Rock-tober 13, 2019

When I was a kid of 6 or 7, we lived in a little pink bungalow on Broad Avenue just outside the main gate of the CB base. One late fall afternoon I was with Dad in the backyard when he was doing some yard work. Suddenly I heard the sound of a lone bugler wafting over the trees between us and the base. Dad stopped what he was doing, leaned on his rake, and faced the direction of the music.

"What's happening, Dad?"

"Evening colors, son. When you hear it, pause what you're doing out of respect because they're lowering the flag on base."

Because of our proximity to the base, I spent a lot of time inside its fenceline. It was my Mayberry - a very secure version - but it was a literal town within a town. When I was old enough to get my own ID card I constantly rode my bike to base housing to hang out with friends. The base had its own pool, and in the heat of South Mississippi summers, we gathered there to cool down during the hottest parts of the day. Close by base housing was a quad that had the exchange, movie theater, and bowling alley. The exchange had a snack bar with an ice cream shop where my friends and I were always stymied about which flavor to choose. The movie theater always played a Saturday matinee, and when that finished, we'd all congregate at the bowling alley with its mini arcade.

With Mom and Dad, all our grocery shopping was done at the base commissary along with every other Navy family after payday. Most retail shopping happened at the base exchange. I remember the bulk of my clothes at this time came from either the Sears Roebuck catalog or the exchange.

Large party gatherings would happen at one of the covered pavilions in the base's park. Brilliantly, these were built right across from the pool. Some of my best summer memories of this period are of going back and forth between partying in the park and playing in the pool.

The base always felt safe. Mom and Dad thought nothing of letting their grade school kid bike to and fro from all these locations. I've also written before of how we took physical shelter from many hurricanes in the base's thick-walled warehouses. The base chapel became another refuge. I remember attending protestant services with Mom and Dad when we'd just moved to town. Mid service, the chaplain called all the kids down to the front. I was too shy, so I stayed beside Dad. The chaplain had a hammer and he placed a coffee cup on the ground. He passed the hammer to one of the kids and told him to take a whack at the cup. Of course, the cup broke, and the chaplain proceeded to explain some Biblical truth. I don't remember what was said, but I do remember thinking, "Wow, they let kids break stuff here."

At the end of the liturgy, we sang the Navy Hymn - the first time I remember hearing it. Week after week this ritual played out with the Navy Hymn closing each service. Its origins are English. In 1860 William Whiting penned its verses after contemplating Psalm 107 which describes hazards mariners faced on the open ocean. Readily adopted by both the Royal Navy and the US Navy in the late 1800s, the Hymn was a simple prayer imploring God to protect those in peril on the sea. This became very real to a 7-year-old kid whose father was about to be deployed overseas for an 8-month stretch.

To this day, it never fails. I hear this hymn and I'm automatically emotional. Whether it's memories of a 7-year-old kid having to say goodbye to his Dad for the better part of a year or my first-hand knowledge of how scary a storm at sea can be, I find its words simplistically profound.

Eternal Father, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep;

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,

For those in peril on the sea!