I got a new backpack last week. It’s made by Breakwater Supply, it’s fully waterproof (submersible, even), and we’re in love. Seriously. I walk with it all the time. I’ve logged thousands of miles on the few stretches of Sitka roads that exist, and I know the value of having all of my shit dry when I get where I’m going, and this backpack is also comfortable.
I also know how long it takes me to get downtown from the house in time for kickoff on a Sunday morning. I know it’s exactly one mile to walk to the front door of the Science Center. I know it’s two miles to Japonski Island, on the other side of the O’Connell bridge. And I know it’s 3.2 miles to walk to the Eagles Nest, the active duty club on base that I operated from 2013-2015.
The Nest has been operating in it’s current location since before I came back to Sitka in 2003. It sits on a hill in the north east corner of base overlooking the Western Anchorage and north breakwater of Sitka Harbor. It’s one of the most beautiful places I have ever worked, with dazzling views of both Harbor Mountain and Middle Island.
It is also the epicenter of some of my most painful times at work, in any job. I’ve alluded to it here, and I’ve talked about it here:
I’ve found it’s fairly easy to talk about that time of my life. I can get pretty spun up about it, and it feels similar to talking about human rights, or raging about the Sabres not showing up to their first 5 games of the season. Once I’m heated, I can go off for quite some time about the topic. Likely, I’m a bit overbearing, loud, considered to have anger issues, and I’m definitely not going to sleep well.
I can’t seem to write about it, though. I’m not sure where that barrier comes down. Well, I mean — there’s the whole “writing” a thing, where it’s just goddamned hard to sit down and put together cohesive sentences. But also, it’s trauma, and to write about it means really putting in the time to sit in it — to figure out what it all felt like and how to put words to those feelings. It's easier to talk about it with an good listener, an empathetic friend, or a supportive coworker.
This morning, I had set my alarm a bit later than a usual workday. I snuck out of the room to avoid needing to deal with Paige’s Morning Constitution. I fed the desperately hungry cats and packed up the recycling. Then I drove to base for breakfast with some old coworkers - good friends.
I space out on most morning drives, and it wasn’t long before I covered the two miles to the bridge. (Sometimes, I space out on morning walks, like Wednesday when I was avoiding a puddle and nearly stepped right into a bicyclist.) I grabbed my retiree ID as I passed the airport, and slowed to a stop, as there was no gate guard. A few cars stopped to punch in the gate code while I waited for my host to let me in. I thought about the many dreadfully boring hours I stood in that shack wondering if I would actually guard it, or just flee if slow zombies showed up. The gate looked as dull as ever.
Once allowed, I waved at my host as I drove past him — I didn’t offer him a ride back up the hill to the dining facility because it wasn’t raining and I had the recycling in the front seat. I rounded the corner after the main parking lot and that all too familiar crushing feeling returned to my chest. The dreary October lighting. The peak of Arrowhead looming in the distance. The severe slant on the Nest’s roof. I could almost smell the ash tray and the overflowing glass recycling on the balcony. Voices of work nemeses rattled around in my brain. Faces of disgust and rejection taunted me. Nothing ever changes here. It’s all the same.
I parked in front of the barracks I once lived in. I thought briefly of Max and Emery and Eli and other, nameless memories from 1998 as I made my way into the building and up the steps to the galley. The morning cook1 greeted me at the register. I had never met her. She seemed to like being in the galley, and being stationed in Sitka. The weather is something else, though. I enjoyed our chat as I marveled at the surroundings. I served in or around that galley for 11 years of my 20 year career, and they finally pulled the trigger on remodeling it 6 months after my retirement. The coffee machine leaks a bit, but everything else still seems to have a new shine.
My friends joined me. Breakfast was biscuits and gravy with bacon and if that isn’t just my favorite, I don’t know what is. We sat on the mess deck and joked about all of us wearing puffy jackets today. We told stories of before and of now. We complained some of the same complaints we always have. There were no napkins, which seems to be the unobtainable quest of every dining facility manager this air station has ever seen. They let you retire when you can finally keep the damn things stocked. Nothing ever changes.
The janitor was whistling a tune as he sat behind me eating his own breakfast. I chuckled to myself as I remember the old janitor, from my Nest days. He’d always show up while I was cleaning by myself during our closed hours. It creeped me out, and I used to joke that my greatest fear was walking into the head with the automatic, motion-sensing lights, to find him standing still and staring at me.
I dropped off my dishes at the scullery. There was no need to scrape my plate into the trash as I had sopped up nearly every bit of gravy. I noticed the soaking bin for silverware was empty. Damn messcooks.2 Nothing ever changes.
I said my goodbyes and headed back to the car. I paused next to it to look at the same old view. I don’t remember the view from when my barracks window looked out this way, in ‘98. The Nest wasn’t there yet; there was just an empty hill. This view - with the Nest in the foreground and Harbor behind - this is it. I close my eyes and can see it.
As I was still in that moment, I took the time to think of the few things that did make this place special. Those two I just had breakfast with, for instance. Geoff, my Pun Spouse, and his genuine care for the folks around him. Matt, also always caring, with his big smile and sigh whenever we laughed about the hard stuff. Would I have lived through my career without the people I had around me? (Not the shitbags, mind you.)
It is hard to think of those folks I relied on so deeply when I’m anxious. The elephant on my chest makes it hard to concentrate on the things that made everything better. Each time I’m on base, that elephant gets a little lighter. There’s more room for oxygen and appreciation, and that inspires a little bit of hope. It feels… a bit different, I guess.
They’re Culinary Specialists now. I was too, when I retired. But I started a Food Service Specialist, and I still think that’s a bit more accurate to what I actually did, especially the “Service” part.
I’d imagine anyone knowing of the air station’s current staffing shortages just chortled.