My relationship with the Navy and the military in general developed
into a classic love-hate relationship over the years. The military has gotten
America into some messes since World War Two, and continues to do so. For that,
I distrust some things about a standing army, and many things about an all-volunteer army. On the other hand, I know some very fine people in uniform
and I believe they will cling to “the better angels of our nature.” America is
far better off with them serving us.
I will leave it at that. As I have said over the years, with
increasing honesty, I wouldn’t do it over again for a million dollars, nor would
I take a million dollars not to have done it. I’ll leave the reader to figure
that one out.
On the third day of January 1971 though, a Sunday evening, I
sat alone in my large apartment at Fifth (Capitol Avenue) and State streets in
Little Rock, Arkansas contemplating, as one might imagine, my future. I had gone
down the night before and purchased a bottle of Ripple Wine at a liquor store on
Broadway, gone for many years now. I purchased the wine in memory of shipmates
who had shared it with me on lazy afternoons in the cabin of one of the navy boats
in our care, with a trusted “bowhook” standing watch for nosy noncoms or
officers.
An old phonograph I had found at the last moment before
leaving home played the album Hot
Buttered Soul by a man from Memphis named Isaac Hayes, already becoming a legend. I had purchased it at
a Little Rock landmark called Moses Melody Shop during a walking tour of downtown
Little Rock. That store, too, vanished years ago.
The experience would have been complete with the aid of what
some shipmates (we called them “brothers” in those days) called “herbs.” But I
had put that behind me. In fact, I had planned the evening as the breaking of
my last ties with fast ships and going “in harm’s way.” Partway through the
bottle of Ripple, I took out a notebook and scribbled some thoughts. Next morning,
I read what I had written.
It was pretty much gibberish. I don’t think that my mind, at
that point, could grasp the enormity of what might await on life’s next
heading. The wine didn’t help. I’ve never written anything since after even the
slightest drop of alcohol. Creativity is not a movable feast. It demands clarity,
sacrifice, and solitude, at least as far as I can tell. Maybe Hemingway drank while he wrote, but ... he was Hemingway.
I finished the wine and walked to the window. A few cars slid
by on Capitol Avenue. The city was going to sleep, and so should I as well. I secured my
mental anchor chain with a “stopper-hitch,” and disassembled the detachable
link holding me fast. Now freed, the “bitter end” slipped off, and I began to
drift away from my moorings. I was free at last.
In bed, I couldn’t stop wondering about my life until this
point. Lonely? No. I had four years of adventures and shipmates passing in the dream-fog to keep me company. And who knew, perhaps someone else was drifting to sleep, somewhere, wondering what the future might bring. Might our drifting vessels cross courses
some day?
They might. Who could tell?
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