Tempus Fugit

A little over two years ago, our son was finishing his senior year of high school. He is smart, but he was bored and his grades and work reflected it. Both of his sisters went to college, but that didn't seem to be the right track for him. Not wanting him to waste his time or money, I encouraged him to enlist in the service, gain some experience, perhaps learn a trade, and earn the GI Bill for when he had matured a bit. In the fall of 2022 and spring of 2023 the world was fairly calm place. Thes service seemed like a solid opportunity for growth and learning something about serving others, learning about himself. After a soft attempt at the Air Force, a Navy recruiter found him at school. A few conversations later, he decided if the USAF didn't want him, but the USN did, that was good enough. He enlisted a few months before graduation and was sworn in at MEPS in San Antonio: Seaman Recruit Meyer. 

And then, Russia decided it was fun to play chess with people rather than plastic pieces and using Ukraine for its game board instead of 64 small, alternating dual-colored squares. The world's political temperature rose a few degrees as words matched munitions, flying back and forth to try to bring an end to hostility.

He shipped out to boot camp about 4 weeks after graduation. Ten weeks later, Labor Day weekend, our son emerged as a sailor, sharp in his white dress uniform, ready to enter the fleet. Assigned to a destroyer, he soon shipped out to his new home half-way across the country. 

And then, Hamas attacked Israel. Not content to keep things local, the entire Middle East decided that they didn't want to miss the fun and the Houthis started to target international shipping in and out of the Red Sea. Between these two parlor games, the United States invited itself to the party, sending the Navy to go play not-so-nice with those who don't play well with others they politically and idiologically disagree with. 

"It's not just a job. It's an adventure," the Navy once claimed, followed by, "You and the Navy: full speed ahead!" That's cute, when one line is muttered by a young Steven Segal, or when seeing the latter in a poster on a old movie. It's another thing when your kid, your son or daughter, or your husband or wife, or a best friend deploys. 

Our son, along with countless thousands of other sailors, aviators, and Marines, have done their best to restore at least a semblance of order to chaos by promoting free travel of the seas and discouraging interruption of the same. 

When I get a fly buzzing around my home, I grab a Dollar Store fly-swatter and smack it. When the Navy has the Houthis equivalent of a fly buzzing around, getting too close to our ships and crews, they use fly swatters on steroids, massive - and expensive - weapons designed to win against whatever is attempting to hurt or harm the ship. So far, our fly swatters, sporting names like "Sea-Whiz," or "Tomahawk," or other such clever brands, have kept the ship and the task force safe. Chris's ship swatted 15 pieces of enemy ordinance out of the sky. A couple were "close," relatively speaking; most were more like that stupid fly: irritating, annoying, and a pest moreso than a real threat. Nevertheless, one bad fly bite, one missed missle, and it can become a very, very bad day. 

And our son, and his shipmates, came home from the grand adventure of combat, safe and - as far as I can tell - sound. Full speed ahead is now a time to rest, refit, and replenish, train the new crew members, say farewell to old friends, and catch their collective breath - all on solid, American soil. Thanks be to God. 

Never content to just play regular chess, the Middle East is now playing Three Dimensionally with Israel attacking Iran, arguing it's necessary because Iran has emerging nuclear technology and capability. Spicy pawns, rooks, and knights are soaring across the sky, back and forth, lives interrupted, lives cut short, lives ended. War for peace. Seems counterintuitive, the more I think about it. But at the same time, playground bullies can only be suffered and tolerated for so long. Sooner or later, the playground has to be reclaimed, taken back, so others can live and play safely. 

I'm sitting in my porch, a long way from where that terrible game is being played out. My son is resting and, hopefully, enjoying standing on ground that isn't moving beneath his feet and eating food that is closer to its freshly picked or packaged date instead of its expiration date. The ship is moored, rolling slightly in the water, a far cry from bucking through waves a dozen feet high. 

The day will return, though, when he and his ship will have to go back and try to help clear the playground, reset the game board, and re-establish rules that Hoyle probably never dreamed of. It is what he signed up for, known or unknown. He'll go back to work and do his best. He enjoys the work, mostly, and continues to learn his craft of maintenance and repair. 

What do you call a Navy man who barely made it out of high school two years ago, earned a combat action ribbon, and whose division was recognized for outstanding service and performance? 

Sailor. 

Do me a favor and say it proudly. 

After all - he's my son.