If you follow Amanda's blog ( www.mrsterranaut.blogspot.com ), you already know these last few days have been particularly eventful. Friday was my last day at NMPS; really just for check out, transportation brief, and uniform issue. I was issued about 60 pounds of winter and summer Army uniforms, all crammed into a seabag. This essentially filled the bag and didn't leave much space, not enough for my gas mask, not enough for my overflowing medical records; swollen due to the quantity of dental x-rays (see previous post, "Sorry Sir, we don't see that in your records"). Realizing I was also required to bring three sets of the Navy's issue physical training (PT) uniform, which no one really wears in the Navy, with the exception of the chief select's conducting fundraiser car washes, as well as shoes, toiletries, my iPad, underwear, and a few nice to have personal items, such as a travel humidor for Montecristo cigars left in my humidor at home, or my Savinelli briar pipe. It lead to a a few tough decisions; packing for 8 months of a great unknown with only the items I could fit into a pocket of a backpack. Once I finally get to where I'm going, I can always mail stuff to myself further down the road, but for now, I'm living off what I can carry on my back.
One of the events Friday I wasn't looking forward to was my appointment with the local Nissan dealership to turn my leased car in. The car was my Ensign-mobile, my Nogaro red, two seat 350z convertible that I got in San Diego in the spring of 2008 after completing my first deployment aboard USS PORT ROYAL. It was a great car for a single man in his early 20's living by the beach in San Diego, it was the car Amanda and I drove cross country in when we moved to Virginia Beach when we first started living together, it was the car that represented to me what a single, young officer should be able to enjoy; but those days and that car belong to a different man, in a different place, with a time stamp and a passed expiration. Sliding the keys across the desk at the dealership was tough. Watching them take my license plate off and hand it back to me was tougher still. Watching the lot attendant drive away in my car and park it in the dirt and gravel lot behind the building with ugly, rusted old cars was even tougher. There were some tears.
The lease was due to run out while I'm away on deployment, and I won't be renewing it, or purchasing. While I loved that car, it simply won't work for the winters on the east coast, nor is it a practical car for a family. The money I save on the car payments, if all goes to plan, will be used for the down payment on a new BMW 335d, purchased through the factory's military sales program-which will build the car to specification and ship to the US, saving the buyer about 15-20% off the MSRP. Hopefully there will be a shiny new car waiting for me in the driveway when I get home.
After the dealership, neither Amanda or I felt like cooking. We went out to a local BBQ restaurant where I won a hot-wings challenge at a year prior. The owner told me they were out of habanero peppers, so there wasn't going to be a repeat attempt, but the restaurant provided a welcome distraction for Amanda and I none-the-less, even if only for an hour. The family counseling folks who give the required pre-deployment briefs refer to a common experience they call, 'The Wall.' For those who haven't experienced a long period of separation from loved ones, 'The Wall' describes the emotional barrier people will create leading up to the departure as a self-defense. A couple will have an increasingly hard time communicating, lesson physical contact, often avoid eye contact, and this phenomena will escalate until the departure, making the last week or so unbearably tense. The reason behind this behavior, so they say, is as a way to brace oneself for the shock of a major loss, and to pre-cognitively self induce the separation, so that at least, in a way, you have some sort of control over the situation. There comes a point leading up to the day you've been dreading most where you can't wait for the actual moment to come, just to get it over with. When separation anxiety comes, most people respond with some sort of compulsive behavior. Some people drink a lot, others bury themselves for hours a day in a hobby, some people, like me, spend money. I can always tell outwardly when its weighing on my mind, because I tend to spend money very freely: weekend trips, dinners out, new camera equipment for myself, buying lots of gifts for my wife. I think its because I feel guilty about leaving her. After dinner, for the rest of the night, I really began to pack in earnest, making trips back and forth from one room to another gathering belongings to be assembled for cramming into my backpack. With each trip passing the living room and Amanda, I could feel the wall between she and I getting bigger. I already felt bad I couldn't spend my last hours home with her, rather than packing, but then I also couldn't make eye contact with her for fear of seeing her tears, nor could I speak to ask her how she was for fear of what the truth might sound like. The night was spent silently packing by myself. Finally finishing around 0230 Saturday morning, I crept into bed. I laid there for two hours, without a chance of falling asleep, and then rose from my own bed one last time. I don't know if Amanda was asleep, or if she simply was silent too. The wall was there, and it was stronger than I'd ever felt before. As this is my first deployment married, this is probably going to be the new normal.
Saturday morning, I packed my issued gear seabag in Amanda's car, and put on my backpack, made one last trip around the house to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything and then said my goodbye to Amanda. We've always agreed to say our goodbyes at home, in private, rather than the drawn out public display some sailors will do. These are the types that bring their whole family, including their crying children, making it awkward for all around them. Amanda placed my wedding band on my finger and slipped my dog tags over my head. I gave Amanda the Troll Bead charm bracelet I had begun for her the previous week.
The trip to Norfolk was quick, no cars were on the road that early and we arrived way too fast. Their were still puddles on the ground from rain the night before and the puddles reflected the yellow light of the industrial sulfur gas street lamps. With a quick kiss, we separated; Amanda drove off into the still early morning darkness and I was left at the front of the NMPS building with bags in hand. As I was one of the first there, I witnessed the rest of the group arrive in much the same fashion, though some brought their families with them into the building. Inside the building: a very short accountability muster and a send off-prayer from the command chaplain asking God for protection for warriors and their families. Just as the sun was rising, we boarded the busses for the Navy Individual Augmentee Combat Training (NIACT) in Fort Jackson, SC, passing through rows of staff members from the USO, elderly veterans from the local American Legion post shaking our hands and two large, bearded, leather clad bikers from the Patriot Guard Riders Motorcycle Club, adorned with many ribbons and pins from the Vietnam era. The two busses departed to crying wives, children, saluting old veterans and drove through an arch created by two waving American flags held by the Patriot Guard Riders on either side of the street approaching the gate. It was actually a pleasant and quite moving send-off. I especially appreciated it following the indignant homecoming in May from my last deployment to the Persian Gulf. It felt fitting and appropriate without any excess. As soon as the busses left, while it still sad to be leaving home, I fell asleep-something I haven't been able to do in a long while. Leaving is tough, perhaps only matched by the stress of re-adjusting and coming home; but it also has a silver lining of a much needed catharsis, the culmination of a lot of building stress. The deployment counter has started, every day passed is a day closer to home, now is the time to focus on work and relax my mind, now is the time to laugh again with Amanda, even if only through email and phone calls. This deployment is now underway: Shift Colors.
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