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Deployment is coming to a slow, painfully so, yet steady close. The crew counts the days down in various manners; some people prefer weeks, others days, even counting down "American" days--we have burgers on Wednesdays. I find that counting paychecks isn't as sore on the eyes, we only receive two a month after all.



I've been spending my pester-free evenings on the port break smoke deck. I stand in the somewhat narrow passage flooded by crimson red light and watch the weary faces on either side. We all congregate at one point or another for cherished "Bitching Sessions." Some smoke two, occasionally three cigarettes before disappearing back into the skin of the ship. I find my relief there, sometimes engaging in small-talk, other times I observe.



I learn people best when I watch them, though discretely because not everyone takes kindly to being scrutinized. Understandable. I've found some of the more trustworthy individuals on the ship through this practice. The ones who speak too much and listen little are those I am wary of. Listeners are a blessing, but can also be dangerous, much like observers.



Listeners are in a position to know, observers see what others do not; I am a mixture of the two. I wonder what that would make me? "Aware" might be the simplest term for it. Either way, the habits can prove annoying even to myself. If there were a switch located in my mind, I'd turn it off.



Once the break clears of the on-going and off-going watch standers I tend to wander out the hatch leading to the forecastle. We're not allowed topside once "darken ship" is set, so I sit on the knee-knocker and watch the stars. How fortunate am I to see the blanket of night illuminated by the moon's spotlight. I watch the stars like scattered neighbors, picking out the constellations, and think to myself: "This is possibly the most relaxing part of my day."

I'm reflecting on the past few months as of late. Last year had been eventful, you see. I was engaged to a young man--"boy" would be more appropriate--who was a scant twenty years old. Being three years his senior, I attempted to think nothing of the age difference, fatally miscalculating his maturity level. I was only faintly heartbroken when I decided to part ways with him; I say this because I felt more pity for him than for myself.



Why on earth would I feel something so ridiculous? Well, he lives under the delusion that he's greater than he is only because his self-esteem demands it. People don't realize how insecure and fragile individuals like him can be. He lives in constant need of reassurance; He is like a submissive who craves the approval of multiple Masters in order to feel desirable. Obviously, the approval of one simply will not do.



I'm a mother already, I refuse to raise another woman's partially matured son. After that relationship I realized that the few men I've had in my adult life bore similar traits, mostly centered around their age. I'd never entertained the notion of finding someone beyond my years, not until recently...

Another "fun-filled" day at sea. I wake up each morning, or stand watch into the early hours, to stroll onto the fantail of the ship and light my morning vitamin N. The scene before my eyes is often breathtaking: a play of pale pinks, swirling whites, and orange framed by hues of blue fading from the depth of night into the coming day. I hear the rise and fall of the ocean's waves against the hull of the ship and close my eyes. People often only imagine scenes so picturesque.



There are only a few small discrepancies with this fantasy; I realize I'm standing on deck gray non-skid beneath thick, steel-toed leather working boots, and clad in dark blue coveralls that loosely drape my frame. I'm at work... Not on vacation, or even remotely near the shore of my own home. I am floating in the middle of the the Mediterranean to ensure grown men in charge of countries don't harm their neighbors...Mostly because we're incapable of minding our own business or ridding ourselves of liabilities.



I spend every waking hour with a crew of 260 some-odd men and women, whose number one priority is their own selfish desires. I've watched married men nonchalantly toy around with young, naive girls who dare consider themselves women; on the same token, I've seen girls dishonor their fiances without so much as a hint of remorse. Loneliness is a great part of what my career entails--not the most wonderful aspect, but certainly a test of individual strength.



In the midst of all this, I crawl into my rack every night to gaze at the photos adorning the wall beside my pillow. Captured in the colorful stills are memories suspended in time, and a face so lovely that angels weep with envy. My daughter's doll-like countenance, with wide dark orbs that still manage to beam with innocence, will always lighten my heart. I am here for her; everything I do is to ensure her future is brighter than my past.

COMMENTS

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TheUnknownObis
02:06 Apr 04 2012

This belongs in poetry it is beautiful, brings a tear to the eye.

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