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Show its prowess to the dependents during cruises. Among my prized possessions was a picture of me aboard one of the subs, signed by the captain, proof that I was a part of this world. Such intimacy had taken work on my part. The daughter of a naval lawyer rather than a line officer, I grew up feeling outside the "real" Navy. My friends' fathers would leave for six months at a time, often unable to say where they were going or what they were doing, leaving their beds and families in the dead of night to sleep for months at the bottom of the sea. This was the type of hardship a military family was to endure. It was hardship you earned, hardship you sought. The longest period my dad would ever leave would be a week to negotiate treaties in Palau or the Middle East. The brevity of his trips, not to mention the fact that he flew over rather "went to" sea, left me feeling inadequate. I memorized the members of the Fast Attack Class of subs to make up for the privilege of having my dad come home at night. At the back of the boat from where the fishing lines will eventually be reeled out, I sat and watched the subs grow smaller and smaller as we continued to push up the channel. Unlike those times I had stood with my friends to welcome their fathers home from sea or to see them off, this time I was the one leaving the shore. The boats laid bow to stern in sleeping rows along the dock. Soon only the outlines of their sails could be seen, creating rows of skinny crosses in the growing light, hugging the waters at the mouth of the harbor. Scott and Bryan loved the water; "fish" my mother often called them. They played in the surf for hours on end, lips blue, skin pickled, face made pink by the sun. It 168 |
