Adrift, Awash, Alone

Hazy thoughts from Ian, tumbler in hand and well-drained whiskey bottle in reach, because the drinks bring back all the memories.

We’d moved before, but not like this. Until then, we never lived anywhere longer than two years. We lived in San Diego eleven years.

We met Miss Lucy at Starbucks the day before we left. She’d been Artemis’ babysitter nearly the whole time we lived there. Used to bring over boxes of books and toys and Artemis loved exploring all of them.  

As a goodbye, Miss Lucy gave Artemis a set of books and their favorite Muffy doll from those boxes. They were practically theirs, anyway. 

After dinner we met with Cheyenne and her daughter, Amelia, Artemis’ best friend, for a walk and goodbyes.

We stopped by Lena and Jerry’s house, and Lena gave us bean buns. A neighbor across the street gave us carrot muffins. Others came over just to say goodbye. Such good people, and such good friends to the ex, watching after her and Artemis during my time at sea. I miss them, yet even after all that time I never got to know them as well as I would have liked.

That was 2018. It had been fifteen years since we had a community, back in the early 2000s before Artemis came along. We were young, fresh out of college, and surrounded by people in the same situation. I remember July 4^th, 2003 when Kelly, Bob, April and the two of us went to the top of the hill on Evergreen Street in Point Loma overlooking San Diego Bay to watch five simultaneous fireworks shows all over the city. We sat in the Jeep with the top down and radio on, a broadcast of John Philip Sousa to go along with the lights.

The breeze felt cool and comfortable, the sky cloudless and perfect, and I felt like my 10-year-old self, in awe of the colors and loving the company. The city lights shimmered clear and bright, a perfect backdrop. I thought about all the possibilities and hope, the good things we have going for us, the happy life that awaited.

We arrived in Norfolk and the next two years vanished. It seems so stupid to say it now, but I had important work to do as Reactor Officer on USS Midway. So much time at sea. And of the little time inport, so many days leaving the house long before sunrise to return just before bed. Sometimes I stayed overnight on the ship. It was easier, I thought. 

We deployed in January 2020. COVID hit in March. I returned to an unrecognizable country in August. I left the ship in October. And that’s when things got bad between us.

In November 2020, I live-streamed Mass from a Chapel in Knock, Ireland. The cantor had such a crystal-clear voice, so stunning, Lord have mercy.

After the breaking of the bread and the Agnus Dei, the priest administered communion to himself. No one else came up to receive it. Ireland was on lockdown. 

I wonder how many like me, unaware of each other, attended from somewhere else in the world and heard that beautiful singing? All of us heard it with no way to share it.

I remember sitting in the garage with the door open in March 2021, just a few weeks after leaving the hospital, and after the ex left with Artemis, imagining the day when the pandemic finally ends: 

Word gets out among the neighborhood to come outside, the same way we do when there’s a power outage. We open our doors and, for the first time in over 18 months, we realize we can step within 6 feet of each other maskless.

It starts with frantic waves and big smiles, then handshakes, then even hugs. People start walking around the neighborhood looking for others to meet and be close to. Some set up chairs in their front yards to watch. Others go around passing out lemonade or sweet tea. Still others set up their grills in their driveways, cooking for anyone who wants it. Another sets up a stereo system in the front, playing the greatest hits from the past 70 years, music everyone knows by heart. The basketball hoops come out on the street and teams form, young kids and old folks coming together to shoot hoops. No one cares about skill, no one cares about winning. 

For the first time anyone can remember, even in the years before we knew anything about COVID, people know the names of their immediate neighbors and also the people around the block. The old man who never leaves his house. The old woman who lives alone. The young struggling parents of the child with special needs. The teenagers too shy to say hello. The career-driven adults too busy for friends. All of them – all the people who struggle.

We get to know them and make it a point from here on out to visit. We’ll make them dinner. We’ll knock on their door and ask them to come out and play. We’ll look after each other. We’ll be good neighbors. 

And at the end of that day when we've been satisfied with the hugs and the smiles and the food, the promises, the music, the tears, the laughs, and the handshakes we will go home happy and go to bed hopeful. We will wake up on a day that, on the surface, looks exactly like every day before but is like none we have ever seen. In our small corner of the world there is hope among us all that our world will be better.

What was I thinking?

I spent twenty-five years in the Navy working my ass off, and for the first half of my time, changing jobs and locations every two to three years. My community was my command, and my friends were my coworkers. No matter where they assigned me, I always had people in the same literal boat, always a basis for friendship or camaraderie. I never had to try.

Any friendship outside of work came from the ex. 

Then you leave the work. And the family leaves you. And you have nothing left but this bottle. 

To be continued...

This is a work of fiction based on actual events.

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