The Volunteer Sailor

Anyone engaged in discussion on the state of American health, and subsequently, obesity, must necessarily consider how little most American’s walk on a daily basis. Certainly, with most households having more than one car and with road systems constantly being developed and improved, driving offers a very convenient way to get from point to point. Most Americans hate to walk any longer than they absolutely must. This is never more evident than in the Wal-Mart parking lot, where vehicles circle endlessly in the parking lot, their drivers craning necks in search of that elusive opening—the one right next to the handicap spot.  I postulate that there must be a positive correlation between the number of minutes searching for closer parking and the number of motorized scooters needed to cart around people that have become too heavy to comfortably traverse the retail bonanza that occurs on any given Saturday around the country.

A bastion of walking culture exists, however, at military bases around the country. Not from a lofty, well-intentioned desire to cut down on an epidemic of obesity, but rather for one simple reason: necessity.  Military bases, and more specifically military bases where primary training occurs, have lots of junior and transient personnel. In most cases it is neither expedient, nor affordable, for everyone to rent vehicles. Instead, a steady stream of brisk walkers can be seen, day and night, going to and fro. Whether it’s a half-mile walk to the training building from the barracks, or a quarter-mile trek off the base to the Navy Exchange, there are always people passing each other on foot. Neither cold, nor heat, deter them. Rain, snow, blistering wind—it doesn’t seem to matter—again because of necessity. If the choice between going to work or not, eating or not, running errands or not, comes down to walking or not, then we walk. It’s just that simple.

What have I spent much of my week engaged in? Walking, of course. Admittedly, it is less convenient, and most assuredly colder—bitterly colder—than walking. However, it quickly becomes the order of the day, an activity as grounded in routine as waking up and brushing my teeth.  Naturally, it brings challenges not considered by most. If walking off the base to the Exchange for some shopping, dinner, and a movie, then what order should I knock that off in? Consider purchasing items from multiple stores, and hitting up a movie that ends well after the stores close. Other stores, restaurants, and movie theaters would just have to accommodate my carrying various shopping bags or a backpack with me everywhere I go. While seen as a security risk at most places, it is a fact of life where walkers exist. I have taken to always having my “trunk” with me, since I don’t have the convenience of the one that came with my car.

And so, if ever wondering in what ways life in the military differs from its civilian counterpart, consider the lost culture of walking—not walking as an end in and of itself, but walking in its original, pure form, as transportation. It still happens, even in America.

Throughout the day, a steady stream of Sailors move in and out of the doorway.  A sign-in sheet constitutes the only requirement for entry. Inside, the smell of brewing coffee, stews simmering in two crock pots, and toasting bagels beckon. Fox News reports the latest updates on the White House’s posture toward terrorism on a wide flat screen television, before which several sailors sit attentively, while others doze for a much needed nap. They sit on comfortable leather couches and recliners: kind donations from a local furniture store.  Two Sailors sit at a square wooden table, discussing their last deployment. Shelves filled with books and cd’s form a backdrop behind them. They are free for anyone interested.  A stack of well used board games sits to the left. Across the room, another flat screen TV facilitates game-playing on a Wii. Games can be checked out for free. A row of computers adorns the farthest wall, and several Sailors check email. A smorgasbord of snacks, many homemade, is on a long table behind the couch.  Many snacks are regularly donated by Entenmann’s. Sailors stand in small groups sipping hot coffee, others eating homemade potato soup, warming up. A small AT&T kiosk offers a cell phone with unlimited free calling to any number in the U.S. And amidst all this, a beautiful weimaraner service dog wanders between the groups, greeting each with a nudge and a lick, warmly welcomed by Sailors who then regale stories of their own pets back home.

This is the United Services Organization, Building J-50, on Norfolk Naval Station. It is one of approximately 130 around the world. Situated one floor below the Naval Mobilization Processing Site (NMPS) Norfolk, the USO offers a reprieve from the endless briefings, medical evaluations, inoculations, and other activities associated with going into or returning from the better part of a year in a foreign country. A home away from home, a comforting place filled with volunteers dedicated to improving the lives and welfare of service members. 

The USO has existed since 1941, a private organization which combined the war effort resources of six civilian agencies:  the Salvation Army, Young Men’s Christian Association, Young Women’s Christian Association, National Catholic Community Services, National Travelers Aid Association and the National Jewish Welfare Board.  It has served various important roles in its history, including a home away from home for service members, a community rallying point for the war effort, a conduit for service members’ participation in the community, an advocate for the service members’ re-integration to civilian life, a coordinator of countless overseas performances, and many more. The USO is truly a worthy non-profit.

This evening is reminiscent of one of many in the earliest days of my Navy career: adapting to great change, far from home, and separated. To many this may seem doleful. Indeed, it is in at least one way. I miss my family greatly. However, something more significant binds the two periods. It is a sense of apprehensive anticipation; a very real feeling of adventure. Then, as now, I discern that I am at the precipice of something great, life-changing, and also irreversible. 

There are differences, as well. I am much more experienced now, and with age I have gained the ability to interpret the past through nostalgia. At the beginning of my career I encountered all things Navy as a foreigner, truly unfamiliar with their character: the smell of fire retardant on a new uniform, the playing of morning colors, the innumerable Navy acronyms and lingo, the smell of black sheepskin gloves, and others. These impressions have for whatever reason lodged into my memory forever.  I now encounter them as old friendships distanced by time and geography; friendships that are meaningful and easily re-kindled, yet also changed, and able to be interpreted in new ways, able to go in new directions.

It is a matter of immersion. Two months past I was immersed in a different world, a civilian world preoccupied with business activities, client meetings, civic responsibilities, family life, and church. Now I am preoccupied with preventing blisters from forming while breaking in new boots, carefully and hygienically nursing the oozing viral infection on my left shoulder (a result of live Variola virus being pricked numerous times into the skin as part of the smallpox vaccination), tending to the intense nausea I suspect came from the Anthrax pumped into my right arm, attending numerous pre-deployment briefs, officers call, and various and sundry medical and administrative processing activities. My civilian life seems strangely distant. As if that was some past life. And it has only taken several days to feel this way. I have not even felt the 120°F heat of the desert, or inhaled the dust of an ancient and faraway land. No, I’m only in Norfolk, VA. And this is an indication of just how far I have to go still.

Anticipation hangs in the briefing room; it is palpable. For the many Sailors here with me there are no good alternatives to the mission at hand. Without exception, each is committed to deploying. So much so, that to do anything less would come with great disappointment and at a personal loss. Nevertheless, there are already those who have been eliminated for various medical or administrative reasons; an inevitability with a group of this size. The rest of us carry on.

The reservists from Hawaii, California, Washington, Texas, Tennessee, New York, Puerto Rico, and many other states and territories have begun the process of group development: storming, forming, norming, and performing. Leaders are appointed, structures are developing, and chains of command are being utilized. Personal identity has begun to take a backseat to the unit’s identity. We are in the early stages, but we are bound by mission and by the desire to serve. The journey has begun.