23 Years ago today...

I was a 23 year old young man with aspirations of being something more.  It was January 23, 1989.  I had spent the night in a cheap motel, under the watchful eyes of the MEPS folks.  MEPS is military speak for Military Entrance Processing Station.  It's the last civilian thing you get to see before being sent off to basic training (Boot Camp).  The night before, I could barely sleep.  I was excited and scared.  I had already shaved my moustache off but my hair was long and bushy.  I resembled Carrot Top before anyone had ever heard of him, and many, MANY years before the steroided version of him came along.  I had a wife at the time, and a 1 year old son, whom I already missed after only a few hours (I  missed my wife, too- a little).  I tried to get some sleep, but it was hard.  The excitement and fear kept me awake for a good portion of the night, and the noise from fellow travellers didn't help much.

Morning came, much too early, and it sounded like the loudest telephone in the history of telephones.  The rooms were all set to automatically call for the morning round-up.  I got up, washed my face and brushed my teeth, found some breakfast and was ready to go.  It didn't take long for us to get herded into the bus to take us all to the processing station for the second time.  The first time for most of us was when we were getting our physical done for entry into the navy.  In my case, it was 2 months prior, and it was also the time I got to pick my job.  At least I knew what I was joining for, and I was excited about learning electronics.  Of course, the first thing I had to do was get through 9 weeks of boot camp...

At the MEPS center that morning, we all went into the building and took care of a few last minute things.  Mostly, we all just waited around for our time to leave.  That time came soon enough.  It was shortly after we were sworn in for the second time.  Most people don't realize that there are 2 times a new recruit swears in: the first is when he or she is done with the physical and has chosen a field, and the second right before heading off to boot camp.  As an E3 ( I had enough college credits to join the navy as an E3 as opposed to E1), I was the senior guy for our group of 10 or so recruits, so the person in charge gave me everyones records and told me to give them to the person incharge once we got to San Diego- this was 1989 and there were three boot camps: San Diego, Orlando (where all the females went) and Chicago.  It was winter time and I was lucky enough to get to go to San Diego, for wich I received a lot of grief from the poor souls that got stuck in Chicago. In January.  Haha.  Suckers...

It was an uneventful trip for us in the plane.  My only luggage was my toothbrush and the clothes I was wearing.  My recruiteer was (the exception, and not the rule) one that made sure I was mentally prepared, and he told me much of what to expect, though not everything was exactly as he described it.  He was right in telling me to leave everything at home.  Some people show up with luggage, several days worth of clothes, etc, only to find out their recruiters were full of sh... not quite true stuff.  I knew it was going to suck, I also knew not to bring stuff I was not going to be allowed to use for God knows how long.  Once we landed in San Diego, life as we knew it suddenly seemed like a different time. 

We were grabbed up as soon as we got off the plane by the good folks at RTC/NTC San Diego. That's Recruit Training Center/ Navy Training Center San Diego, for those who don't speak military.  Nobody shouted at us yet, so I was a little surprised.  We were put onto a bus, where the driver, dressed in dungarees- the precursor to the navy utility working uniform, which was the precursor to their current cammo style of woking uniform- told us to have a seat.  that from this point forward everything we said was to be preceeded and followed by "Sir."  Still, no one had yelled at us, althought he bus driver was stern and impersonal.  Once we got to the facility, a short ride form the airport, we got off the us and lined up at which point we were pointed toward a bank of pay phones and told to "call home and let your loved ones know you're here, you're safe and you will call them again as soon as you can."

From this point on, everything-EVERYTHING- was structured.  We got in line to get our hair cut, we got in line to get our uniforms issued to us, we stood in line for chow.  It was during this time that we began to break the molds of our civilian lives and to learn how to be sailors.  We were conitinually told to "get your hands out of your pockets!"  Funny thing about not having your hands in your pockets is you realize that the muscles in your shoulders have atrophied and there is some discomfort in your arms hanging at your sides for a couple of days. Give it a try: let your arms hang at your sides; no pockets, no hands on hips.  We were herded through paperwork, medical (yes, more medical stuff), uniforms, chow and finally a couple of hours of sleep.  By now it's sometime after midnight and we've all been up for about 20+ hours.  We've had our heads shaved and we're all tired, scared and lonely.  We can't really talk to each other, so it's too early to try making friends. 

This was day one.  It's funny how many details you can remember, even after 23 years.  It was a long day, to be sure, but utterly important in the development of a sailor.  From day one we learned to pay attention to the little details.  As a matter of fact, if there is one thing I would say about basic training, it's that everything comes down to "Attention to Detail." 

***I realized after I posted this that the date said 24 January.  I wrote it on the 23rd.