The One Where I Feel
and post some orca pictures
I’ve had an odd run of reminiscing. It’s been the right combination of Coast Guard members coming through for their dentist appointments running into an energetic, chatty Brandon. An energetic, chatty Me happens to be one of the best at telling a sea story. And maybe you’re thinking I’m not qualified to rate my own Nautical Telling Ability, but I am specifically talking about my efficiency at spotting an opening and, with no consideration of the listeners’ interest or excitement levels, inserting The One Where I Ran Into a Moose While Texting on a Nokia, or The One Where I Saw a Baby Shark Jump Out of the Water, or The One Where I Saw Levitating Beef Stew.
Somewhere in this recent stretch of what an old shipmate of mine would call Verbal Diarrhea, one of the Coasties asked me to sum up how I felt about serving for 20 years. Was it worth it? Holy Fuck, kid. When I was your age, we never asked such loaded questions. Just kidding. I was playing hockey at the base in San Pedro with the other members of my patrol boat crew when I was 22 or 23 years old. I asked the Senior Chief how he slept knowing he was leaving a single person in charge of the boat when he went home. Sometimes that person was just under the drinking age and less than six months out of boot camp. They were expected to make the right decision when a faulty valve dumps the drinking water into the bilge, or a hydraulic leak lights off against a space heater filling a compartment with smoke, or a call comes in because another sailboat rudder broke in a 40 knot gust.
Senior Chief’s answer was a simple, “I don’t sleep.” As relatable as that is, it also, in retrospect, helped answer some of those loaded questions I never asked. Why do you scream at us? Is our constant fear of you sneaking up behind us actually making us safer? Do you think we’re all pieces of shit, or do you just treat us that way?
The patrol boat is what my mind snaps to when someone asks if 20 years of life in the Coast Guard was worth it. It has everything to do with the variance of stories that come from those two years. It was, professionally, me at my best. I cooked nearly every meal for that crew of 11 and was okay to great at it. I managed getting all that food aboard and stored. I kept the boat safe at the pier and at anchor. I became the primary small boat driver (which is, like, the coolest thing to get to learn). I even learned to be an EMT for a minute, which delights my current coworkers to learn, as I can’t even look at a patient when they have gauze in their mouth without feeling a bit light headed.
It was also 2001. The world was ending outside of the boat. The world was ending inside the boat. It seemed I was drinking a lot more than I was sleeping. And every moment I thought I was about to get fired like the two cooks in the six months before me. (They don’t actually “fire” people in the Coast Guard, but they have ways they treat “failures”.)
Where is this fondness coming from? This longing for the romantic feel of walking down the pier with my duffel over my shoulder? The desire to salute the flag then the quarterdeck when cresting the brow? (Or is it quarterdeck then flag - I seriously can’t remember.) I know that was a miserable time in my life. I know I would never go back there. Shit. I don’t even talk to any of those people anymore because the memories tend to be so traumatic.
It’s so easy to get nostalgic, though. All that was so long ago. The world is still falling apart, but I’ve learned so much! I could totally run that whole thing again and it’d be all the cool parts, but with way less Awful, right? When Senior Chief gets wound up, I can just bust out one of those Feel Statements I learned in therapy.
Right?
Yesterday, I spilled coffee at work and instantly felt amused, in love with my quirks, and grateful for recent insights into my spatial awareness and general attention struggles. I also instantly felt frustrated, shameful, and exposed. I was panicked because I already felt behind on work. I was annoyed that the clean clothes hadn’t hit the dryer yet because I couldn’t just throw the coffee soaked table cloth in there.
In a fit of complicated feelings, the most intertwined was that I was angry that a patient peed all over the seat just before and now I had another mess to clean up. Why did I spend so much of my childhood worried about “aiming” and this dude felt perfectly comfortable garden hosing all over other people’s lives?
I turn 47 this Friday. This very morning is when I finally learned why a Feel Statement is nearly impossible for me. The complexity with which I feel makes sharing it in the moment nearly impossible.
Was it all worth it? Hell. I live in a wonderous town with a community I’m in love with. I managed to get stationed here for over 13 of my 20 years. Our house is taken care of, and I don’t have medical expenses. I am overwhelmed with story, and it’s leaking out of my ears. (It’s what I blame all the earwax on. I keep saying this, but it’s a problematic level of wax.) So, yes, kid. It was worth it.
It was worth it and I’m never going back.
I will, however, share some out of context orca pictures.
Great post, Brandon! Time passing sure helps our perspective. And happy birthday! I'm so glad you're who you are and are a part of our lives.
Wonderful read 🫂