Walking Away
The day my whole life changed
“I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going ‘Boom-boom-boom’
‘Hey’, he said,
‘Grab your things, I’ve come to
Take you home’
Hey, back home!”
Peter Gabriel — Solsbury Hill
It had been a painfully long 7 months, our cruise to the Mediterranean Sea that began 3 days after our nation celebrated 200 years of its independence (July 7, 1976) and that had ended with a balls-to-the-wall race against Mother Nature sailing back across the Atlantic Ocean, making the crossing in near record 5 days, arriving home in Norfolk, Virginia, on February 7th, 1977, just in time for a record blizzard and the rivers freezing over. It was one of the worst winter storms on record at the time, and that race had been the most exciting part of the entire 7 months. I couldn’t wait to get the hell off that ship!
That cruise had been especially long for me because I had been stuck on that ship without my usual go-to drugs. My connection and best friend had been pulled off the ship just as we sailed out of Norfolk harbor the previous July. I didn’t have many other friends on there by then, and I was lost without a connection, no good at finding the good drugs on my own. My denial was so strong then, that I didn’t realize that my growing health problems had been a direct result of a burgeoning addiction. It had all happened so fast.
In my mind, as long as I had my drugs, all was well with the world — or at least tolerable. It was the only way I could live with having lost the girl of my dreams — again. It was only when I couldn’t get those drugs that my world began to shake and fall apart. Panic and anxiety attacks gave way to late night shakes and cold sweats, just praying to make it to morning.
That long, slow Atlantic Ocean crossing going over to the Mediterranean was a living hell for this sailor. A gnawing emptiness grew in the very pit of my being that nothing could fill, because nothing was ever enough. I’d always needed more, only now, I couldn’t even get a little. It was an ache that permeated my entire being, like none I’d ever known before. Simply relentless.
And to think, I’d arrived on that ship, a nuclear guided missile cruiser, 2 years before with a license to operate the mechanical systems of its nuclear reactor, and a resolve to give up all drugs and stick to the occasional beer. That had to do with a girl I wanted to have in my life. It was either her or the drugs — I knew I could not have both. Despite my deep and abiding love for her — I could not hold to my resolve.
The first two months back from the Med Cruise were all about me making up for lost time — I partied my ass off, as much and as often as I could. I was hoping to get back to the way I had been before the cruise, just a wild, carefree sailor who did his job on the ship, and blew off steam on shore. But things could never go back to the way they were — something had snapped in my psyche during that cruise. A deep-seated rage had been released inside that, the more I drank and got high now, instead of producing good times, fueled the beast of that rage. I kept having blow-ups with officers in the engine room of my ship, which culminated in a moment that changed my life forever, two months after our return.
I don’t remember what the confrontation was about, I just remember being approached by an ensign in the engine room about something that had set off another of my epic rages. Only this time, I was ready to do some serious damage to the man. My rage had turned murderous. I had a very large wrench in my hand which I was ready to start bludgeoning that poor ensign with, when it happened. I’ll never forget this moment for as long as I live. It was the moment that I began down the road that led to sanity being restored to my life. It was a total gift.
Right in the middle of this murderous rage, a profound sense of calm just came over me, along with a thought that said, “It’s not worth it, Pete — just walk away”. I listened to that thought. I just dropped the wrench, broke into laughter, like some sort of a madman, and said, “See you later”. I climbed the ladder up out of that engine room. I strolled aft to the berthing compartment, got to my rack and locker, packed up my navy duffle bag with all my worldly belongings, said goodbye to a few fellow sailors I saw on my way to the quarterdeck, saluted the officer of the deck as I walked down the gangplank, seabag slung on my shoulders, and this sailor never looked back.
I had an apartment on the beach with a fellow sailor, so I hitch-hiked there first. All the rage I had been feeling had simply left me. I couldn’t even remember what the rage was about. I no longer felt anything but an overwhelming sense of peace. I had no plan, no next move, just the knowing that I would never walk back up that gang plank to that ship, ever again. I knew this. All of that was quickly receding into a distant memory. I was free!
I sat around the apartment for a few days, writing down what was going on with me, with this knowing feeling that I was simply awaiting further instruction. I knew it would come, I just didn’t know how or from where. I just knew.
Aside from all the drinking and drugs I’d been consuming since our return to the home port, I had been hell-bent on getting myself back into playing shape. I’d packed on 35 pounds on that cruise, eating the great food our cooks had provided on the mess decks, where meals were prepared 4 times a day, so those working the swing and midnight shifts could get a meal before or after their respective shifts. I’d taken to eating 4 meals a day, as for many a long period of time at sea, there was simply nothing else to do but read and eat.
After two months of a liquid diet and daily runs on the beach, I’d taken off over 40 pounds, and was a lean, mean (but one fucked up) machine. Since my break — my moment of calm in which I walked away — I hadn’t felt the need to drink or get high. I felt high on life. I still ran on the beach every day. Now, my head was beginning to clear up. Something clearly was happening, and all I knew was, it felt better than anything had felt since before I reported to that ship, two years before.
Over the next few days, I felt this sense of creativity come over me, which was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time. I had grown accustomed to using the other side of my brain, the one that was very organized, mathematical and scientific — that had gotten highly developed through the rigorous studies of nuclear power school and nuclear prototype training, and I had thought much more like an engineer than a poet for several years. Sitting there in my apartment, basking in this unexpected sense of freedom, I suddenly felt like the poet I once fancied myself to be, again.
I think it was my 4th day of AWOL that I met her. I had just finished another 2 mile run on the beach, and had plopped down in the sand to catch my breath and to soak in the sun for a few minutes before heading back to my apartment. It was still April, but we were experiencing an unseasonably warm stretch just then.
I was actually thinking about taking a dip to cool off after my run. I still had this feeling that I was awaiting further instructions on what I was to do next. I knew that I couldn’t stay in that apartment for much longer, because once I was reported to be AWOL for longer than a week, they would begin to look for me. I just didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t thinking ahead at all. For the first time in a long time, I was simply living fully in the moment. I felt fully alive. That was enough. I didn’t need anymore than that.
She was about a year younger than me, 21 to my 22, a short brunette with a full, shapely body. She appeared about 50 yards away from me on the beach, with a towel and a book — she must have been there the whole time and I hadn’t noticed her, but when I did, she was looking over at me. She smiled and waved to me. I waved back, then decided to get up and go say hi. Being in the moment like I was, I didn’t mind-fuck myself about what kind of impression I might make, like I normally would have — I just went over and said, “Hi — I thought I was all alone on this beach until I saw you here. I’m Pete.”
“I’m Norma Jean, but my friends just call me Jean, or Jeannie.”
Not wanting to presume, I said, “Nice to meet you, Norma Jean.”
“Call me Jeannie”, she smiled back. She had a radiant smile. I sensed an instant chemistry between us, maybe a kindred soul? She was very easy to talk to, and very easy on the eyes. I liked her instantly. She seemed to like me right back.
“Do you live around here?” I asked.
“I’m staying with a friend over on 17th Bay, but I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m from Portland, Oregon.”
“So, you’re going back home — flying?”
“No, taking the bus. I leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
My mind was working quickly, and I felt like this might be the sign I was looking for. Back on the ship, before I walked off, I’d had a conversation with a young lieutenant, the only officer on the ship that I liked, a junior legal officer. He’s the one who’d told me, when I inquired about ways to get off the ship, that the only way to get off this ship was to go AWOL for at least 30 days. After 30 days, according to Navy Regulations (Regs), they could not return you to the same ship. You would get transferred, after serving whatever consequences you might have coming for having gone AWOL. In times of war, the consequences could be severe — anything up to and including being shot or hung. In times of peace, they might bust you down a rank or two, give you some time in the brig, then reassign you to a new ship. The Viet Nam war had been over for 4 years by then, and so it was safe to go AWOL without the ultimate consequence.
The same officer had gone on to say that, if one were to go AWOL, the best place to turn oneself in was Treasure Island Naval Base, in the San Francisco Bay.
Now that I was AWOL, the first order of business, after that first week, was not to get caught for the next 30 days. I couldn’t be in any of the usual places they might come looking for me, i.e. my apartment, my parents’ home, any of my relatives or known friends — I was going to have to lay real low. I was a fugitive. It felt a little romantic.
This girl was taking a bus to Portland, Oregon. That was a lot closer to San Francisco than Norfolk, Virginia. So, I lied and told her I’d just gotten out of the Navy, and had been thinking about checking out the West Coast. I’d gone to Boot Camp in San Diego, but had spent my entire 4 years on the East Coast.
“Why don’t you come with me?” she asked. I just looked at her, in the moment, and said, “Sure — why not?” Just like that, we became traveling companions.
“Let us be lovers
We’ll marry our fortunes together
I’ve got some real estate here in my bag
So we bought a pack of cigarettes,
And Mrs. Wagner pies
And walked off to look for America”
Simon & Garfunkel, “America”
