The Abode of Yoga

"USS Nimitz, CVIC , how may I direct your call?" Since entering the Gulf, I had been assigned to the night crew. We worked the 12-hour shift from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. Our primary mission: waxing and buffing the tile covered decks in and around the carrier intelligence center or "CVIC." Our newest responsibility, however, was answering the secure "hotline" to the ship. That should have been the responsibility of the Radiomen in the Communications Department, but they had fucked it up. Apparently, they had shown some disrespect to a big wig who had called the ship. So, now I had to answer it. "This is White House operator number nineteen," the female voice on the other end of the secure line said. "I'm calling for the Commander of Carrier Group Seven." It must have been one or two in the morning. "Okay," I said. "Just a moment and I'll transfer you." According to procedure, I wrote the details of the call -- the ...

In hindsight, thinking about these old sea stories makes me laugh -- the utter absurdity of it all. At the time, however, I was very depressed. In the wake of my failure at BUD/S, separation from my pregnant wife, being thrust into the oppressive conditions of life at sea aboard an aircraft carrier, my constant sadness was crushing. I didn't let it show though. I shined my shoes and ironed my shirts and did what I was told to do. But like its psychic opposite , my depression permeated my consciousness, unseen by others. It left me with nothing but a desire to be alone. On our first night of liberty in Hong Kong (after a month at sea), I followed a group of guys to an Australian bar, which was rumored to be the hot spot in town. When we got there, it was packed with squids. I took one look at all the drunken sailors already there and walked out. After walking alone for about a mile, I found a secluded British-style pub nearly empty, where I had dinner and the best tasting draft Gui...

Mail call was infrequent that first month as we headed to Hong Kong. We picked up a load in Hawaii, but after that it was infrequent as we headed further west over the Pacific. But when it came, people were excited. It arrived on a particular plane -- called the "COD" for carrier onboard delivery -- and many of the veteran sailors could recognize the sound and vibration of the COD's twin propellers when it landed. Once the postal clerks sorted it all by department and division, the call would go out over the 1MC : "mail call, mail call." Those were happy words to hear. Me and a couple of the other guys were usually sent to pick it up. The Nimitz itself was an industrial labyrinth. It took me a week or two just to feel confidant that I could make my way between our birthing, the office, and the mess decks without getting lost. So, on that first mail run, I just followed the other guys. The mail itself was given to us in huge, unwieldy nylon bags, which made nav...

It's not easy to be a vegetarian in the Navy. I became a vegetarian in 1980, when I was 15 years old. Though it seemed to be the thing to do for those like me who were intending to tread the path of Hindu mysticism, there weren't that many of us. In the early '80s, you couldn't get a salad at McDonald's and there was no such thing as the Souplantation . If you weren't shopping for and cooking your own food, then your vegetarian choices were few. At that time, the best option for eating out was usually the all-you-can-eat salad bar option at the Sizzler steak house. I found the food aboard the Nimitz (in the mid-'90s) to be a throw back to those earlier times. Breakfast was fine -- always plenty of "scrambled egg product" available. Getting a good lunch or dinner, however, proved to be more challenging. The Nimitz did have a dedicated salad bar, which was pretty well stocked for our first few weeks at sea. Once the iceberg lettuce ran out, though, ...

The tide had changed. About a week after arriving in Bremerton, Washington (in January 1993), my ship -- the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier USS Nimitz -- got underway. It would be a six-month voyage to the Persian Gulf. (By the way, the Navy refers to the Gulf as the "Arabian Gulf," not wanting to cede anything, even nominally, to the Iranians.) It would mean I'd miss the birth of my son. Absent prison, it's difficult to conceive of a more oppressive occupation than serving as a junior enlisted man aboard an aircraft carrier. Here's a short list of what I -- and literally thousands of others lowly swabbies -- faced aboard the Nimitz: ● we were at the bottom of a crowded, status-conscious pecking order; ● we worked, at minimum, 12 hours on, 12 hours off, seven days a week; ● with few exceptions, the food was horrible even for carnivores (and I was a vegetarian); ● we had zero privacy; ● noise pollution -- we slept beneath the flight deck, planes launching and la...

"I'm pregnant." It was Elaine on the phone from San Jose. Though Hell Week was over for me, I was still in San Diego awaiting orders to a new duty station. I had another three years of active duty to serve in the Navy. Without a doubt, I would be sent out to the fleet. In the meantime, I would get some time off for Thanksgiving (1992). I planned to meet Elaine in Santa Monica for the holiday and told her not to worry. We'd talk again then and figure out what to do. After I hung up the phone, though, I felt sure there was only one option. Elaine and I had been together about two-and-a-half years to that point. I had originally planned on proposing to her in April 1993 -- when Class 187 was due to graduate from BUD/S. That dream -- becoming a SEAL -- was dead now, however, with my inability to withstand the cold of Hell Week. While I was still at the BUD/S compound in Coronado, I was no longer in SEAL training. Instead, I was assigned to X-Division with all the other q...