ORCA TO CS1 I WILL PROTECT CONVOY
During World War II, the Arctic Convoys were vital supply routes that transported military equipment, food, and other essentials from the Western Allies to the Soviet Union, through the treacherous waters of the Arc...
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I was twelve years old when my father left for the war. He had already been drafted, but he resolved to take us all on one last fishing trip together so that we might keep the business afloat while he was gone.
It was me, Christopher, Garrett, and little Martin.
"Watch where you stand." Father boomed every now and then. "If the wind catches the spar and you're standing in front of it, you'll be thrown clear off!"
I heeded the warning, ducking below that big wood beam, weary of its sudden shaking and jerky movements in the Monterey Bay winds. I always treated the Ocean with the respect she demanded.
But not Martin.
Suddenly, I heard a woody THWACK.
I turned around just fast enough to see a small body keel over the side, a solid splash following.
"MAN OVERBOARD!" I remember hearing Chris scream.
I didn't have time to think, I don't remember.
The next thing I know is the sharp cold of Pacific water soaking into every fiber of my being. The sting of salt water burned my eyes. The aching of my lungs as I dragged Martin back to the surface, only to be awarded by a mouthful of spray.
I fought to keep his head above water, his entire body limp.
The next thing I knew, I was struck in the head by a white donut, floating lazily next to us. I grabbed hold, letting my family reel us in and pulling us back aboard.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW STUPID THAT WAS?" My father screamed with the rage of all the terrors and horrors he could muster. "YOU WOULDN'T SURVIVE LONGER THAN AN HOUR IN THE WATER!"
I looked back at him, wide-eyed in terror.
He looked back into my eyes... and then he took me into a tearful hug.
"Thank you." He whispered. "My son, thank you."
***
I think I was merely nine when I was handed a shotgun. A timid child, who hated the thunder and lightning of guns, the stinging ringing of ears and sore shoulders.
Of course, that was unbecoming of a master duck hunter's only son. Even though I averted a trigger, he kept showing me, dragging me along to the Moss Landing marshes. At least I would know how to lead a duck, how to load and cut a shell, and how to clean what fouling gummed up the barrels. The men who didn't know who I was would ask for the "Gun brat" to care for their weapons, I was apparently so skilled.
In what time I had in between, I ran the paper routes. Alone on a bike, flying down the streets at a million miles per hour. At least here, I could use those lessons for something other than shooting. Half a block away, I would fling the newspapers so they would land perfectly on a porch. Eventually, I started aiming for the pole posts so that the impacts would slow the bundle and it would land square on the welcome mat. Of course, that annoyed the old geezers who preferred their daily papers not to have rips in them, but it was always that little joy managing to land it center mass.
