How Did I Get Here?

Saturday

Well, I did pretty good but the Alphas still felt a little too snug yesterday so my answer to that was to get my ass out of my sweltering hot bed and go for a run. And where am I at but San Diego so do you think I would have any trouble finding good places to run.

The answer is a resounding NO and I looked on a map to make my choice for this morning’s run. I settled on a running path by the beach. How more stereotypical than that for my first Saturday in San Diego?

I drove to a place called Crown Point and found the path. It was fairly early and I just started running. Within a few minutes, I made a startling discovery: I realized I was the ugliest person on the beach. Now mind you, I am not a hideous-looking person but I am not delusional enough to think that I have movie-star looks either.

But I’m in southern California and I never felt so ugly in my entire life. Most places I’ve lived, if you saw a beautiful person, you took notice and say to yourself, wow, look at THAT! Why do we do this? (other than being a shallow pig of a man?)

Because it’s uncommon to see a stunner. But here, they’re like sand on the beach. I looked around and thought, “Criminy, are they filming a movie here or something?”

And you would think I could just appreciate the beautiful people but no, the effect was to make me feel that much uglier. This is all going to take some getting used to. I’m not in Virginny anymore, that’s for sure.

The run progressed and then digressed. I got all the way to Mission Bay Boardwalk (I later found out) where I came to the end of the path. I didn’t know where to go and asked a woman walking her dog. She told me that the path kind of ends but the boardwalk goes on for another mile. I thanked her and asked what that was, pointing in the general direction of the Ferris wheel. What I MEANT was the whole carnival set up, expecting something like “that’s the boardwalk carnival” or some other tidbit of information. What I got was “a Ferris Wheel.”

I looked at her without saying a word for a moment and she realized what I meant and started laughing. I don’t know who felt more foolish.

I passed the normal assortment of abnormalities you see on a boardwalk. The bums, the surfers, the old people in leathery baked skin, the beach volleyball girls with bodies of granite and faces of men, the young all-night drinkers with mussed hair and hungover looks, the metal-detector optimists, the street-sermon screamers, and the druggies.

I got to the end, turned around, and headed back. About 15 minutes later, I was starting to feel the ill-effects of the sun that was now beating down on me and I caved. For the first time in recent memory, I removed my shirt, motivated by the much fatter and beer-bellied people I saw and enjoyed the California sun as I finished the last half hour.

When I got to the end, I drank about a gallon of water and then grabbed a towel. I was, after all, at a beach and why rush home? I laid out for 10 minutes on each side as I recovered and then packed up to go back to the barracks.

If you do the math, I exposed my torso for a half hour on the run and 10 minutes on each side after. No problem, I thought.

Problem.

I was cooked.

What the hell? I know I was Virginia white but it just didn’t seem all that long. But the proof was in the lobster and I was tender all over within a couple of hours.

Dumbass.

First weekend and I fry myself like a rookie.

I didn’t have a lot of time to sulk because I had an event tonight. The band was playing a concert in front of the General’s building and I had been invited to go by the CO and XO. Good, I thought, it was something to do but I had to iron out my one pair of slacks and put on a collared shirt over my burnt torso. I chose my Under Armor shirt because it was somewhat silky on the skin and duh, it was Under Armour (Protect This House!).

Before the concert I went to the band hall to meet the band. I thought they might get a kick out of meeting the new Company Commander and it was a chance to show them that I was supporting them like a good little Commander. I walked in and asked for the Senior Enlisted which ended up being a Master Sergeant and they went and got him. He was in civilian clothes still and I introduced myself.

We made small talk for a minute and then he informs me, “Sir, you know we belong to Service Company, don’t you?”

I didn’t. I thought they belonged to Headquarters.

“Sure, Top, pshhht, of course. I just wanted to say hello and wish you good luck.”

I left feeling rather foolish. Slick, new Company Commander. Any other sticking your foot up your ass you want to show anyone else? Maybe the General’s around and you can really show your ass.

I sat next to the XO and enjoyed the concert. I really enjoyed it more than I thought I would, thinking I was there out of obligation at first but after a few songs, I found myself really having a good time.

When the General got up to speak, I was impressed. Generals know how to talk, of course, but rumor had it that this one had it down to an art form. He seemed to be universally loved by everyone on base.

When he introduced the distinguished guests, I really felt humbled. Out of 113 living recipients of the Medal of Honor (our nation’s highest honor), two of them were in the audience. One was Army and one was Marine Corps.

I couldn’t believe it. These guys DEFINED hero and there was no reason either one should still be breathing. What they had done to earn that Medal is nothing short of impossible but here they were, enjoying the same event that I was and felt so unworthy. No matter how jaded anyone is, there is no denying that anyone who earned that Medal deserved nothing less than the utmost respect.

The General also introduced General Fulham. I instantly took notice of this for the simple fact that he was the Commanding General of the base when I went through boot camp. And the reason I remember that is two-fold. First, his full-page picture is displayed in my boot camp book (similar to a yearbook) and is the only picture I’ve ever seen of him. Second, I worked with his son while I was the Regimental Adjutant for 7th Marines in 29 Palms.

After the show, most people rushed the CG or the Medal of Honor recipients but I went right for General Fulham. He was older looking than his picture of course (19 years older, to be exact) and as I stuck out my hand, he looked at me with what can only be described as confusion.

“My name is Captain Grose, the new Company Commander for Headquarters Company and you, Sir, were my Commanding General when I went through recruit training here 19 years ago.”

His wife beamed at me. The General stood there with a “what the hell do I say to that” look on his face for a second and then the moment broke and he shook my hand smiling. He told me how long it had been since HE had gone through bootcamp (before I was born, of course) and we made small talk for a moment. I told him I had worked with his son and in my head, I prayed his son wasn’t dead, estranged, or otherwise ostracized.

Before all this happened, I have to mention the end of the concert. It was dark and the lights had come on to bath the band in light. As they played the Marine’s Hymn, Marines dressed in WWII battle fatigues came running out with a flag and fell right into place, posing in the legendary Iwo Jima flag-raising scene. It was enough to make any Marines chest swell with pride and eyes swell with tears.

But a couple of things went awry. As the Marines were running to get to their places, I had heard the tell-tale sound of a helmet hitting the deck. Sure enough, when they came into sight, one of the Marines was missing his helmet. Although this did not detract from the scene all that much, the fact that the Marine was black became a little more evident. I’m not saying there was anything wrong with a black Marine posing in the scene (all the original Marines were white), but when he lost his helmet, it just became more pronounced. It made me wonder if anyone had a problem with it. Certainly none of the modern Marines but I wondered if any of the Old Corps present even took notice. To me, it was just a little funny since I could just feel for the poor guy, losing his helmet and then having to take his place in the famous scene sans helmet.

Maybe I’m a little susceptible to sentimentality but a familiar yet never-fully-get-used-to feeling came over me as I sat there in the crowd. Here I was, the former Recruit Grose who, so many years ago just a few hundred yards from the very spot I was sitting, died a thousand deaths being one of the hive. The Hated Hive.

And now I’m sitting in a crowd as a Captain, a Company Commander, and in the midst of Marine Corps VIPs, Generals, and Medal of Honor recipients. I didn’t feel like the “Upper Crust” but rather someone let in and allowed to be among those who my former self would have seen as stratospheric. I felt like a representative of those blue-collar workerbees invited to the ball only to discover… these people are no better or worse than me when you strip off the decorations.

All but the Medal of Honor recipients. They are immortal.

But I left that evening with that feeling echoing inside of me: don’t look down on anyone based on rank. Base your assessment on their character.

I already knew this of course but sometimes it takes everything else to be quiet for me to hear what I already know.

Free Advice for Today: “Go on blind dates. Remember, that’s how I met your mother.”