I joined the US Navy just a few months after my 19th birthday. I was working overnight as a maintenance employee at McDonald's, and had read about how in some countries in Europe (and indeed, all over the world), young men were required to serve at least 2 years of compulsory military service as a way of giving back to their country.
If you've read my blog or checked out my Twitter account, you'll know that I'm deeply patriotic, and come from a family where I knew the US Flag Code when I was 10. Like every other American kid, I stood hand on heart and recited The Pledge of Allegiance each day in school at the beginning of class. There are even laws requiring the pledge, that vary from state to state.
I know that in many ways I'm fortunate to have been born an American, even more so when I saw the abject poverty around the world, during my first trip abroad on my inaugural Navy world cruise.
I've shared about my visit to East Africa, and what a shocker it was to meet people who couldn't own a gun, couldn't openly criticize their government, and only ate meals a few times a week.
However, this post is about my time in Navy boot camp, where I went through a physical (and mental) transformation that has benefited me to this very day.
Eat It
You see, one of the perks of being the maintenance guy, was that I could eat anything I wanted to, free of charge. And you'd better believe I took full advantage of that culinary bounty, night after night. I dived into mountains of vanilla sundaes, dribbled with hot fudge sauce, loads of sprinkles, and a juicy cherry (or two, or three) on top.
I gorged on buckets of chicken nuggets, dipped in ranch, honey mustard, and BBQ sauce. On occasion, I even dunked them into said ice cream. Don't even get me started on the hot apple pies, and the bacon cheeseburgers stacked 4 patties high, and slathered with mayo.
Yes, there were benefits to doing a job that nobody else wanted to do. So when I shocked my incredulous boss by telling him I was giving two weeks notice and joining the military, I was quite the porker and in the worst physical shape in my life.
But that was about to change, oh you'd better believe it...
You see, they don't advertise this, but in US Navy boot camp in Great Lakes Illinois, they force recruits to do a lot of fucking running. At "Great Mistakes" as it is affectionately known, I had the misfortune of joining in February. And trust me, they don't call nearby Chicago 'The Windy City' for nothing.
The windows in our bay were kept OPEN ALL NIGHT LONG, IN ORDER TO "ACCLIMATIZE" us to the joys of winter.
but it was the memory of those runs inside a giant enclosed running track that stayed with me, as well as the days when we had to run "Double-Time" everywhere. On those days, If I was acting as a courier dropping a paper off at the other side of the base, I had to run.
During our company runs (which happened several times a week), you'd hear almost a hundred guys huffing, puffing, and wheezing their way to the finish line. For some strange reason, I found myself not dead last, but dancing dangerously close to the tail end of that long line.
Me and the other fat fucks were always bringing up the rear, and anyone who who was still separated from the main core of the group, was to be kicked out of the service by the end of boot camp.
And it didn't stop at just running. No, those sadists introduced us to something called "The Flutter Kick" This resembled a form of Medieval torture, that only the fittest guys could excel at. I remember thinking: "What the fuck does this have to do with me sitting in front of a radar screen aboard a ship?"
It was only later on that I found out that this was their way of not only conditioning us, but also acted as a filter to weed out those recruits who lacked:
PERSERVERENCE...
You see, if you couldn't handle a few months of the rigors of boot camp, how would you deal with the rigors of a six-month deployment at sea, or extended General Quarters during wartime?
So it made a whole lot of sense to "shake the tree" and see who fell off.
It wasn't about to be me.
The groups tail consisted of me and a number of other fat, out of shape guys, along with one dude in his thirties who we all affectionately called 'Old Man.' Dripping with sweat, we'd encourage each other, as our "C.O." (Company Commander), hurled abuse at us, while calling our mothers whores and sluts for daring to have given birth to us.
But I took this "culling of the herd" seriously, cause no fucking way was I going to shame the family by flunking out, after the big deal I made by joining the navy in the first place.
I cut out the snacks and the sodas. Performed extra conditioning on days off, and pushed myself to the limits and beyond.
And I slowly started moving forward in that mass group...
But I never neglected my navy brothers who were still struggling and lagging in the rear, often dropping back to encourage them. In the military, you're only as strong as your weakest link. And we weren't going to lose anybody or leave anyone behind.
I'll never forget the big kid from Iowa. He told us he'd had sex with cows on his farm, and that all the country boys did it; and we believed him. That's where I first heard about the practice of "Cow Tipping" and learned from him that it was a real thing. Why? I don't know. I guess they get bored out in the country.
Whatever his background, he was one of us now, his face turning red, sweat streaming down, as he huffed and wheezed his way to the finish line.
Memories of this make me emotional, because he was kicked out of his home at 18 (after his conduct with the cows), and had nowhere to live which forced him to join the navy. If this didn't work out, he'd have no home to go back to.
Sometimes he'd fall while running, exhausted and weeping, telling us he couldn't do it anymore. But several of us would go back, help him collect himself, then get him up, and get him going again before the "C.O." noticed.
I shared tips with him and the others bringing up the rear, as we all slowly got better together.
"Old Man" was also of particular concern, because while he wasn't overweight, he was in his mid thirties, and had led a very sedentary life.
Him, the guy from Iowa, and a few others, usually formed a pack that dropped behind the main group. Fall too far back, and they'd attract the attention (and wrath) of the C.O.
I organized a group that took turns falling back to help those guys. I told them to run in our wake (like a ship), as it would be a bit easier with less wind resistance.
And they did.
Day after day, you could see the progress, as they slowly caught up with the main pack. The C.O. yelling "Run you fuckers, RUN!" still rings in my ears, and is a phrase I'll never forget. "Old Man" in his thirties really needed to make it in the navy, as his area had almost no job prospects, and he had children to care for.
I'd drop back and tease him about his gorgeous wife. "You want that pussy clamped around another mans cock? "NO!" he'd shout. "Then you better run and catch it before it slips away boy!"
And run he did.
By the midpoint of boot camp, they'd almost caught up with the main mass of the group. By the final quarter, there were no longer any laggards, so we only had to keep a maintenance eye on them, and I could continue moving up in the group, while occasionally glancing back to ensure they were still with us.
The Last Lap
I can still remember that last run. Nobody fell, and we all ran together as one team. The kid from Iowa was no longer wheezing, or turning red as he ran, and "Old Man" in his thirties, was actually near the middle of the pack with me.
At the last lap, my brotherhood group went back, and we formed a line with our arms around each other and stepped over the line together. It was a wondrous moment, as we could celebrate that everyone made it, and we left no man behind.
I was in the best shape of my life and kept it up until I was assigned to my destroyer in Norfolk, Virginia. The US Navy has the BEST food of all the services. We have the best chow, full stop. And you can eat as much as you want. Seconds, thirds, fourths, there are no empty bellies aboard a Navy ship. None.
My job working in "CIC" (the Combat Information Center), sitting in front of a computer screen for hours on end tracking ships, planes, and potential enemy targets "Vampire, Vampire!" caused me to slowly put on the pounds again.
But I never forgot the lessons we learned and the comradery we all felt taking our navy journey together. We all stayed in touch, and at six months, then one year later, we checked, and everybody was still in. The Iowa kid ended up saving money while he was enlisted, and leads a successful life today, and is restored to his family. The "Old Man" did indeed get to go home and enjoy his beautiful wife, and was able to re-enlist in order to support his amazing family.
And now we tie this back to Hive.
Persevere. No matter what happens; KEEP. PLUGGING. AWAY!
We've lost a number of good people over the years to misguided downvoting, muting, and shunning. Some people engaging in these practices think they're doing the platform good, but are actually the worst enemies of Hive, and are directly responsible for the exodus of good content creators over the years.
Don't expect upvotes, no one owes you any. Consider each one as a surprise gift, and don't develop a dependence on them. As what they giveth, they can just as quickly taketh away. I write for other platforms as well, heeding my beloved grandmothers admonition to never put all of your eggs in one basket.
But above all, improve yourself both as a writer and a person. Develop skills that you can take ANYWHERE no matter what happens on Hive. Grow your account over time, so that one day YOU'LL be the whale giving out fat, juicy, upvotes to deserving content creators.
PERSERVERE, and leave no man behind.