My collection of prior passports has a number of entry stamps. Some were expected, like the Philippines. Some were easier to get than others. The Canadian stamp comes to mind. Stamps for the UK and Tanzania were just cool. There's one entry stamp I wish I could have gotten, but it wasn't allowed.
As a Midshipman, I was temporarily attached to the USS Truett (FF-1095), a guided missile frigate, in the summer of '91. I met the ship at Norfolk Naval Station, and after reporting in and stowing my gear, I set out to make myself useful.
In port, this was easier said than done since Midshipmen were basically unqualified in all the ship's systems, and a lot of crew viewed them as necessary annoyances. I wound up running errands and writing reports for the junior officers. This would change when we left port.
It was a relief when we finally got underway. Summer training was a bit of a lottery. There's a chance you'd be assigned a ship that never left its berth. One of my classmates did go to sea, but was put ashore in Italy because his vessel had been ordered into a combat zone. I found out my ship was not only setting sail, but we were bound for Naval Station Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I was sailing for Gitmo.
I took as many watches as I could on the bridge. The Officer of the Deck, while ultimately responsible for the ship's safety and navigation, delegated the conn to me. Therefore, I controlled the ship's speed and course. Commanding the movement of a 3,200 ton, 440 foot warship as a 21-year-old was simultaneously exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Outwardly smiling, in my head I was repeating to myself, "Don't f* up, Wayne. Don't f* up."
We successfully made the transit to Cuba and docked at Guantanamo Bay without incident. We were parked next to a Coast Guard cutter that drew our attention because of one of her officers. Periodically, a female voice came over the cutter's speakers, and it was absolutely captivating. Whenever she spoke, anyone in earshot aboard the Truett momentarily stopped whatever task they had and looked towards the sound of her voice.
It was like that scene from Shawshank Redemption when the opera being piped over the prison loudspeakers caused everyone to pause in their routine and look up to the sound. None of us ever saw her, so our crew ascribed all manner of attributes to this lilting, extremely feminine, yet authoritative voice. I was still a few months away from my first meeting with the red head so I imagined this mystery woman to be a cross between Kirstie Alley and Michelle Pfeiffer.
Our purpose in Guantanamo was to receive nuclear, biological, and chemical (NBC) defense training. Lectures ensued on how to defend the ship against these particular attacks and how to triage and treat affected sailors. To cap off completion of the classroom work, instructors initiated us into an exclusive club: a visit to the Guantanamo Bay gas chamber.
We were issued gas masks and transported to an outlying concrete building. Once there we were shuffled inside and given instructions on properly donning our masks. After checking one another's fitment we all gave the instructors a thumbs up, their signal to release the gas. The reactants loudly hissed and overflowed the containment barrel, slowly filling the room and obscuring everyone's vision. A loud verbal command from somewhere in the mist then ordered us to remove our masks.
We complied, and the effect was immediate. First came the burning sensation in our eyes, nose, and throat. Tears welled up, effectively blinding us. As our mucous membranes railed against the contagion, the coughs, gagging, and choked out expletives followed and echoed loudly in the chamber. After interminable moments, the instructors, still masked, of course, satisfied we'd been properly inducted into their club, opened the doors.
We all fumbled our way to the exit lit by daylight, some slipping on "biological expectorant" left behind by our more affected shipmates.
Outside we all gasped for clean, unadulterated air, trying to purge our lungs of the foulness. A round of cheers and high fives ensued after we'd recovered.
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| Still holding my gas mask, it was all smiles after we'd recovered from the gas chamber. |
Because of current US policy and the naval base is technically a US territory, I couldn't have gotten a passport stamp to show I'd been to Cuba. Regardless, Guantanamo Bay was a personal crucible for me. From the heady highs of the Truett's bridge, to the lows of coughing up a lung in the gas chamber, even the unexpected diversion of the mystery woman on the Coast Guard cutter, all left an indelible mark on my naval officer training that was more profound than an ink stamp in a booklet.
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