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Pledge May 1, 2010

Posted by midswatch in Home, Writing.
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Seventy-two days down. Twenty-eight to go. Memory 73/100:

You might recall my creativity regarding hygiene, where I used FaBreeze as a substitute for showering. My creative thinking extended to cleaning during Plebe Summer.

While preparing for an inspection, I noticed two things: the room stunk, and the floor was dirty. A simple sweep wouldn’t suffice. Luckily, I had a great solution. I sprayed Pledge (the stuff used when dusting,) all over the floor then wiped it with a dirty shirt. Fantastic! The room smelled like summer in a pine forest, and the dirt was gone (well, it was now all over my t-shirt, but whatever.)

The grand solution carried me through the rest of the day. I went to be a hero, slept like Superman, and the world applauded my courage.

The next morning, as every morning went during Plebe Summer, the detailers woke us using blow horns, whitles, yelling, pounding on walls, and beating metal rods together. We all gathered out in the main hallway as quickly as possible, and as usual we carried all of our linens we had just slept with, inside our pillowcases. They counted us, told us how slow we were, then gave us the impossible task of going back to our rooms, making our beds, shaving, and going to the bathroom, in seven minutes.

“Ready?” The always asked.

“READY READY!” We always responded.

“Go.”

I made a mad dash around the corner to my hallway. I turned sharply to make it into my room at full speed. I put my foot forward to slow down, but it didn’t work! Next thing I knew, I was on my back sliding across the room. The desk stopped my skid quite rudely (painfully.) That’s when I learned about the power of Pledge.

Pledge worked well as a prank during Army week.

The Days April 28, 2010

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Sixty-nine days down. Thirty-one to go. Memory 70/100:

I think I’ve mentioned it on here somewhere that one of the plebes’ daily rates is The Days. How long until graduation? Sir, you now have thirty-one days until 1/C graduation! During Plebe Summer, it was a daunting task—how long until Plebe Parents Weekend? First Class Parents Weekend? Thanksgiving? Until we BEAT ARMY! in football? Christmas? Spring Break? 2/C Ring Dance? Herndon? Graduation?

The Days serve two main purposes, in my view: 1) Make the plebes memorize some more stuff, and 2) Give them something to look forward to.

The 1/C and 4/C have a traditional controversy about Herndon (the time where the plebes graduate from 4/C to 3/C—“Plebes No More!”) every time the plebes give the days until Herndon, the 1/C say “No, you’re wrong. Herndon is infinity plus 2010 days away!” I enjoyed telling the plebes during their Plebe Summer that Herndon was a myth. The plebes insist on the actual day count, despite the 1/C teasing.

The plebes keep The Days count on the company chalkboard. They write how many days until Herndon, and I erase it and write “Infinity plus 2010.” I was pleased to see today that they had erased my writing, replaced it with the correct number, and replaced the number of days until graduation with “Infinity plus 2013. Graduation’s a myth.”

Break a Leg! April 9, 2010

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Fifty-one days down. Forty-nine to go. Memory 52/100:

Another Plebe Summer memory. I remember when a kid from 9th Company fell from the top of the rope climb at the obstacle course. He broke his leg and went to the hospital. I thought he was the luckiest kid ever. I decided that I, too, would break my leg—not in the same way because I didn’t want to be accused of copying, but somehow so that I could get out of Plebe Summer. I’d probably get to go home, I thought. Perhaps, I wouldn’t even come back.

I saw the kid the next morning, squaring his corners, sounding off, and memorizing his rates. Only, he was in a wheelchair. That didn’t look fun at all. He didn’t go home or anything.

I decided at that moment that I wouldn’t break my leg.

Got Butterflies? March 17, 2010

Posted by midswatch in Home, Special Events, Writing.
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Twenty-eight days down. Seventy-two to go. Memory 29/100:

I get the butterflies when I’m nervous. I don’t think that is anything extraordinary or unique. But I’d wager my butterflies are a bit more pronounced than most. I think they suckled on steroid nectar as young caterpillars.

In the summer after fifth grade, I played on a competitive baseball team. The kids were a bit rough on me, as I was the youngest on the team, and the coach didn’t give me any slack. I had stomach aches before each game and even some practices. Being young, I didn’t handle the stress well.

I remember the moments before my performance at the state solo contest for the horn my sophomore year of high school. All of the saliva in my body vanished. I think the butterflies ate it. Despite my anxiety, I pulled myself together and performed well.

During Plebe Summer, we often ran out of the rooms in groups. We had safety that way. But someone had to go first—he or she would be the first to greet the upperclass by name. Since I didn’t know names well, I never wanted to go first. My friends still make fun of me today for my infamous pleas throughout the summer, “You go first! Please!”

I hated standing Main Office watch. During that duty, I had to sit in the Naval Academy’s Main Office and answer phones. Since I was a plebe, I never knew the answers to the constant questioning. I should have taken solace in knowing that I could always ask the firstie in the office for the answer, but I still worried every time the phone rang. I remember always leaving that watch completely exhausted from the constant worrying and battle with the brutal butterflies. Looking back, it’s a little comical to think about because I have now stood the firstie position in Main Office multiple times, and it’s not bad at all. I generally have the answers to the questions the plebes on the phones ask, just because I know the stuff.

The most recent, notable bout with the pesky butterflies occurred during my first flights. Remember how my first day went? Surprisingly, I didn’t worry about the actual flying (and the inter-workings of gravity—falling.) I mainly feared failing the screening.** My first flights went very poorly, jam-packed with constant corrections and stress. Thus, in the moments leading up to my lessons, the butterflies attacked in formation flight with sidewinder missiles. Instead of ceding to them, I took preemptive action.

[I can’t believe I’m admitting this.]

I talked to myself in the car on the way to the airport. “You can do it. It’s not that difficult. You know how to do it. You are great!” I followed Dwight Schrute’s example from The Office:

It all worked out pretty well. As cheesy as it seems, hearing someone calm and studly telling you how great you are really does feel good—even if it’s your own voice! I wouldn’t let myself think negatively.

For as funny as they thought my technique was, Jason and Chris were supportive as well. After one particularly long day, I dragged my feet into my room and found a note on my desk with an abstract sketch of what I think was a guitar. The note said, “You’re a Rockstar!!!” I have it posted next to my computer, and I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it.

**Granted, I have not completed it yet, so I am not acting like I am in the clear.

Letters March 16, 2010

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Twenty-seven days down. Seventy-three to go. Memory 28/100:

I decided to stay home for Spring Break this year. Many of my friends left for cruises to warm places, but I wanted to relax by myself. Also, I haven’t finished IFS yet, so hopefully I’ll have my solo flight this week! One of my goals for the break was to clean my room. It was filled with high school things (including a “Congratulations!” bag from graduation day) and Naval Academy stuff I took home for the summers but didn’t need at school.

Inside a clear, shoe box-sized container, I found my letters from Plebe Summer. I didn’t have much time to write during Plebe Summer, but I received many letters. The box is completely full. I remember feeling guilty for not writing back to all of the people. All sorts of friends wrote to me, some I wouldn’t have expected to write. I loved getting letters from family, too. My mom put all sorts of fun things in the letters. I especially liked photographs and comics.

The detailers handed out letters every night. I generally had a letter each time. The letters were a big highlight—even better than letters were care packages, filled with cookies, Pop Tarts, candy, and other sweets; but there was a problem. I received the letters just before bedtime, after our thirty minutes of personal time. As soon as the detailers dismissed us, we had to get in bed—lights out.

I didn’t do many things to rebel during Plebe Summer, but my love of letters pushed me beyond the line of blind obedience. Each night, as I jumped into bed, I threw a package of Pop Tarts and my letters inside my pillowcase. Once the detailers had stopped patrolling the rooms, I brought the goods out one by one. I carefully opened the letters as silently as possible (the Pop Tart wrappers were difficult.) Even though we didn’t have our lights on, I used the light from the hallway to read each letter carefully (we weren’t allowed to have our doors shut unless we were changing, even while sleeping.) Any time I heard footsteps, I quickly rolled on top of everything. I crushed a few Pop Tarts over the six weeks.

I read each letter twice before putting it away. I then reread my letters for the week on Sundays. They were my connection outside of Plebe Summer. I remember feeling like I had jumped in a time machine; my friends wrote about their summer vacations, city-league sports, and barbecues. All of their lives continued normally, but mine had changed drastically. Most of them didn’t leave for college until I had finished Plebe Summer. It was the beginning of the separation between my past and my future.