My Redacted Life: Chapter One, (Cont.)

I left Charleston, South Carolina on, I believe, November 11, 1970. I didn't drive fast, for I had no place in particular to go. I've never felt like that since. It was a good feeling while it lasted.

Near the end of my service, I had used savings from combat and sea pay to purchase a 1967 Chevrolet Impala I had named "Steinbeck." We traveled well together.

The last thing I imagined was that I would ever be back, but I did return once, four years later with my young wife while on a vacation through the Southeast United States. My hair was long enough that the Charleston police ignored me. I still remembered how to get around the area. We visited the normal tourist spots, checked out some old haunts, and then moved on.

In 1970, there was a special feeling in the air, one of boundless promise. The United States stretched out before me like a patchwork of dreams ready to be savored. A few trees still boasted their autumn colors and sun hovered above in a bright blue sky. The earth was at peace with itself. America had just sent men to the moon and we had finally admitted that the entire adventure in Vietnam had been a foolish and horrific blunder. We wanted out, and that was the first positive sign.

Arkansas beckoned to me. The state had just elected the most progressive governor in recent history. New high-rise bank buildings were standing proudly over our Capitol city. My home town was constructing a new Civic Center designed by the office of Edward D. Stone. We were constructing an interstate highway from east to west and one from the center of the state southeast to Texas. Our future seemed unlimited.

As I said, I was in no hurry. To my mind, I had wasted my life for four years in a frantic hurry to be done with military life forever. Now, my goal was to savor each day. As I left South Carolina, I felt as if I were leaving an asylum for the mentally challenged. No more bars where entertainers sang songs using the "N-Word." No more insolent salespeople who didn't even attempt to hide their distaste for military personnel. No more police who, as one told me late one night, didn't "feel complete unless they had enjoyed beating up a sailor." I was entering a new world where the American Civil War had ended.

Sitting in a cheap motel in Starkville, Mississippi that night, picking on an old Gibson guitar I had bought for $40.00, I thought of a life at sea and decided I might prefer to drop anchor someplace where there were people who loved me. It had been a long time.

And thinking back further, I thought that I would never have to sit through a night in abject fear for my life. I would miss the Sea. I would miss it a lot, but not enough to accommodate the attendant bullshit. I was headed places.

Everything would be coming up roses for me from now on.

That was only partially true.

Do I ever miss old shipmates?
Do I ever miss the Sea? Sure.