I remember the night before Induction Day.

My family moved from Oregon to Annapolis a few days before I-Day. My dad got a job working out of Beltsville, Maryland before I received my appointment to the academy (I make sure to tell this so people don’t think my parents followed me to Annapolis.) So the house was extremely bare.

I had a terrible feeling in my stomach—I wasn’t excited or anxious—I simply felt sick. It was that feeling you get when you think you are going to cry, but dull—and I didn’t cry.

I watched Full Metal Jacket to pump me up a bit for Plebe Summer. Remember how I didn’t yet grasp what it meant to JOIN THE NAVY?

I picked out the CD we would listen to in the car on the way to the stadium. I wanted Coldplay’s “Yellow” to be the last song I heard.

The whole evening felt much like a last rights ceremony. I was waaaaaay too sensitive.

Mike was a guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery, so he spent the night with us. I felt a special bond with him, not just because he’s my brother, but because he was a soldier. He knew what I’d face.

He was also a major contributor to me joining the military. I remember when he told my parents that he was joining the Army, he said that he wanted to make a difference for people. At that point, all I wanted to do was become a professional musician in a symphony. When he explained his motivation, I knew that I wanted the same.

The movers hadn’t brought our stuff yet, so I didn’t have a bed. Mike and I each had an air mattress in the den. I barely slept the entire night.

Tonight seems similar. Everyone is in bed now. We have so many family members in the house, my room and downstairs area was converted into a makeshift living room/play area/ sleeping room for Dan’s family. I sleep on the floor or couch—it works out well because I have been going to bed late and getting up before the rest of the family.

It has been a very formative four years. I cannot imagine what I would be like had I chosen a different path.

I just sat for a moment and tried to figure out something important to say to wrap the four years up. I can’t do it too well. I wish I could make an insightful comment. What seems to stand out to me is the importance of always moving forward, devotion to honor and self-improvement, courage, and striving for high quality living.

It has been a pleasure to write on this blog. Thank you for visiting.

Mom and Dad: you’re the best.

Go Navy.

Don’t give up the ship.

My favorite event of the year. The one that rumbles the roads, closes the highway, and shocks a city. The Blue Angels!

People pour into Annapolis, starting in the morning, in anticipation for the event. But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I’ll recall my first exposure.

I was in my room, barely a Plebe No More, (post-Herndon,) cleaning my stuff (because Gunny was going through for an inspection,) and I heard a roar cut through the air. I ran to the window, and I saw the beautiful blue streak of the F-18 Hornet skim over Bancroft. I was standing on the top floor, so I the pilot’s head was at eye level. It was the day before the official Blue Angel’s performance—a yearly tradition in the excitement of commissioning week. I hadn’t expected this treat. The flying wonders glued me to my window for the following two hours as they practiced their maneuvers.

Today I was able to enjoy the show with many of my family. We had eighteen people total! We sat on the field inside of Ingram Track. I smiled for most of the time, and I couldn’t help but laugh as the little kids screamed and covered their ears each time the planes were especially loud. Although I think little Cami enjoyed the noise at times.

I never see the Yard as packed full of people throughout the year as it is during the Blue Angels show. If you ever get a chance to see them, I highly recommend it. They have about an hour routine, where they do dazzling aerobatics, sometimes while being as close as eighteen inches to each other. Nothing motivates me like the speed, noise, and power of those great machines. They zoom past at 500 mph, then split into the sky, disappearing out of sight. It’s truly inspiring.

Go Navy!

Each company is run by a commissioned officer (generally a lieutenant or a Marine Corps captain,) and a senior enlisted leader. They are the authority of the company, in charge of the midshipman leadership.

I didn’t know this on Induction Day. The first thing they told me was “every sentence begins with sir or ma’am, and every sentence ends with sir or ma’am.” So I figured it was my job to never mess that up. I was a punctual, precise, and persistent sir yeller.

I made it through the whole doggone day without messing it up. Then during our thirty minutes of personal time, I had to go to the bathroom really badly. I ventured out by myself (super scared,) and for whatever reason, I ended up going too far. I wandered into no-man’s land: the main P-way.

I greeted all of the detailers with a sharp sir or ma’am sandwich. They didn’t give me any trouble. Then I greeted another one, except he was wearing a red shirt.

“Sir, good evening, sir.”

“Do I look like a sir to you?!” He was insta-angry. My hands insta-shook.

“Sir, n-n-n-no….sir?” I didn’t know what to do.

He stood close, and he crossed his arms so I could see the muscles bulge. The detailer standing next to him gave me a look of disgust and questioned my intelligence, “Don’t know anything, huh?”

I probably would have fainted right there if it wasn’t for Cody. He was strolling by for whatever reason. “Good evening, Gunnery Sergeant!” They let him pass. I quickly caught on.

“Gunnery Sergeant, good evening, Gunnery Sergeant!”

He was our company’s senior enlisted leader. I didn’t know what a Gunnery Sergeant was, but I soon found out. I studied the enlisted ranks of the Marine Corps that night in bed, out of my Reef Points. Throughout my time as a plebe, I would come to greatly fear my Gunnery Sergeant but gain a great respect for him. I have had three Gunnery Sergeants pass through my company during my time, and they have always been outstanding to work with and for.

We have a practice parade tomorrow at 0700. Since I don’t live on the Yard anymore, I have to drive in—like a real person—early. I have many memories about parades, but nothing particularly exciting has happened that I recall. If you don’t know, parades for the Naval Academy are not like parades on TV during major holidays. We march, with rifles and swords, from T-Court to Worden Field. We have a few ceremonial exhibitions, some songs, and then we march off. Sometimes we have special dignitaries visiting as the reviewing party. It’s a special moment when you get to salute the Secretary of Defense.

It’s not uncommon for a mid to pass out during a parade, especially during commissioning week festivities (late parties the night before combined with standing at attention for an hour is a potent mix.) We used to fix bayonets on our rifles, but I think the passing out problem caused safety issues.

I remember one time last year as one of the company commanders (who stand out in front,) from a different company, was on the verge of passing out. While standing at attention, we all watched, making little “ooh”s and “ah”s, anticipating the face-plant in the grass. She didn’t fall, but she did hand her sword to the executive officer and take a knee. I could hear a significant mumble of disappointment throughout the immediate area.

I also remember how at most parade practices, the mids aren’t in great moods, so they generally mope around for the first few minutes. The Drill Master, a Gunnery Sergeant, fixes that right up with forty push-ups, at his cadence, for the entire brigade. It comes in fast—one minute you’re standing there with your rifle, the next you hear, “OK, seems to me like you need a little motivation. ON YOUR FACES!”

It’s an old tradition that the Firsties leave their shoes on the parade field at their final parade. It’s a tradition that has been mostly destroyed, but there are still remnants of it. It has yet to be determined how it will play out this year.

I remember “marching on” to football games. Before each home game, the brigade forms up in T-Court, and we march from there to the stadium. Along the route, people stand by the road and throw candy at the midshipmen. It’s a fun event. When I was a plebe, it was a very relaxed environment. The mids were able to interact with the spectators, catch the candy, and all that fun stuff. The next year, we weren’t allowed to catch the candy. It was sad to watch as we stomped over candy that little kids would throw for us. Over the last two years, the standards relaxed significantly, and we were at least allowed to catch the candy, (but we weren’t supposed to pick it up off of the ground.)

The night before the games, plebes would do “spirit missions,” and they’d post signs along the route, such as “10th Company says CRUSH Rutgers!”

Most mids feel a little bit of cynicism toward marching on, simply because it’s usually hot and uncomfortable. I tended to agree most of the time, but I always enjoyed once we made it to the stadium. The brigade lined up on the field, and the stadium was usually close to filled. We’d tip our hats to the visiting team “D-U-K-E! Gooooooo Duke! Fight.”

After that we’d turn around to face the home team. At that point, the crowd stands up and cheers loudly. We yell back, “N-A-V-Y! Goooo NAVY! Fight!” Then we rush to the stands, and the game starts shortly after (F-18 fly overs were always a special treat.)

It was a great way to start a day of victory, if we won. If we lost, it was a long walk to a painful defeat.

I remember the first time my integrity was called into question.

It was the first day, Induction Day. The first evening, actually. I had spent all day learning about all of the things that I couldn’t do, had to do, and would learn to do. One of the things I couldn’t do was pick up anything that I dropped without clear consent from the detailers. If a plebe drops a piece of paper, that plebe must stick out a paw (hand in a fist) and “respectfully request permission to retrieve my paper, sir!”

Dropping stuff is unbelievably common. Usually the detailers allow the plebes to pick up their stuff, but certain items are big no-no’s. Drop your Reef Points, and you’ll most likely have to earn it back throughout the week. Same goes for rifles, locks, and canteens.

For whatever reason, the detailers lined all of us plebes in the center of the P-way. We had to get somewhere, so they weren’t paying particular attention to each of us. As I tried to put my Reef Points, “I’ll found out pad” (paper pad,) and pen into my pocket, everything started slipping. The pen fell to the ground. My immediate response was to bend down to get it. My hand came within one inch of the pen before I realized that I wasn’t allowed to do that. Understanding what I’d done, I quickly looked to my left; the company commander saw what I was doing. Good, I thought, He’ll see that I didn’t do it!

“I saw that! I know you were going to pick it up. Then you thought to check to see if you’d get away with it. Do you know what integrity is? It’s doing the right thing when nobody’s looking.”

I couldn’t explain myself. “Sir, yes, sir.”

The funny thing is, even though I did the right thing by stopping, I still felt bad. I quickly became accustomed to messing up and feeling guilty.

On Monday, the plebes will climb Herndon (see picture.) The photo isn’t great because that was as close as I could get to the location last year—I didn’t want to fight through the crowd of eager plebe families. It does show the massive swarm of people. Like ants on an ice cream cone, the plebes rush Herndon, which has been prepared by designated upperclass, and try to remove the inch of lard covering the entire structure, somehow climb to the top, and replace the dixie cup hat, that is duct taped securely, with a midshipman combo cover. I think it took my class over two hours to do it. It would seem easy, but right at the point where you think someone’s made it, the whole thing topples and everyone starts again.

The big guys link arms at the base, the medium guys climb on top, and then the lighter people work the higher elevation, as would be expected. I didn’t fit any category too well, so I was part of the mob that kept pushing toward the base to create an elevated ground level of heads and shoulders for people to walk on.

Eventually, one of my classmates exchanged the covers, we all cheered and yelled “Plebes no more!” a dozen times. Soaked, slimy, bruised, and without shoes, I walked back to Bancroft Hall with Rene happier than ever. We returned to our company area, and a few of the upperclass waited there for us, “Congratulations. My name is Andy.” We shook hands, a special moment. I had known them for a year, but I had never been on a first name basis. It was always Mr. or Miss so-and-so.

I showered and changed into clean clothes, then I walked into the hallway. I strolled along the side, running my hand along the wall. This was a new thing for me because I had been forced to be in the center of the “P-way” all year. I simply walked around, hand along the wall, until I made it to a friend’s room, where he was blasting music on his speakers and watching a video. Life seemed perfect.

Today was our indoor graduation rehearsal, in case the sky opens in an angry flurry of lightening and rain-daggers on May 28th. I hope that doesn’t happen, obviously, but that’s not the point of this post. We all (the class of 2010) sat in rows, with our companies—except for the top 10 percent of the class. The last time we all sat like that, if I recall correctly, was on Induction Day when we took our oath.

That day, the Commandant read us the Oath of Office in T-Court:

“Having been appointed a Midshipman in the United States Navy, do you solemnly swear (or affirm) that you will support and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that you will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that you take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that you will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which you are about to enter, so help you God?”

Then we all yelled “I DO!” and two F-18 Hornets flew over our heads. I couldn’t help but stare at them.*

The jets were cool, but I felt uneasy, realizing what I had just committed to. You’re really in for it now!

More than that, however, I felt bad, as if I had lied in my first moment as a Midshipman: “without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion…”

I had plenty of reservation. Yet, I had said “I do.” And I had the constant thought of quitting. Is that evasion?! It caused turmoil for a few hours, until the detailers distracted my distress with (what felt like) duress, compliance from fear. The issue went away quickly during Plebe Summer, but I still struggled (as many underclassmen do) as a youngster about my commitment to the military. Over time, I accepted it. Looking back, it has been a full, four-year process to understand the gravity of the oath.

At graduation, we will a receive  similar oath as we did on I-Day, for a commission either in the Navy or Marine Corps. This time, I am fully prepared for my response. Like on I-Day, jets (Blue Angels) will fly overhead, and I am sure the chills will be stronger than ever.

*Jason told me recently that he didn’t look up—he was much more squared away with the military thing than I was.

Flight has always fascinated me. I don’t mean flying airplanes or dropping out of the sky. I mean me flying. I remember when I was very young, my mother and I were in the car. I looked up at a bird that flew from the top of one tree to the branch of another. I told her I wanted to be a bird.

“Oh, you want to fly like a bird?”

“No, mom! I want to BE A BIRD!”

When I played with action figures, they all flew. I remember tying a string to one of them and spinning in circles as I watched centripetal force raise him in what I viewed as flight. Superman had it right. He flew, period.

I watched Marry Poppins, of course. An umbrella did the trick for her. I planned my attempted flight via umbrella—I would jump off the deck railing for a twelve foot float to the ground, with the umbrella as a parachute. It would be a small step toward my eventual goal of flying. I never jumped, thankfully.

Then there was my most successful, and beneficial, flight attempt. Since I couldn’t fly by shear willpower, like Superman, (you wouldn’t imagine how many times I soiled my pants in the attempts,) I knew I needed wings. Like a true supporter of creative thinking, my mother obliged, and in no time I had Kermit the Frog pillowcases safety pinned to my shirt sleeves. I launched off of the couch for hours onto the pillows below. I never did achieve a successful flight, but I returned to the pillow cases multiple times.

***Fast forward to my plebe year***

“What do you want to be in the Navy or Marine Corps?” The common detailer question. I thought I knew the answer.

“Sir, Navy Pilot, sir!” It seemed to match what I wanted. But so many other people said the same thing. And they were all better than I was at everything. I held on to the pilot idea for Plebe Summer. Once the academic year arrived in full force, I had my doubts.

I had the worst grades of my life that year. Take my GPA in high school and hack at it with a rusty ax and that’s what you’d get for my plebe year performance. I remember letting my flying dream slip as I kept failing chemistry and calculus tests. But something motivated me. I can’t really remember what it was, but I have a distinct memory of sitting at my desk one night and deciding that I should go for pilot, even though it seemed like I couldn’t. My roommate, Rene, was very supportive of this endeavor, I remember. Without his immediate, positive feedback, I don’t know if I would have gone through with it.

***Fast forward to this year, sometime in the fall, after I put my service selection preferences in, pilot at the top of my list***

I sat in the Commandant’s conference room, staring across the table at three Navy captains, one Marine Corps colonel, and one commander. My shoes were shined perfectly, and I even wore my Supe’s List stars. I wanted to look my best.

I had been selected for the Navy Pilot program, but they needed twenty-five more midshipmen to go to the submarine community. They didn’t have enough volunteers—now they needed to voluntell. But they couldn’t take anybody. To get into the submarine community, you need to have good grades and the ability to learn the ins and outs of a nuclear reactor. I was on their hit list for the possible mids to fill that role.

I had worked hard to be eligible to fly. I raised my GPA each semester. I improved my physical readiness scores. I had surgery on my eyes. I stayed with an aviation squadron for a month during the summer. And here I was, sitting in front of a board of officers who would decide whether or not I would be a pilot or a submariner.

They were very nice. It threw me off at first. It was actually a nice thing they were doing. They made their list of candidates, and then they took the time to talk to each one so they could make a fair decision—the easy way out would have been randomly select from the list and not care about the people. They showed good leadership in what they did.

Each one of them asked me a question. It started off with, “Why do you want to be a pilot?”

I told them that I loved to fly, and I had a passion for it. I went on about how much I loved flying upside down and that I enjoyed being with the aviation community.

The others asked general questions about myself and my desires for my career, etc.. But then they came back to the first one.

“You said you had a passion for flying from an early age. Could you explain that?”

My stomach turned a little, and my head flushed. I could feel my pulse pounding in my temple. Somehow, I knew that this was the moment of moments. What I would say would greatly impact my future. Choose your words carefully.

I didn’t.

“My mother used to pin pillow cases to my arms and I would jump off of things and pretend that I could fly, sir.”

Silence. I think they had to let the ridiculousness sink in.

More silence.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. One of the officers turned to the other.

Then all at once, they all burst into laughter. One slapped his knee and let out a huge cackle. The laughter seemed to last for an entire minute. Their shoulders moved up and down even as they became quiet again.

I didn’t wait for another question: “I wasn’t sure if I was going to say that, but I did.”

The one who laughed the loudest smiled at me and chuckled, “I wouldn’t tell that to anybody ever again!”

“Alright, you can go. Thank you for your time.”

I tossed and turned for over a week, not knowing if I had messed it all up. Then the list of people who had been selected for submarines was released, and my name wasn’t on it.

I guess my childhood flight experiments paid off.

During Marine Week of PROTRAMID (click here for a refresher,) we had a paintball combat simulation. The Marines dressed us in flack jackets and helmets—which seemed really heavy until they told us we didn’t even have the metal plates in them, nor were we wearing the heavy packs—and they handed us rifles that were altered to fire rounds similar to paintballs.

The objective was to maneuver through the miniature city. It was designed solely for this purpose, to teach Marines how to fight in urban terrain. There were apartment buildings, a church, and even a gas station.

We would go in two teams of four. One would be on the left side of the street, and the other would travel along the right side—each would cover the other from shots above and behind.

The teams were made of midshipmen, and the opposing forces were comprised of Marines—trained killers vs. sea pups.

My group was the last of nearly ten, so we had a lot of time to prepare and watch. The Marines annihilated all of the mids. The groups walked slowly down the street, so they were picked off one by one.

We had a staff sergeant assigned to our group as an advisor pre-engagement. He told us to move fast and to not stop or else we’d get pinned down. We practiced moving as a group, and I was put in the number two spot, directly behind the first as his cover.

It was finally our turn, and we were excited to get a chance to try our strategy. Someone gave us our situation: we had to reclaim the church which had been overrun by insurgents. With that, we set off.

We walked at a fast pace until the street lit up with paintball fire. Paint splattered against the wall next to me. The group leader, who had been directly in front of me, started shooting all over the place until he ran out of ammo. Then he took off in a sprint.

I tried to follow him as best I could. As we crossed an alley, I noticed a Marine ducking in a corner. I took two shots at him as I ran by—I probably missed.

They told us to keep moving, even if we were hit (unlike regular paintball, where you are supposed to stop if you’re hit.) So as I moved through the mini city, I felt at least five stinging hits to my arms and legs, but I just kept running.

The Marines pinned us down behind a wall leading up to the church. Someone in our group reminded us that we couldn’t stay there, so we all jumped over and made it to the front door. At that point, we all waited for someone to go in.

“Who’s going in first?”

“I don’t have any ammunition left.”

“Me neither.”

Nobody had ammo. I was the only one. I had almost half of mine remaining.

“I guess I’ll go in.” I wasn’t pleased, but it wasn’t too big of a deal since I had already been painted from head to toe.

I ran into the church and it was filled with Marines. I pulled the trigger rapidly as I pointed the rifle from left to right. I don’t know if I hit anybody, but they all hit me.

The exercise ended there, and they told us we did well for moving, but we spent our ammo too quickly.

We then flew in a CH-53 to the air base near by and toured Marine Corps aircraft.