Tempus Fugit
Two weeks at sea. Three weeks at sea. How long since were last in port? The watches blend, one into the other. The days pass without notice. Suddenly another week has elapsed.
There is very little to mark the difference of one day from the next. Most of the difference that there is can be found on Crew’s Mess. Nuclear training (which I, mercifully, do not have to attend on account of being a SONAR Tech) on Mondays, tacos for lunch on Tuesday, Italian night on Thursday, exam period on Fridays followed by burgers for lunch and pizza for dinner on Saturday which submariners call “Faturday.” Sunday there are Christian services led by volunteer lay leaders during the morning watch.
My section has deemed the sabbath as “Saga Sunday” during which we watch a double feature of movies from two different film franchises. Work is banished with gusto, the lights are switched off for prime viewing and bags of microwave popcorn are tossed to the gleeful hands packing the tables. This is our one day to truly relax and we revel in it. Laughter is plentiful and loud. Jokes and playful jabs are exchanged.
How long until we make port again? How many nautical miles away is that?
While the submarine itself seems eternal, most everything within seems to be temporary. We only have to deal with that guy for a few more months until he transfers. Once the junior guy qualifies your watch you can move up to the next station. Study for your advancement exam in three weeks. Deployment is more than half over. Unless we get extended. When would they tell us? Six months left on this sea tour and then its three wonderful years of shore duty!
Retirement! What an odd action to be considering in one’s mid-thirties! Twenty years of active service seems to be coming to a less distant and more crashing end for me in 2021. Without a solid answer to the often asked, “What are you going to do when you grow up?” question that date looms rather large. The implication of the question cannot be overstated either. After twenty years of being told what to wear, when to eat, where to be and when, and whom to salute; how will I know what to do with myself when growing up time arrives?
For now, I have nothing but time. Time enough to lie awake in my rack and think about a future which still needs planning and a past that has shaped who I am.
The worst thing a sailor on watch can do is note the time. If a watched pot never boils then a watch minded never ends. Best to keep your mind and your shipmates occupied with conversation. Tell us about the first car you owned, the worst date you ever went on, that story you told about our next port. Yeah, that time!
Time is important to a sailor. Someone arriving just in time is labeled a “bell tapper,” not a moniker to be sought. The tapper does not care about your time, lost track of theirs. Do we have time to get a nap between the meal and training? If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean!
Sailors are acutely aware of the finite aspect of time, especially that time spent ashore. It really is no wonder that sailors are known for drinking and carousing in foreign ports. Its right there in our fight song:
“To our last night ashore / Drink to the foam!
Until we meet once more / Here’s wishing you a happy voyage home!”
There is always work to be done beyond that horizon so a sailor must cram as much living into those precious hours on terra firma as can be crammed.
This column is not endorsed by the US Navy and any opinions herein are my own.
STS1(SS) Aaron B. Skellenger, USN
USS OLYMPIA (SSN 717)
