CHAPTER 2
 

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Life is but a dream.

Child's Song

             I freely admit a man in a uniform has always beguiled me.   They look so neat, tidy, washed behind the ears and respectful.  And if they don’t know you too well, they will even hold the door open for you.  Of course, that was before Women’s Lib.

Athens, Greece, seven years later

            The Greek sun was warm on our shoulders, and the Greek sand under our toes, began the process of a sabbatical, brief though it may be.  The tiny Pirreus restaurant with its rickety tables on a simple patio and the best calamari in Greece, made the perfect backdrop for what lay in front of us.   Small fishing boats were pulled up on the beach with fishermen repairing their nets. Beyond was a five -mile stretch of the sparkling Aegean Sea; to the left, the sprawling ancient city of Athens.  I found it hard to believe this small town Iowa girl felt so at home in such a rocky, hard land.

           Squinting my eyes, I could see the aircraft carrier Forrestal as it lay at anchor, five miles out.  This ship had been my husband’s command, his home and responsibility for the past two years.  Quiet and mighty, looking every inch the lethal war machine it was, even in peaceful times, it stood guard over this friendly NATO country.  That air of force, that feeling of supremacy, invulnerability and the sheer size of the great gray beast made the viewer shrink in proportion.

            Shame on me.

            No man who had ever served on board such a ship would ever call it a beast.  But I was a wife and instead of a mistress, my husband had a ship.

            For the unknowing, a mistress is easier to deal with.

            My contented reverie was broken when Jim opened his eyes, stretched, then unfolded his tall, slim frame and walked slowly down to the sea’s edge where a wiry, little fisherman sat on the warm sand next to his tiny, blue rowboat, examining his net for tears.   Hunching his shoulders, Jim squatted beside him and with many gestures, a few words with his wallet in hand, struck a deal.  For what, I hadn’t a clue.  He returned, smiling.

            “On your feet, old girl.  We’re about to take a boat ride.” 

Being a man of few words, he offered no more and I regretfully left my chair, picked up my shoes and without question, walked to the water’s edge. 

To hear is to obey.  One doesn’t live with the military for twenty-five years without learning the basics. 

            “Are we swimming out to the ship or just soaking our feet in the Aegean?” I hoped for the foot -soak because it felt so good.

            The little fisherman with dark skin like tanned leather, smiled solemnly and tiny wrinkles creased every inch of his face.  Climbing into his boat, he motioned us in.  He was barefooted, but his feet were so callused, they looked like shoes.  His wiry body bent to the oars with arms that were nothing but muscle and we settled into place for an afternoon on the Aegean Sea. 

            As we cast off, I felt the stress of the past few days begin to recede.  The weary acceptance of the continual lack of my husband’s presence, coupled with the knowledge of what was expected of me as his wife, slipped away and we were just two people, alone.   I looked forward to the moments we could talk to each other without the shrill screech of the bosun’s whistle or the thunder of metal on metal as the business of moving planes onto the fight deck continued unabated.  Not that I minded those sounds.  Twenty-five years of aircraft carriers had left me with a deep, abiding respect and a visceral thrill each time I walked their length.  In my early years as a Navy wife, looking up at the towering mass of steel as it sat in its berth, I imagined what it was saying to me.

            “Shape up, lady, or ship out.” 
And I was just young enough to say, “YES SIR!”