Shore Leave

Shore Leave

           The harbor was dark at three in the morning. The black sky and black hills melted seamlessly into the black water, which gently lapped the black hull of the U.S.S. Albany. Petty Officer Johnson stood on the deck of the aging submarine, cleansing his lungs of the stale air and amine fumes he’d been marinating for in the last two months.

           Ahead of him lay the quiet harbor, appearing lifeless on the calm, cloudy night. Behind him, the glow of light pollution from sprawling Tokyo. It was there that most of the crew would be found, stretching their legs and testing their livers. Only those on duty remained on board, most of whom were sleeping tightly in their racks.

           Johnson walked along the deck, tracing the shore power cables and hose connections as he went. He took his time and observed every detail; not out of diligence, but just for the opportunity to breathe real air.

           After walking up and down the cold, black hull, he knew he needed to go below again. He reluctantly approached the forward escape trunk. He gripped the ladder, took one last deep breath in, and descended below.

           His leather combat boots clumsily trod the deck plates as he made his way aft to the engine room. Johnson grew accustomed to wearing his old sneakers underway and despised the stiff leather of the in-port uniform’s boots. Ducking past the low hanging fluorescent lights and dodging the pale gray switchboards and circuit breakers that had been his scenery since they left Guam, he found the maneuvering room. Inside was Petty Officer Stevens, seated at the reactor panel, gazing with heavy eyelids, which lifted ever-so-slightly as Johnson entered and took his seat.

           “You’re back.”

           “Yep.”

           “Any good snacks up forward?”

           “Don’t know. Didn’t check.”

           “What you mean you didn’t check? Why the hell did you go up there then?”

Johnson didn’t know what to make of his remark. “It’s a shore power check. As a shutdown electrician, it’s my job to check the shore power cables and breakers.”

           Stevens rolled his eyes. “Of course shore power’s working, the lights are on. I know you’re new to this, but your main job is keeping me awake. That includes bringing me snacks.”

           “You’re not supposed to eat on watch.”

           “I’m watching the reactor. I need to stay awake. Snacks keep me awake, keeping me awake keeps us safe. Would you rather have a couple crumbs in the engine room, or a full-blown reactor accident?”

           Stevens was being dramatic, but if the bickering kept him awake, Johnson would entertain it.

           “Sorry princess. Next time I’ll be sure to grab you a large pizza, some beef wellington, and pocketful of tiramisu. Would you like the wine menu as well?”

           “That’s more like it.” Silence followed as the two began updating their logs.

           “This is your first port visit, right?” Stevens asked.

           “Yep. First time out of the country, unless you count Guam.”

           “Guam is America, I think. Anyways, you’re going to love Japan. The food’s next level, the nightlife is legendary, lots of cool stuff to do. And did I mention the food?”

           Johnson didn’t know anything about the country in which he was moored. His only exposure came in the form of sushi bars, confusing cartoons, and the black and white photos his grandfather kept from the war. The truth was Japan was low on his wish list of foreign ports. Not that he was upset; two days spent anywhere other than the nuclear-powered coffin felt like gift from God.

           “You ever hear of habu-sake?” Stevens asked.

           “What’s that?”

           “It’s snake wine. They take a poisonous snake and put it in a jar. They shake the jar to piss it off, getting it to spit its venom everywhere. Then they fill the jar with rice wine.”

           “Why?”

           “Apparently the snake venom paralyzes your liver, so your body can’t process alcohol afterwards. Get twice as smashed for half the money.”

           “You ever try it?”

           “Hell no. I might hate my life, but I’m in no hurry to end it.”

           The two men laughed and went back to their logs. Johnson had just turned twenty, barely old enough to drink in Japan. The thought of venomous wine terrified him, and he resolved to avoid it at all costs.

           The hours passed and morning came. Reveille was called on the loudspeaker and the morning watch came to relieve the midwatch. When his relief came, Johnson excitedly hurried forward for breakfast. In two short hours the next duty section would take over, and he’d be free to leave the boat. He wasn’t thinking about exploring Tokyo, eating ramen, or riding a bullet train. He just wanted to be as far from the Albany as possible.

           There were already a few of the oncoming sailors in the booths on crew’s mess, chatting about the night they spent in town over eggs and hash-browns. Johnson scanned the faces, hoping to see his relief.

           The on-duty cook stepped out of the galley with a fresh tray of bacon for the steam line.

           “Hey, Ford,” Johnson called out. “Have you seen Andrews yet?”

           Petty Officer Ford turned and chuckled. “Sure did. He’s not your relief, is he?”

           Johnson tensed up. “He is. Why?”

           “Hope you weren’t planning on leaving anytime soon.”

           A wave of dread washed over Johnson as he discarded his plate and ran towards the berthing compartment. The aisle between the racks was crowded with men in various states of dress, some preparing for day of duty while others prepared for a night on the town. He dodged them all as he frantically searched every bed for his replacement.

           He could smell Andrews before he could see him. In the last two months he had been marinating in vast array of foreign, unpleasant odors, but never like this. He found himself engulfed in a cloud of vomit, whiskey, feet, and death. In the bottom rack, spilling out onto the deck, lay the snoring, half-dressed puddle of man who was due to take the watch in less than an hour.

           Full panic was setting in. If Andrews wasn’t wide awake, sober, in full uniform, and seated in crew’s mess by zero-eight-hundred, Johnson would be stuck on the boat until Andrews was fit for duty.

           “Wake up, Andrews.”

           Nothing.

           “I said wake up.”

           No response.

           “Dammit Andrews, I’m not staying on board one minute longer than I have to. Wake the hell up!”

           Johnson held his nose, knelt down, and roughly jostled the sleeping man. Andrews turned his head and looked up at his fellow sailor with a groggy, confused expression. Suddenly, his eyes widened as he stared vacantly into the distance and vomited all over the tile floor alongside his bed. Johnson leapt back, screaming every four-letter word the Navy had taught him.

           He stormed to the restroom and locked himself in a stall. He needed time to think, time to be alone. Just my luck, he thought. I ride this miserable boat for months with no sleep, no sun, no women, and for what? To get puked on and see the world pass me by from the confines of the ship?

           He knew he’d be stuck on board until Andrews could pass a breathalyzer test, and there was zero chance that would happen by turnover at eight. The fear and panic he had felt earlier transformed into anger, not just at Andrews, but at the Navy as well. Most of all, he was angry at himself for signing a six-year contract in the first place, and for being foolish enough to think he would get a chance to leave this boat.

           The hours passed and Johnson found himself back on watch. Andrews was still up forward, chugging water and devouring what snacks he could find between breathalyzer attempts. The watch had been silent, Johnson’s anger fading into overwhelming powerlessness over the situation.

           Petty Officer Ramirez was sitting next to him at the reactor panel.

           “Sorry about Andrews, I still can’t believe he got that drunk.”

           “What the hell happened?”

           “I don’t know. We were playing pool at some bar in the Honch, and I stepped outside to call my wife. I was only gone fifteen, twenty minutes, and when I got back Andrews was sitting at the bar, practically falling over.”

           Johnson didn’t reply. He set his logs down, took a long swig of stale, room-temperature coffee, and watched the unchanging dials on his panel.

           He recalled a novel he read once, about a man who spent time in prison. The main character had said that you shouldn’t count the number of days you have left, it would just drive you mad. Good advice, Johnson thought, but easier said than done. He had one thousand four hundred and twenty-six days left on the Albany, and not an hour passed when he didn’t think about it.

           Johnson’s sulking was interrupted by the clod of boots along the starboard side of the maneuvering room, followed by what appeared to be the reanimated corpse of Andrews in the doorway.

           “I’m here to relieve you.” Andrews’ eyes, fixed on the floor, betrayed his shame and pure exhaustion.

           “They finally cleared you?” Ramirez asked.

           “Yep.”

           As Johnson reached for his clipboard, a loud thud rocked the room. The lights flickered, the whirr of the ventilation fans came to a halt, and Johnson’s panel ticked loudly as the ship’s battery began to unload.

           “Crap,” came Ramirez. “We’ve lost shore power.”

           Johnson leapt into action. He donned his headphones, plugged them in, and began adjusting dials in preparation for bringing on the ship’s diesel generator.

           “Let me take over,” Andrews pleaded. “It’s my watch anyway.”

           “You’ll have to wait. With my luck you’ll break the plant and I’ll never get to leave.”

           Within seconds Lieutenant Singh entered maneuvering and took charge as the engineering duty officer. “Andrews,” he ordered. “Go help rig the spaces for a loss of shore power.”

           “Aye, sir.” He stumbled away, but the foul scent still hung about.

           Up forward, the duty auxiliaryman was firing up the diesel, and all the aft section could do was wait. As the watch team ran through the procedure for bringing the generator online, Johnson could hear the roaring churn of the diesel get louder and louder through the headset. Just as the sound reached a crescendo, a muffled voice phoned in. “Diesel ready!”

           All eyes were on the electric panel. Singh and Ramirez both knew Johnson was inexperienced, but right know his anger and frustration had been channeled into confidence and pure determination. He carefully matched frequency and voltage across the diesel breaker, set the initial conditions, and flipped the switch. With a steady hand he transferred the ship’s loads from the battery, and the rapid ticks of the battery amp-hour slowed to comfortable pace.

           “Engineering Duty Officer, all loads are on the diesel.”

           “Very well,” Singh replied. “Good work, Johnson. Go ahead and turn over with Andrews, we can take it from here.” He reached for the intercom handset. “Petty Officer Andrews, report to maneuvering.”

           Andrews sheepishly approached the door. Johnson handed him the logs, the headphones, and sprung to his feet, rattling off all of the current electric plant conditions. Now that he was free to go, he didn’t want to waste another second.

           “Word of advice,” Andrews offered, “Stay away from the stuff with the snake in it. It’ll mess you up.”

           Johnson glared at him. He had a few choice words of his own, but not with an officer around. He could have at least apologized, he thought, not that it would have made much of a difference.

           It was three in the afternoon when Johnson finally left the boat. He left with a couple mechanics who had come back to stash as many energy drinks, chewing tobacco cans, and bags of beef jerky as they could carry. They walked along the pier, feeling human for the first time in months. No uniform, no fluorescent lights, no oily bilges. Just a quiet harbor under an overcast sky, and a cool breeze to remind them they were breathing fresh air.

           The harbor was a beautiful one, even on such a gloomy, autumn day. The calm waters were bordered by gentle hills, all draped with lush green forests. Seabirds of all sizes hovered above, patiently scanning the waters below for their next meal.

           At the end of the pier was a van to take them off base and to the nearest train station. A chariot to brave new world, he thought. As his comrades eagerly discussed all the things they were going to do in town, Johnson tuned in and out of the conversation. After the events of this morning, he couldn’t give himself permission to relax until the base was far behind them and the submarine out of view.

           A momentary break in the clouds appeared ahead of them, and for a brief time Johnson could see the sun. It was his first glimpse since the crew left Guam, and he wished he could bottle it up, seal it, and stash it in his pocket for future use. No, he thought. Can’t do that. He had to drink it in all now, for moments like this don’t keep.

           This must be life, he pondered. You drudge through weeks, months, even years of minutia, routine, and self-denial in the hopes that you’ll be rewarded by moment of pleasure, a sweet cherry on a bitter sundae.

           I’ve been asleep for two months. A restless, tormented sleep. Now I’m awake and I’m going to make the most of it.

           He watched as the sun slipped back behind the clouds. It was only four minutes of sunshine, but it was four minutes he didn’t have yesterday. And that was all that mattered.