But like I said, I had changed. I went into the army as a smoker and almost coughed up a lung during boot camp, but unlike practically everyone else in my unit, I quit and hadn’t touched the things in over two years. I moderated my drinking to the point that one or two beers a week was sufficient, and I might go a month without having any at all. My record was spotless. I’d been promoted from private to corporal and then, six months later, to sergeant, and I learned that I had an ability to lead. I’d led men in firefights, and my squad was involved in capturing one of the most notorious war criminals in the Balkans. My commanding officer recommended me for Officer Candidate School (OCS), and I was debating whether or not to become an officer, but that sometimes meant a desk job and even more paperwork, and I wasn’t sure I wanted that. Aside from surfing, I hadn’t exercised in years before I joined the service; by the time I took my third leave, I’d put on twenty pounds of muscle and cut the flab from my belly. I spent most of my free time running, boxing, and weight lifting with Tony, a musclehead from New York who always shouted when he talked, swore that tequila was an aphrodisiac, and was far and away my best friend in the unit. He talked me into getting tattoos on both arms just like him, and with every passing day, the memory of who I once had been became more and more distant.
I read a lot, too. In the army, you have a lot of time to read, and people trade books back and forth or sign them out from the library until the covers are practically worn away. I don’t want you to get the impression that I became a scholar, because I didn’t. I wasn’t into Chaucer or Proust or Dostoevsky or any of those other dead guys; I read mainly mysteries and thrillers and books by Stephen King, and I took a particular liking to Carl Hiaasen because his words flowed easily and he always made me laugh. I couldn’t help but think that if schools had assigned these books in English class, we’d have a lot more readers in the world.
Unlike my buddies, I shied away from any prospect of female companionship. Sounds weird, right? Prime of life, testosterone-filled job—what could be more natural than searching for a little release with the help of a female? It wasn’t for me. Although some of the guys I knew dated and even married the locals while stationed in Wurzburg, I’d heard enough stories to know that those marriages seldom worked out. The military was hard on relationships in general—I’d seen enough divorces to know that—and while I wouldn’t have minded the company of someone special, it just never happened. Tony couldn’t understand it.
“You gotta come with me,” he’d plead. “You never come.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“How can you not be in the mood? Sabine swears her friend is gorgeous. Tall and blond, and she loves tequila.”
“Bring Don. I’m sure he’d like to go.”
“Castelow? No way. Sabine can’t stand him.”
I said nothing.
“We’re just going to have a little fun.”
I shook my head, thinking that I’d rather be alone than revert to the kind of person I’d been, but I found myself wondering whether I would end up being as monkish as my dad.
Knowing he couldn’t change my mind, Tony didn’t bother hiding his disgust on his way out the door. “I just don’t get you sometimes.”
When my dad picked me up from the airport, he didn’t recognize me at first and almost jumped when I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked smaller than I remembered. Instead of offering a hug, he shook my hand and asked me about the flight, but neither of us knew what to say next, so we wandered outside. It was odd and disorienting to be back at home, and I felt on edge, just like the last time I took leave. In the parking lot, as I tossed my gear in the trunk, I spotted on the back of his ancient Ford Escort a bumper sticker that told people to SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant to my dad, but I was still glad to see it.
At home, I stowed my gear in my old bedroom. Everything was where I remembered, right down to the dusty trophies on my shelf and a hidden, half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey in the back of my underwear drawer. Same thing in the rest of the house. The blanket still covered the couch, the green refrigerator seemed to scream that it didn’t belong, and the television picked up only four blurry channels. Dad cooked spaghetti; Friday was always spaghetti. At dinner, we tried to talk.
“It’s nice to be back,” I said.
His smile was brief. “Good,” he responded.
He took a drink of milk. At dinner, we always drank milk. He concentrated on his meal.
“Do you remember Tony?” I ventured. “I think I mentioned him in my letters. Anyway, get this—he thinks he’s in love. Her name’s Sabine, and she has a six-year-old daughter. I’ve warned him that it might not be such a good idea, but he isn’t listening.”
He carefully sprinkled Parmesan cheese over his food, making sure every spot had the perfect amount. “Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
After that, I ate and neither of us said anything. I drank some milk. I ate some more. The clock ticked on the wall.
“I’ll bet you’re excited to be retiring this year,” I suggested. “Just think, you can finally take a vacation, see the world.” I almost said that he could come see me in Germany, but I didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t and didn’t want to put him on the spot. We twirled our noodles simultaneously as he seemed to ponder how best to respond.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
I gave up trying to talk to him, and from then on the only sounds were those coming from our forks as they hit the plates. When we finished dinner, we went our separate ways. Exhausted from the flight, I headed off to bed, waking every hour the way I did back on base. By the time I stirred in the morning, my dad was off at work. I ate and read the paper, tried to contact a friend without success, then grabbed my surfboard from the garage and hitched my way to the beach. The waves weren’t great, but it didn’t matter. I hadn’t been on a board in three years and was rusty at first, but even the little dribblers made me wish I had been stationed near the ocean.
It was early June 2000, the temperature was already hot, and the water was refreshing. From my vantage point on my board, I could see folks moving their belongings into some of the homes just beyond the dunes. As I mentioned, Wrightsville Beach was always crowded with families who rented for a week or more, but occasionally college students from Chapel Hill or Raleigh did the same. It was the latter who interested me, and I noted a group of coeds in bikinis taking their spots on the back deck of one of the houses near the pier. I watched them for a bit, appreciating the view, then caught another wave and spent the rest of the afternoon lost in my own little world.
I thought about paying a visit to Leroy’s but figured that nothing or no one had changed except for me. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of beer from the corner store and went to sit on the pier to enjoy the sunset. Most of the people fishing had already begun clearing out, and the few who remained were cleaning their catch and tossing the discards in the water. In time, the color of the ocean began changing from iron gray to orange, then yellow. In the breakers beyond the pier, I could see pelicans riding the backs of porpoises as they skimmed through the waves. I knew that the evening would bring the first night of the full moon—my time in the field made the realization almost instinctive. I wasn’t thinking about much of anything, just sort of letting my mind wander. Believe me, meeting a girl was the last thing on my mind.