was the same. "Big Mac" is hard to translate as anything else. But i couldn't find what I wanted.

Caramel iced coffee.

How did you say "iced" in spanish?

The lady looked at me. Waiting for me to order.

I laughed nervously.

"I just want an iced coffee," I half whined.

"Esto?" She asked pointing to a picture of a frappe. "Caramel? Mocha?"

Not exactly what I wanted but I said "Uno caramel, por favor. "

She happily made one up for me. I spent almost as much on that frappe as I did on my entire dinner later that night.

I walked around trying to find a spot to sit. There were only a couple tables taken, but I wanted to sit on my own, maybe examine the condition of my feet, and connect to wifi so I could find my way out of this mess.

"Hola! Here!" An old toothless man called to me and patted the chair next to him. He was with his wife and another couple. Perhaps his son.

He rattled on in quick spanish I couldn't understand. It was his grandsons birthday and he was running around outside with his face painted (I had seen him when I walked in).

After a strained almost conversation I felt really awkward sitting there eating the whipped cream off my frappe.

"Uhh...donde esta navy base?" I asked. If I could find my way back to base I could decide from there what I wanted to do.

I had walked through the ocean, which had felt amazing on my feet. The water was warm enough to swim in had I brought my suit. I people watched, seeing females of all ages topless. Men wearing speedos. And when I had decided "this looks right" and turned back into town, I found myself completely lost.

The old man only verified this as he gave me directions back to base in spanish. The point was "go waaaaaay that way."

I thanked them and excused myself from the party.

What is etiquette in Spain for that kind of situation?

I walked through the shadiest part of rota I had been in yet. I was surrounded by industrial shops and warehouses in narrow alley ways. A recent briefing on ORM popped into mind:

Operational Risk Management
1) what are the dangers?
       Well, I could either be raped or mugged. Or  both.

2) what could you do it this situation were to occur?
        I really need to get me some self defense classes...

3) who would you tell?
         Let's say I lived...I wonder if they would post-pone me from going underway? I really don't want to be tied up in all that shit before my first tour on the ship.

When I paid attention again I noticed I was coming up to a nicer part of town. I turned that way.

Iliza Shlesigner puts the way I navigate best: I feel like...it's this way...

I got lost again.

I gave in and decided to use what limited data I had. I pulled up Google maps and it was also confused.

Google: I think you're here, but you might also be here.

Thanks google.

Google: if you connect to wifi I would be more accurate.

e___e

(that's my unamused face)

Eventually I found the hands.

The hands are a teal statue of a pair of seemingly robotic hands that everyone in rota hates. Apparently they hired a discount artist to do it because they couldn't afford the good one. They immediately regretted their decision.

Then, as before, I decided "this way" felt right.

It wasn't.

You would think after the space between your toes has been shredded enough, you'd give in and call a cab. Not me. It was 7p.m. and I refused to give up.

I was starving though. Part of me wanted to go back to the beach to find a place that supposedly had 300 tapas. I had no idea where that was or how to look it up. Hell I had no idea how to ask.

So I gave in. There was a nice little bar with a sign that read: Tapas! Cervesas! 

Si. Si. Me gusta.

The bar didn't have air conditioning and most of the seating was outside. But I didn't know what was customary. Did I go in and order and then take it outside? Did I just sit somewhere and wait? so I sat at the warm, tiny bar inside. It had two seats. One for me and one for an old shirtless man who looked like a bag of bones. He had a newspaper and a glass of water.

The people there were very friendly. My waitress was cute, tatted,  and tried to talk to me. She knew about as much English as I did spanish. We cracked up over our difficulty in communicating a few times.

She helped me pick out a tapa. It was some sort of meat in gravy. It was very good and enough of a portion for my meal. She also chose a beer for me that was right up my alley.

I promised her I'd return.

La Terraza if ever you're in downtown rota.

I paid 5€ for my entire meal and gave her a 3€ tip.

Also, if you go to Spain, tipping is not mandatory. They get paid real money. Tips are just extra.

I texted my buddy from my division and he gave me the number for the taxi. That was a whole other confusing event. I don't know if I took the taxi I called or just a random one that showed up. Either way I got back to  base.

Everyone is great so far.

Oh, and my feet are royally not okay. I had to go to medical to get some ointment. I'm hoping that and some bandaids will fix them. It hurts to walk.

I Don't Think I Can Afford Your Services

I have already discussed my views on arizona. On how it's beautiful from a distance, viewed from TV or through pictures on tumblr; but up close it's lifeless death trap.

So, imagine my surprise when I walked off the plane in Spain and I felt like I was back in arizona (only with much cooler weather).

Palm trees and oleanders greeted me, landscaping the brown lawns of stucco buildings topped with pink tiled roofs.

But I assured myself that it was fiiine.  The cool breeze was indication enough of how much better than arizona it was.

Or so I thought.

I was walking the long road to my ship. The pier from my barracks has to be like 80 miles away (or so it felt). Sweat dripped down my back. My undershirt clung to my skin. I was so glad my sleeves were rolled.

The image of Will Farrel from anchor man popped into mind.

"N-Dubs were a bad choiiiiceee! "

But I tried to enjoy the walk anyway. The trees that lined the street were reminiscent of the kind I saw in northern arizona. Eventually the golf course I walked along did get greener.

I turned a bend and stopped. Across the street was a patch of what looked to  e prickly pear cactus.

Surely not.

I hurried across the street.

It was.

"What is this shit!?"

I sent some quick snaps to my friends back home.

I was on the other side of the world, trying to enjoy Europe, when I found cactus. It had followed me from america. It had spread itself out across the should be Mediterranean paradise of southern spain.

I hurried on towards my ship. Mesquite bushes with two inch long needles clawed at me from ditches. Potted cacti sat in windowsills. Barren dirt and rock lined the roadway.

I didn't know if I would make it.

I did. Sweaty and breathless I arrived at the pier.

"What the fuck are you doing back?" The guard yelled at me.

I supposed it was a fair question. It was stand down. No one was a board except my sponsor and her duty section. I was hoping to get a few things squared away but I didn't really have a purpose.

"Uhh," was all I could think of to say as I approached him.

"Oh shit! You're not at all who I thought you were!"

He looked genuinely shocked. I was also taken aback. Who did he think I was? Was there another girl on board unfortunate enough to have hair like mine?

"I am so so sorry!" He said.

I laughed it off and forgave him, secretly glad I hadn't replied. I would have looked like the fool. So the hunger and heat exhaustion had served a purpose.

When I left an hour or two later he made a point to apologize again. I told him it was no big deal but he was understandably embarassed.

I had made the decision to call a cab. Walking back was not an option. Not happening.

A cab pulled up outside the gate a few minutes later. The driver did not look like a taxi driver. He looked to be in his mid 20s,  light brown hair that fell in waves over his eyes, a light shadow over his defined jaw. Veins lined his muscled arms. He definitely worked out.

Oh Spanish people. Why do you have to be so beautiful?

"Taxi?" He asked.

I nodded dumbly, hovering outside of his passenger window. I was pretty sure he wasn't a taxi driver though. The number my sponsor gave me must have been for an escort to-go service.

"Uno momento, " he said. He talked quick Castillo Spanish into his radio. Must be letting the other escorts know he had found himself a customer.

"You sixty-four," he said.

I blinked at him. If this was an anime he'd have sparkles around him every time he spoke.

"You know, eehh,  six four?" He drew the numbers in the air.

"I think you're thinking of sixty-nine," I said. I shook my head. "I can't afford that. No afford your services."

He looked as confused as I felt. I needed to find a number for an actual taxi. Then another cab pulled up behind his. The number 64 written across its door.

"Taxi six four," he said.

"Ooh! " I exclaimed. He was radioing for someone to pick up the sweaty American girl. He had standards.

I thanked him and walked to the window of the new cab. This man was definitely a cab driver. He was older, heavy, and very friendly. He was more than happy to take me back to my barracks and leave me in the parking lot. No funny business.

Anyways,  that was my first cue that I needed to learn spanish. It'd make communicating with male prostitutes so much less embarassing.

Would you like a little rum with that Disney?

The morning chill was still in the air as I turned to my brother and asked him for the vitamin water. He looked at me, eyebrows knit, and asked, "already?"

Just as he asked that my mother squeezed the throttle of her rented electric scooter and nearly rammed into the poor man ahead of us in line. I reached out as if I could magically will the scooter to not kill my moms next hit-and-run victim. 

My teeth gritted, my eyes scanning for any way for me to remote control the death-mobile, I told him that, yes, I do in deed need the vitamin water.

He pulled it out and I took a long swig of it. 

If anyone was sherlocking the crowd, they might have noticed the slight lime color to the Orange-orange vitamin water bottle. They might have thought to themselves, "that orange-flavored beverage does not seem to be the right color. Maybe it has gone bad." If they were more astute (and a better alcoholic) they'd know it was rather margarita-ish colored. 

"Woah, you gonna save any for the rest of us?" He asked. 

I cast him a look as I passed it to my mom, then to my "person," Sarah, and then back to Matt. By the time we had reached the costumed ride attendant of the Matterhorn, we were all relaxed and out of warm margarita.

The bonus of my mother's calcified-ankle-tendon-whatever-her-injury-was, was that we got front-of-the-line privileges. We'd move along the short line or even get in through the back. It was like having two fast passes at once. 

That being said, Disney kept having little "mishaps" which would cause the very ride we wanted to get on to shut down just as we got into line.

One such incident was the "blow out" mishap that shut down Space Mountain (or as they called it, a "containment issue). We speculated that the kid waited too long in line, then when the ride took off all fast like it scared the shit out of him -- literally.

At one point, over an already tense lunch, my mom was sure that a lady had given birth on a ride. I assured her the baby was no way a new born. It was wearing pants! Babies hardly ever wear pants out of the womb. They're Rebels like that.

This then caused us to need more alcohol (which is not easy to come by in Disneyland. You have to leave the park or smuggle it in. Which is wrong.) so Matt broke out the water bottle that was filled with Malibu instead of water and poured it into our cokes (this was the least creative of all the flasks we had brought with us).

We stayed well hydrated all weekend. 

Which might explain my bathroom mishap at Tequila Joes. 

Tequila Joes was a fun experience all around. We stayed laughing and eating the entire time and had a fantastic waitress. But that's besides the point. 

The point is, alcohol and first-time-use of a menstral cup and a stall door that won't stay closed is not a good combination. Let's just say it was messy and awkward (not that the second removal wasn't any less messy or awkward. Just different circumstances in which I almost called Sarah in to help me retrieve it).

The weekend was eventful.

I cried in front of Winnie the Pooh. Almost got eaten alive by a swarm of people during the fireworks show. Made a comment about my boobs too loud in front of the waitress. Made up an interpretive dance for peeing. Nearly killed a child while driving my moms scooter (it's okay, they can always make more). And was determined I should Never have kids as I firmly believe they will choke on anything that is smaller than the size of their heads. 

It was emotional. It was fun. Can't wait to do it again next year. Maybe we should do Paris next? 

Leave Makes You Fat

16 days of leave.

16 days of pure, wholesome, fattening vacation.

These past five months have been a terrible time for me --> as far as weight is concerned.

I was doing so well. I was back to my post-boot camp weight. I was stronger and faster than I had been, meaning my weight was more muscle than fat. As far as health went, I felt great.

And then my legal issues (which gave me all the time I could ever want to work out) went away. My charges were dropped (because the Navy finally realized the accusations were made by a depressed, crazy girl looking for a way to get out of her own trouble) and I was back to living a normal life again. Which meant I had a lot of "normal living" to make up for after 6 months of near-prison-like conditions (re: thanks for making me fat, jury-of-my-peers).

Which meant I got myself a boyfriend, started drinking again, and ate out ALL THE TIME.

My new boyfriend demanded all of my free time. So, no gym time for me. Plus we ate out a lot (re: thanks for making me fat, tasteless-galley-food).

I gained 15 pounds.

After I left him, and Great Lakes, behind, I got back into a healthy-er-ish lifestyle. I started running again, and even went to command PT (twice). The pounds were finally beginning to shed. I was finally being able to see the less-chunky me again. I still hated my tummy-pooch and the way my arms scraped against my thighs when I walked, but I could feel the difference.

Smores dip. And wine.

Then I graduated C School and came home.

Well, there went all that hard work.

My mom is the kind of person who believes whole-heartedly in showing love through food. And no, not cooking the food, just feeding it. So, I found myself eating out every day again. And my mother is also the type of person who finds the main course to be a formality, rather than the meal. It's just the pathway that leads you from the appetizer to the dessert (with margaritas and moscato from beginning to end as well). Needless to say, those calories add up.

Exercising is also nearly impossible.

By 8 a.m. the desert heat has already been awake and had its coffee. It is energized and READY. TO. GO! It bounces off the asphalt and onto the windows and cheers for bad guy (I'm sure). So, when I walk outside, I am assaulted. It's like walking head-first into the oven after it has been preheating to 425 for the past hour, but you forgot about it, and then you're like, "Oh fuck! I have shit to bake!" so you open up the door and it just whooshes at you like it, too, thought it was too hot and is looking for a glass of water. That's Arizona for you (re: thanks for making me fat, run-on-sentences-that-don't-actually-burn-calories).

Even the dragons can't survive here (or whatever this is)

Then, of course, there were marathons of M.A.S.H. and several good books that demanded my time. Plus, my mother anticipated my arrival by buying me 2 cases of my favorite beer (that I can't get anywhere else) and I can't let them go to waste.

All that hard work gone. I can actually feel my fat multiply. Like rabbits. Only, I don't typically feel rabbits multiplying.

I tried making healthier choices on leave. I had 2 salads. Drank some water. Drank gallons of hot tea (Teavana is my new obsession. But I'll leave that for another post).  I did go running once (and then immediately regretted it as whatever devil food poisoning or flu I got decided to kick in 3/4 of a mile away from home [and it didn't even last long enough to be considered a colon cleanse]).

I think I've decided that I should never go on leave again. I lack the willpower. The military was supposed to ingrain willpower into me.

You failed me, Navy.

You.

Failed.

Me.

So this is really your fault. Thanks for making me fat, Navy.




PS: Don't fire me. I don't actually blame you. Love you. K. Bye.

SO MAD

So in the midst of writing my last post I accidentally wrote over my original airport story :( I was so sad. I'll never be that witty about airports again. To those of you who read it, remember it. Always. For those of you didn't, just imagine the best story about vultures fighting over charging stations at the airport you can...and multiply it by 2.34. Yes. It was decently good.

The neighbors will eat your dog

"Woah," I said as I pressed my face into my friend's passenger window as we drove south, out of Norfolk, VA. 

Everywhere I looked were beautiful houses and trees that grew out of natural grass. Not only that but other green things grew up and around all the trees. Ivy sprawled over telephone wires and flowers sprouted in all sorts of colors.

Also note, when I say trees and green, I'm not talking about shrubs that happen to be taller than the other shrubs or just a slightly greener shade of brown. I'm talking about actual trees. And shades of green that look like they came out of Oz. 

These are forests. Probably filled with all the animals of Jungle Book or something. I don't know, I haven't gone into one yet.

My friend looked at me sideways -- which was probably dangerous considering he was driving.

"You act like you've never seen trees before," he said.

"Not like this!" 

Hey look! A tree!

Trees in Arizona come in a limited variety: palm trees, mesquites, and junipers. Sure you can find other trees occasionally, but they are planted there by rich people to make the area more appeasing to home-buyers from greener places. Real Arizona trees have thorns as long as knives and will hold you up for your lunch money.

The forests didn't go away all the way down to Georgia. And when they did recede into the background, they only did so to make room for adorable houses that reminded me of doll houses. Every time I saw a house with a porch id point it out.

"Ooh! That house it cute! So is that one!"

Lorenzi would squint his eyes at me in that way that he always did when he thought I was being ridiculous. Which in and of itself is ridiculous. "It's a shack. The roof is caved in. I'm pretty sure there was a fire and black mold."

"But it has potential."

Houses in Arizona don't have front porches. It's too hot and no one likes their neighbors enough to want to see them. So they retire to their fenced-in backyards (during spring and fall when it's only 90° out and you can sit comfortably without A/C) and admire their beautiful cactus gardens.

Once we got to our destination I was amazed to find out that a lot of houses don't have fences. 

"How do you know when your yard ends and another begins?" I asked.

He just shrugged. "Property lines?"

"But how do you keep your dogs in and the things that want to eat your dogs out?"

His eyes widened. "What would want to eat my dog?"

"That's a weird question," I responded. Everything was the answer to that -- possibly even the neighbors! 

"No! No it is not! Nothing wants to eat my pets," he exclaimed. Although he looked at me after that like I might eat his dog. I don't even like the taste of dog.

"You don't have coyotes? Mountain lions? Carnivorous plants? Homeless people?" 

"What!?" 

I figured he was being ludicrous. In Arizona if you leave your pets unattended without a fence -- sometimes even with -- they would get carried off and you'd never see them again. Hawks would swoop in and grab your poor chihuahua (or your baby. True story). Coyotes (the animal) would pick off outdoor cats and medium-sized dogs.

A mountain lion once snuck into the Alzheimer's garden at the nursing home I worked at and tried to eat the slower of the patients (Note: It was a garden for Alzheimer's patients, not a garden made out of Alzheimer's patients).

Okay, no one was outside at the time, but he totally would have if he had had the chance.

Even the pigs are grumpy. Javelina have long tusks and are fearless. They hunt people in packs for fun. (Note: I tried finding a picture of a scary Javelina, but they all looked super cute. But don't let that fool you! They'll eat you alive!"

There are even cacti that shoot you if they see you. I'm pretty sure they eat you too of given the chance.

I haven't t even included tarantulas, rattle snakes, or neighbors into this. The morale of this story is that everything wants to kill you and your little dog too in Arizona.

"Cactuses-"

"Cacti," I corrected my poor southern friend.

"Cacti shoot you?" 

"You don't have any plants that shoot you?" I asked.

"No. No I don't." He ended up looking up cacti that shoot you on Google. He should never doubt me again. "Why would anyone want to live there?"

Not my picture, but accurate none the less.

That's a fantastic question. One I have asked my father numerous times. He always seems to have a reason -- most of which I believe might be made up. Like "Gilbert [suburb of Phoenix] was voted greenest town in Arizona!" 

Well, that's not hard to do when you have the least brown golf courses. 

Or, "we have more types of animals than any other state!"

200 different types of snake don't count (okay, so maybe it's closer to 40, but you can't count them as different animals. They're all snakes).

My theory is that people wander aimlessly into Arizona. Or they visit the Grand Canyon and think, "well, this was a lovely hole in the ground, let's see what else the desert has to offer." And so they wander deeper into the state only to run out of gas and water. 

That's when it hooks you! In order to get more gas and/or water you are forced to start working. So you grab a job and stay in a cheap apartment in Mesa and then a few months turns into a few decades and now there are generations of you there. Only hopefully you've moved out of Mesa and into a more respectable town.

Your kids ask you, "why did you never get out?"

Even the cars cant take the heat

And you, so wrinkled and tanned from the harsh summer sun looks at them with spots in your eyes and you can't even speak. There is no response. Or perhaps over the years you have deluded yourself into thinking that it's not really so bad, or I don't like trees anyway. Blocks the view of the sky. Maybe you'll tell yourself, mild temperatures are for the weak. Getting heat stroke in the middle of winter builds character

I was beginning down that road. Settling down into the high desert near Sedona. I told myself, "this is soo much better than Phoenix" as a tumble weed rolled across my path (literally).

But then, one day, I came to mysenses. And I joined the Navy. It was the easiest way to get out of the state. So now, whenever anyone asks me, "why did you enlist?" I'll say, "to get the hell out of Arizona. Hashtag true story."