TheTransition

Most people can manage to make it through life with few,if any, life-changing transitions.  For aboat sailor, it happens each time you return home.

Like many things that take us temporarily out of normalcy,the transition from sea life to shore life is something to be experienced andnever forgotten.

It begins with channel fever, that well known butdifficult-to-describe experience of men that go to sea.  Out on a boat, it is the mindset that allowsone to endure the hardships, and joys, of life at sea.  But there are limits, unspoken and endured,but when you have it in your mind that you are, in fact, heading for the pier,the mind races and the hormones are close behind.

Even though the sea-story-generator has been at “all aheadfull” since the last line was thrown over, once channel fever sets in, someknarly-knuckled Chief reaches over to that big invisible brass handle and ringsup “balls to the wall.” 

Hanging like a monkey from some miscellaneous handwheel inthe overhead, Jimmy B. tells of a girl he met in a bar in Charleston that he’sbeen hittin’ on for weeks and figures that when he gets back in, she may beprimed and ready for his “four engine run” – the nodding of his shipmates headsconceal their earlier acceptance that this is one of many“dreams-yet-to-come-true” stories they’ll have to endure before tying up at thepier. 

A second-class auxilliaryman has tears in his eyes at thethought of seeing his second child for the first time.  She will be a month-and-a-half old now, wellon her way to developing her personality without any influence from him.  His first child, a son, also arrived during arun “up north.” The bravado that got him through both of these experiences runsthin now as he tries so damned hard to remember what it’s like to holdsomething so small and loves you back.

Younger guys like Dave, Bill and Kev’ are already dreamingabout pounding down beers and chasing skirts on the beach.  With any luck, tomorrow’s memories will end afew hours from now – but not without extracting a toll and maybe a new tatoo.

The hours go by, more than expected – we should have beenin by now.  Then, the screw changes speedoften, fast/slow, fast slow – actually, most didn’t even notice until therumble of that first back bell.  That’sit!  A back bell means we’re close.

The quiet conversation takes on an urgent note as youwonder which section will have the first watch in port.  Jesus Christ – you’re getting’ liberty thistime!

A few gentle bumps tell us we’re finally against the pier.At this precise moment, only three things exist in life: shore power, potablewater and liberty call!!! Most pitch in to help make it all happen. Others findthat well-hidden set of civies, smell their armpits and join the back of thenow-long line near the hatch – just waiting for the 1MC to crack to life withthe two most beautiful words ever heard: Liberty Call.

Then it comes, and two or three shipmates climb up theladder at a time, like each man had two others growing out of his back.  When it’s your turn, the heavy moist airdrops down the hatch at a speed that seems to exceed your exit.  You drink it in – so much thicker and sweetthan what you’ve breathed for weeks.

For a moment, there is guilt.  You are one of the lucky ones – someone iswaiting for you at the end of the pier. You think of Jimmy H. who just transferred to the boat.  No one’s waiting on the pier for Jimmy.  He has the duty – maybe that’s it.  No, even if he didn’t, no one would bethere.  Half way up the ladder, you hesitatefor a moment and look back to see if you can see Jimmy – just to give him athumbs up or something.  He’s not there,damn, you’ll buy him a beer tomorrow at the EM club…. yeah that’s it.

Then you step off the brow and on to the pier for thefirst time.  The sun just fell below thehorizon and there’s a mist in the air – fall is coming.  Your eyes strain through the crowd on thepier.  Picking thin lines through guyshugging wives and girlfriends and babies and sons and daughters and brothersand sisters and everything but the damned family dog.

Your heart skips a beat here and there as you can findyour sweetie anywhere.  Moving throughthe crowd of shipmates, you smile unconvincingly, glad-had some, clap a fewshoulders with well-wishes and suddenly you’re just about out of people to wadethrough.

Then, like some mysterious radar, your head turns towardthe far end of the pier where she waits all alone – just for you.Instinctively, you put in check the urge to run down the pier and immediatelyassume your best John Wayne amble. (damn, this is one helluva time for thismanly bulls**t).  But God bless JohnWayne for never walking in a straight line because your sea-legs – you suddenlyrealize - aren’t going away for awhile.

Your drunken weave becomes more and more noticeable and,in the dim light, she’s smiling about it too – then a warm laugh.

You stop just a few inches short of touching her… wantingto drink it all in one last time – you’ve waited so long.

Then you hold your sweetheart close and wonder howsomething this lovely could be yours – something this soft and warm seemsabsolutely foreign at this moment.

And the first smell of perfume, not too much, but enoughto remove any doubt that you’ve left the sea behind for awhile.

The transistion ends with that walk down the pier, herhead on your shoulder, and your hand on her waist touching curves that are mostdefinitely not man-made.

You’re home, and happy, and content.  Only a small part of your soul was leftbehind, at sea, waiting patiently… for the transition to begin again.