Boot Camp Contraband

When I was 17 years old, I decided to run away from home and join the U.S. Navy.
I had a lot of help from my dad. He now had one less daughter to concern himself with, because it was only a matter of time before I ended up dead in a ditch or imprisoned. Plus he couldn’t afford my car insurance anymore.
I knew immediately upon arrival in the middle of the night that hot, muggy Orlando winter that I’d made an enormous mistake. I was not designed to be given orders, and I was especially poor at following them.
Eighty women lived together in a very large building. I had the top bunk, and lived at the very end near the door. For reasons that still escape me, my Company Commander decided to make me the Starboard Watch — which meant I was in some position of authority and somewhat responsible for half the building.

My duties included deciding who stood on watch when, and pretending to look the other way when some of the girls would sneak out to smoke or climb upstairs to the boys’ floor.
Hey. Snitches get stitches.
I also just didn’t care. For nine weeks I had only three things on my mind: 1) sleep, 2) eating all the food, 3) using my photographic memory for good rather than evil.
Now, the memory bit was important because they like to throw a lot of information at you and test you and yell at you and catch you off guard if you forget what the hell a certain flag color means. I wasn’t about to fail for that.
Sleep. This time period still goes down in history as the only time in my entire life that I have slept naturally, deeply, and somewhat peacefully. Minus all the times I fell out of that bunkbed. But my famously falling out of beds is a story for another day.
Eating all the food. By my last two years at home, I’d completely given up on eating with my family. Food was whatever I could put together myself, or get from an obliging friend’s fridge or table. So to suddenly have three square meals, I swear I couldn’t get enough.
But I was seriously lacking in candy consumption. My candy itch was at maximum after just a couple of weeks. I swear it was the first time I knew what it felt like to be an addict. Shamefully, I’d resorted to eating toothpaste.
I was desperate. But my breath was refreshingly minty.
One sad evening as I was making my way back from the showers to my bunk, I passed by a friend of mine along one of the back walls. She held her arm out in front of me, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Open your mouth and don’t say anything.”
Okay let’s pause so that I can try to make you understand the politics of surviving prison/boot camp conditions. If you happen to make friends with someone who is very large and scary to other people, but for some reason is kind to you, you open your goddamn mouth and don’t say anything.
She put a Skittle in my mouth and walked away with a grin.
A Skittle.
A grin.
The implications of being found with such contraband were horrible. But the possibilities were…enticing. I needed more chewy-flavored goodness. I needed more of it in my mouth immediately. I cared not for losing rank. Or for spending time in the brig. I didn’t even care if I got caught and had to do 1000 push-ups. I was young, and strong, and pretty sure my arms would eventually grow back.
The next evening, under cover of battle-shits and darkness in the women’s bathroom, I learned about the efforts on the part of our more sexually active members of society. These heroes were climbing drainpipes up to the third floor, making friends with our brother company, and coming home with bras full of candy.

The boys were allowed to have the candy sent to them from home. We were not. This was bullshit. This could not be tolerated.
I was in.
I used my powers as the Starboard Watch to ensure the smugglers would receive the optimum times for sleeping/smuggling/snuggling. I didn’t ask questions about how they acquired the candy. I just needed that candy.
I made sure anyone standing watch during the best smuggling hours was part of the ring. And we kept the group small — maybe only 10–15 girls.
Within days, all four of my bed posts were stuffed with candy. We’d all decided this was the safest place, and agreed to share should anyone run out. I’d often find my posts filled without asking or seeing who’d filled them.
I gained five pounds in boot camp.
We never got caught. The operation was too simple and perfect. And none of the girls ever got caught smoking or snuggling with the boys.
Before leaving that last day, as a final “F U” to my superiors, I decided to leave my leftover candy in the bed posts.
That’s what the U.S. Navy gets for designing bunk beds so easy to fall out of.

