The little stone grotto had a stone bench across from the sculptural depicting of Mary, Jesus' mother with her gentle shy modest expression and hands at her sides, but turned out, welcoming. Her back was to the stone wall and there was not much space between the cocoon-like alcove and the lowest braces of the A-frame chapel named after one of the first Medal of Honor winners of World War II. Underneath the brush of piles of long needled iron wood trees, sticks, twigs, and grass the pearly white volcanic sand was shuffle-able.
Leaving the chapel and the grotto after 2100 hours on a clear winter night meant that even the delicate sand reflected the rising quarter-moon and the stars shining more than brightly -- shimmering, lighting the waves, illuminating the wind, coloring the upper edges of needles and branches still on the trees like canopies over the road ways . . . the spaces in between dotted with huge albatross nests, their very large eggs visible if one or the other parent was not occupied on it.
The huge ungainly birds were busy with a myriad of tasks accompanied always by lots and lots of commentary, gossip, exclamations, clicks, clacks and something like afar off whiny of a miniature horse. The illusion of riding along mid-Pacific was most closely evident as we approached the beach near the O Club where our chief wonk had posted a large sign over the bar reading ___(fill in the blank)___ days --"LET MY PEOPLE GO!"
To the west of the O club beach was the long Navy pier extending deep into the opening of the crater, but access to the docking facility itself had been carved out of the smallest ledge of the volcano's northwestern ridge. Walking out to sit on the end of it with the island busy with big birds, ruffled Navy personnel loathe to share their space with over 300 intruders, most of them not even Navy folks . . . there was only the ocean, the sky and the faint ridge of Sand Island. Water that seemed and amazing turquoise during the day because of the irridescent sand was mottled and burgeoned with bright shoals and deep deep dark centers.
And fish.
Dolphins sometimes.
A seal or two beached up to rest if you kept walking.
But jet lag wasn't enough of an excuse to be 2200 . . . 2315 . . . 0230 still sitting on the edge of the dock. Listening for night birds . . . wondering if the albatross ever quieted down. (Yes, maybe for an hour or so in the very darkest midst of the night, but they always began their cacophony again with the slightest hint of the beginnings of the sunrise.
"Okay, well, so . . . if we're here the usual five weeks or so, we have enough time to plan and rehears a rendition of 'South Pacific,' right?"
Glares and a grimace or two in return.
"We'd rather not."
This was the last little bit of terra firma before the International Date Line. . . around 30 degrees north latitude -- about the same as Biloxi, Mississippi or so.
And the iron wood trees DID remind me of the cypress somewhat.
There were also mice. I guess they came from ships. Dirt had been brought from Australia in the early 1900s,so the ironwoods and other trees,shrubs and grasses came from "down under."
She was so restless she decided to go back to the hangar and check the message traffic, walking down the main shell-filled roadway, past the flag pole and the required anchor, past the ship's store, past the scattered VOQ, Navy Lodge buildings, the few houses still left. . . . out from the trees through the path that cut the field between the groves of trees and the hangar, the hangar and the tarmac, the tarmac and the runways.
Pulling open the biggest door and taking the steps to the OPCON two at a time . . . no lights except in the hallways. no sign of anyone else outside . . . pressed in the catch code, opening the flimsy fiberglass and thick aluminum door to see the map table and the message boards, a few chairs and quiet except for the ticky tack of morse code somewhere else down the hall.
Nothing much new that she hadn't already read after chow. Waiting.
Waiting.
Time to go back. Time to try to sleep.
The short cut back to the Navy lodge was through the iron wood groves where cement slabs that had been the foundations of houses lurked unbeknownst until a week and a half after they got there when there had been a cold snap and the huge pointsettias that had graced the landscaping of the houses emerged magically almost-- bright red and playing hide and seek with the other under brush.
Was really surprised.
Shocked.
Trying to be as quiet as possible coming back into the Navy Lodge. Everyone else was jet-lagging, too. Opening the door to her room . . . moving as little as possible, turning on the water to brush my teeth and wash my face as little as possible, quietly putting on her pjs and finally getting ready to fall asleep.
Dreaming of someone whispering iin her ear.
Or a mosquito?
No.
Some other time before 0700 heading back groggily to get a drink from the bathroom sink and aha!
A mouse was on her pillow.
So much for the gentle intimate whispers in her ear.
Then the bird noise and the noise of one bus and two jeeps were drowned out by the sounds of four props with a fairly high pitch --the P-3s. Or the lumbering lower groans and deeper whines of the C-130s.
Who was still coming? The C-141 Starlifter that brought us had headed back long before.
Alarm blaring . . . stumbling up to shower, spiffily turned out in dress blues. Don't forget anything.
Walking briskly to the chow hall. Going through the breakfast line. Greeting crew mates . . laughing joking. Or not.
Quiet early morning. Still getting used to Navy rank . . .identifying air crews or ground crews or the permanently stationed sailors. Walking into the little area with screens around it for "Os"only.
Silly.
But the Navy folks said, "No!"
Not silly.
If you knew how little private space there is on a ship. If you knew how hard it is to keep rank and position straight in life or death situations. If you knew what was behind Captain Bligh and Captain Quigley, you wouldn't question us Miss.
(Miss??! But she was an air force lieutenant.)
"Don't you remember 'Mr. Roberts,' Miss?"
Okay.
Ma'am.
Lieutenant.
Who has any equipment to use in the gym? The tennis courts? The racket ball courts?
Who has the key to the boat house where the sailing Lasers are?
Let's go down to the Pan Am Clipper Hotel Library and take out a book on the history of Midway. Or "Clan of the Cave Bears."
Or something.
A tour of the Pan Am crew quarters ghost buildings, all cement and over grown with all the vines and grasses and crawling plants can be planned after the duty day.
Can she go out with the P-3 crews? No.
CINCPAC doesn't let women on his airplanes.
Oh.
Never mind. The C-130 crews want to take her along to get ready for the op anyway.
And right before midday chow the most surprising invitation of all from a senior chief to come to the Chief's club that night. No other Os were going. They told her they almost never got invited.
No matter who had whatever rank, it was the Navy chiefs who really got things done on land, on the sea, and in the air(except for single seat air craft or other planes with smaller crews -- but the chiefs still got 'em flying and kept 'em flying and all that.
Being invited by some air crew guys to come to their picnic and meet their chief was a little like being brought home to be vetted by mama.
And there was Pachinko in the Chief's Club. And Acey Duecey and darts as usual. Usual bar and drinks and tables and snacks. Very different atmosphere though and she could never tell if they were teasing or humoring her or both.
Usually after a few minutes of conversation about the ops or what had been happening or what she was doing there or something, all of a sudden the expression on the experienced service man would change. A look that said, "Whoa! I just really saw you."
"Who ARE you?"
And maybe intrigue. Not too often admiration. Possibly giving her a chance he never thought he would have imagined giving to a female.
WOMAN!
Twenty-one days before Christmas and almost thirty afterwards, clinging to the sandy rock lip of the volcano . . . flying from time to time . . . seeing the Southern Cross for the first time when taking off about 0330 into the south/southwest . . . the glow of brightness as the cross leaned on the cusp of the curved horizon gliding up to altitude.
How is it that they say, "Merry Christmas" in Hawaiian again?
Southern Cross
Ask one of the Chiefs.
Leaving the chapel and the grotto after 2100 hours on a clear winter night meant that even the delicate sand reflected the rising quarter-moon and the stars shining more than brightly -- shimmering, lighting the waves, illuminating the wind, coloring the upper edges of needles and branches still on the trees like canopies over the road ways . . . the spaces in between dotted with huge albatross nests, their very large eggs visible if one or the other parent was not occupied on it.
The huge ungainly birds were busy with a myriad of tasks accompanied always by lots and lots of commentary, gossip, exclamations, clicks, clacks and something like afar off whiny of a miniature horse. The illusion of riding along mid-Pacific was most closely evident as we approached the beach near the O Club where our chief wonk had posted a large sign over the bar reading ___(fill in the blank)___ days --"LET MY PEOPLE GO!"
To the west of the O club beach was the long Navy pier extending deep into the opening of the crater, but access to the docking facility itself had been carved out of the smallest ledge of the volcano's northwestern ridge. Walking out to sit on the end of it with the island busy with big birds, ruffled Navy personnel loathe to share their space with over 300 intruders, most of them not even Navy folks . . . there was only the ocean, the sky and the faint ridge of Sand Island. Water that seemed and amazing turquoise during the day because of the irridescent sand was mottled and burgeoned with bright shoals and deep deep dark centers.
And fish.
Dolphins sometimes.
A seal or two beached up to rest if you kept walking.
But jet lag wasn't enough of an excuse to be 2200 . . . 2315 . . . 0230 still sitting on the edge of the dock. Listening for night birds . . . wondering if the albatross ever quieted down. (Yes, maybe for an hour or so in the very darkest midst of the night, but they always began their cacophony again with the slightest hint of the beginnings of the sunrise.
"Okay, well, so . . . if we're here the usual five weeks or so, we have enough time to plan and rehears a rendition of 'South Pacific,' right?"
Glares and a grimace or two in return.
"We'd rather not."
This was the last little bit of terra firma before the International Date Line. . . around 30 degrees north latitude -- about the same as Biloxi, Mississippi or so.
And the iron wood trees DID remind me of the cypress somewhat.
There were also mice. I guess they came from ships. Dirt had been brought from Australia in the early 1900s,so the ironwoods and other trees,shrubs and grasses came from "down under."
She was so restless she decided to go back to the hangar and check the message traffic, walking down the main shell-filled roadway, past the flag pole and the required anchor, past the ship's store, past the scattered VOQ, Navy Lodge buildings, the few houses still left. . . . out from the trees through the path that cut the field between the groves of trees and the hangar, the hangar and the tarmac, the tarmac and the runways.
Pulling open the biggest door and taking the steps to the OPCON two at a time . . . no lights except in the hallways. no sign of anyone else outside . . . pressed in the catch code, opening the flimsy fiberglass and thick aluminum door to see the map table and the message boards, a few chairs and quiet except for the ticky tack of morse code somewhere else down the hall.
Nothing much new that she hadn't already read after chow. Waiting.
Waiting.
Time to go back. Time to try to sleep.
The short cut back to the Navy lodge was through the iron wood groves where cement slabs that had been the foundations of houses lurked unbeknownst until a week and a half after they got there when there had been a cold snap and the huge pointsettias that had graced the landscaping of the houses emerged magically almost-- bright red and playing hide and seek with the other under brush.
Was really surprised.
Shocked.
Trying to be as quiet as possible coming back into the Navy Lodge. Everyone else was jet-lagging, too. Opening the door to her room . . . moving as little as possible, turning on the water to brush my teeth and wash my face as little as possible, quietly putting on her pjs and finally getting ready to fall asleep.
Dreaming of someone whispering iin her ear.
Or a mosquito?
No.
Some other time before 0700 heading back groggily to get a drink from the bathroom sink and aha!
A mouse was on her pillow.
So much for the gentle intimate whispers in her ear.
Then the bird noise and the noise of one bus and two jeeps were drowned out by the sounds of four props with a fairly high pitch --the P-3s. Or the lumbering lower groans and deeper whines of the C-130s.
Who was still coming? The C-141 Starlifter that brought us had headed back long before.
Alarm blaring . . . stumbling up to shower, spiffily turned out in dress blues. Don't forget anything.
Walking briskly to the chow hall. Going through the breakfast line. Greeting crew mates . . laughing joking. Or not.
Quiet early morning. Still getting used to Navy rank . . .identifying air crews or ground crews or the permanently stationed sailors. Walking into the little area with screens around it for "Os"only.
Silly.
But the Navy folks said, "No!"
Not silly.
If you knew how little private space there is on a ship. If you knew how hard it is to keep rank and position straight in life or death situations. If you knew what was behind Captain Bligh and Captain Quigley, you wouldn't question us Miss.
(Miss??! But she was an air force lieutenant.)
"Don't you remember 'Mr. Roberts,' Miss?"
Okay.
Ma'am.
Lieutenant.
Who has any equipment to use in the gym? The tennis courts? The racket ball courts?
Who has the key to the boat house where the sailing Lasers are?
Let's go down to the Pan Am Clipper Hotel Library and take out a book on the history of Midway. Or "Clan of the Cave Bears."
Or something.
A tour of the Pan Am crew quarters ghost buildings, all cement and over grown with all the vines and grasses and crawling plants can be planned after the duty day.
Can she go out with the P-3 crews? No.
CINCPAC doesn't let women on his airplanes.
Oh.
Never mind. The C-130 crews want to take her along to get ready for the op anyway.
And right before midday chow the most surprising invitation of all from a senior chief to come to the Chief's club that night. No other Os were going. They told her they almost never got invited.
No matter who had whatever rank, it was the Navy chiefs who really got things done on land, on the sea, and in the air(except for single seat air craft or other planes with smaller crews -- but the chiefs still got 'em flying and kept 'em flying and all that.
Being invited by some air crew guys to come to their picnic and meet their chief was a little like being brought home to be vetted by mama.
And there was Pachinko in the Chief's Club. And Acey Duecey and darts as usual. Usual bar and drinks and tables and snacks. Very different atmosphere though and she could never tell if they were teasing or humoring her or both.
Usually after a few minutes of conversation about the ops or what had been happening or what she was doing there or something, all of a sudden the expression on the experienced service man would change. A look that said, "Whoa! I just really saw you."
"Who ARE you?"
And maybe intrigue. Not too often admiration. Possibly giving her a chance he never thought he would have imagined giving to a female.
WOMAN!
Twenty-one days before Christmas and almost thirty afterwards, clinging to the sandy rock lip of the volcano . . . flying from time to time . . . seeing the Southern Cross for the first time when taking off about 0330 into the south/southwest . . . the glow of brightness as the cross leaned on the cusp of the curved horizon gliding up to altitude.
How is it that they say, "Merry Christmas" in Hawaiian again?
Southern Cross
Ask one of the Chiefs.
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