Seduced By The Sea, Chapter II
By Griz
umgriz@protonmail.com
Hey there, Landlubbers.
Thanks for coming back for updates from Captain Zach Weiss, United States Navy SEAL. His first couple of days aboard the NS Nimitz aircraft carrier were anything but boring, thanks to the harmless peskiness of Ensign Thomas Donaldson. It turns out they both hail from The Big Sky State of Montana, but at opposite ends.
Captain Weiss and Ensign Donaldson will be together, along with 3,500 other members of the United States Navy, from their port of origin----Karachi, Pakistan---to the West Coast of the United States, for nuclear refueling. Approximately 31 days later, the entire ship will get more refreshing, along with a visit from the admiral of the fleet.
A month is a luxury as a period of time in getting to know someone-----when you're surrounded by water and the only people leaving the ship are in fast planes that return sometime later. Our guys aren't pilots, so no one is going anywhere.
If you're enjoying this and are not the Secretary Of The Navy, or Defense, or the President Of The United States Of America, please write and let me know. If you are one of the last three, though: still write to me if you like the story. You don't have to reveal your names. Your secret will be safe with me, though, if you choose to. :^) One last thing: it has been a month since I posted a chapter to this story, and I'm sorry about that. I encourage you to re-read the first chapter, or at least the last few paragraphs of it to refresh your memory before you begin this one. And yes, I will endeavor to post more than just twelve chapters per year about Captain Weiss and Ensign Donaldson!
Happy Days At Sea, Men!
Griz
*** The following story is a work of erotic fiction. If you are under the age of 18 or if this type of fiction is prohibited in the location where you are reading this, do not read any further.
All characters and names are creations of the author. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Damn, that felt good. And necessary. I was suddenly fifteen years old again, feeling like I could go another round in oh, maybe three minutes. It had been months since I'd been with a man, and longer since I'd been with my ex-wife. Like, years. I had not seen her since our amicable divorce years ago. Ours was a marriage of convenience, something to get us through early adulthood with our conservative, traditional families, insistent that we each had to marry.
Rachel and I met while I was studying Law at Columbia. We both were invited to a Purim feast at a mutual friend's family home in Rye, New York. I came for food and drink and to get my head out of law books. I was 22 years old. Rachel came to get her mother off her back for being so anti-social. Her family lived in Denver, but were originally from Long Island. Everyone knows everyone else in Montana, and the same is true on Long Island.
The evening was nice enough, and I gave her a ride back into the city so she wasn't stuck waiting an hour for the train at Midnight. Over the course of the year, we found ourselves comfortable with each other. We never really felt `in love', and that was just how we were wired. I knew by then that her brother stood a better chance of getting underneath a chuppah with me than she did. Soon enough, she came to a similar realization about herself and her best friend's divorced ex-stepmother (By then a rabbi, so hey! Good for you!).
There were legal and financial benefits to us marrying, and it would satisfy both our families. At least until the inevitable time when they'd be asking about grandchildren. Neither of us wanted kids. Well, that's not exactly true. We thought we'd like kids, and wondered if there were any available for adoption after they'd finished graduate school and had their own health insurance and mortgages. Our career trajectory would not have been ideal----particularly for normal from-birth kids.
We stayed safe and secure---and bored----in our Manhattan apartment. With both our families in the West, we weren't barraged every other weekend with folks coming or going. Our routine for school was settled. She had friends, I had friends. She got laid (licked), I got laid. And yeah, there was mutual sexual attraction, so even at our utmost bored, we didn't live in any Dry Spells. We stayed the night, too; just not in each other's bedrooms. Wash, Rinse, Repeat.
I was accepted at the Naval Academy. We celebrated, and discussed logistics. She was making good money now and could manage the apartment on her own. I was not expecting her to move to Annapolis, Maryland, with me. We were in complete accord on that point. I was right where I wanted to be in life; the beginning of a lifelong career with the United States Navy.
Rachel and I said our goodbyes. We determined to remain married until I graduated, but I had no intention of denying her the craven company of her sapphic sisters. All of this had been very civilized; from meeting to marrying to divorcing.
The day came when I graduated the Naval Academy. Four years that passed like only one. I had found my calling: a career as a Navy officer. Rachel and I were both ready to really move in different directions: her to Los Angeles to work in Entertainment Contract Law, and me to go where I was needed, and get obstacles to the American Cause out of the way. I had a month leave after graduation. Rachel and I reverse-engineered our original plans from years earlier when we started this whole thing.
Our divorce was where we wanted to get married: Paris. We planned for it, saved money, and did it big. Rachel got a Christian Dior dress from the House of Dior atelier itself. How anything known as a little black dress' can cost as much as a big black truck' is beyond me, but she wasn't spending my money, so oh, well.
I wore my Dress White US Navy Officer uniform. We ate at le Cafe de la Paix by the Paris Opera. With dessert, I pulled out the divorce papers, and with both our signatures and an Armagnac with coffee, Rachel and I were no longer married.
Outside, we hugged and kissed one last time. The valet called two taxis to the curb. Rachel went to her hotel, I went to mine, and at eight o'clock in the morning, I was at the airport. Rachel sent a postcard from Nice. She was staying there for the Summer, where she said she would spend all of it trying to think of the best way to tell her mother and two grandmothers she would not be giving birth to any Zach-lets. I called mine from seven miles above the planet. My brother and father were understanding, and my mother `resigned to regretful reality'. All three knew I should not have married, not really, but I was trying to just honor tradition and (as hoped my mother and her mother) further one of David's Twelve Tribes. You know what they say about intentions.....particularly in Yiddish.
I've been single ever since. I only ever had one goal in mind for my United States Navy career: graduation and practicing law, specifically to be in the Admiralty and the Judge Advocate General. I'd studied toward that goal with every moment I was breathing. It's not the power or the prestige I was after. It was working in both law and defense, two areas of American Life I was---and remain---passionate about.
It was during fitness evaluations for my Third Class Midshipman year that senior officers took particular notice, and by the end of the year, my head was being turned toward the SEALs. I trusted the wisdom from others that led me in that direction. Yes, I could still make Rear Admiral. Yes, I could still become (however unlikely) Judge Advocate General. But along the way.....oh, yeah. Do some really exciting things, which some would know about and the vast majority would not.
I met and exceeded fitness expectations. I appeared on different recruitment media, was interviewed on television, and by the time of graduation, I was ready to throw my white hat in the air in hopes an admiral would catch it.
My hope was not met, but for it to be caught by the wife of a United States senator was no compromise. After the ceremony and lots of pictures with my fellow Midshipmen, I went off in search of my hat. I wasn't the only one on an egg hunt, but I found mine earlier than most. Or, it found me.
"Excuse me, are you Zach Weiss?"
"Yes, Ma'am; I'm Zach. How may I be of service?"
"Oh, there really ARE Officers and Gentlemen. I knew that couldn't just be in Hollywood. I believe this is yours. Or I should say Admiral Zwerdling thinks it's yours. You know each other?"
I saluted the admiral and almost ready to faint.
"Admiral Rahm Zwerdling. And this is Mrs Geneva Jackson, wife of Senator Frank X. Jackson. Congratulations on your graduation, Ensign Weiss, US Navy SEAL."
"Thank you, Admiral. Thank you, Ma'am. This is has been an honor, and thanks for my hat; but if you'll excuse me, I need to get at least a thousand photographs with my parents before they fly out."
"Dismissed, Ensign; of course. Best of luck to you."
"Thank you, Admiral Zwerdling; Mrs Jackson. We are honored to have you with us today."
I saluted and turned, hat in hand, to find my parents. Five hours and dinner later, I accompanied them to the airport for their flight back to Missoula. I was on a high that lasted weeks. The culmination of my education, and I was only 28 years old. There was nothing I had wanted that I didn't get, and that was now my attitude for the rest of my life.
The rest of my afternoon was spent in my quarters. I planked, did push-ups and sit-ups, listened to a playlist of Joan Armatrading and Nina Simone, and wrote some stuff racing through my mind while my laptop sat open in front of me. I heard the ship's bell tell me to get cleaned up for evening mess in the officers' wardroom. My pleasure; I was hungry. Gimme a fat, juicy burger, some fries and a lager, and I'd be happy. Heck, I'd be happy with anything, but sometimes I have cravings-----believe it or don't, for something other than a stud-fuck gymnast from the other end of the state and currently two decks below me.
I wandered tight passageways to the officers' head to find the showers were back working in full. I was in and out in no time, but realized I'd neglected the lotion. Ah, well. I wasn't badly burned. I think (I know) I was just wanting some lotion ministration from Donaldson. I needed to check with someone about our next port of call so I could get ashore for provisions of my own.
Cleaned and in the uniform of the afternoon, I climbed the ladder to the officers' mess. Three four-stripers and a whole lot of threes, as well. Seemed like a lively bunch. Rondo grabbed the chair beside me and smiled, following up with a face-saving rematch at Backgammon.
"Of course. Gotta keep my skills honed in case I meet someone who'll really challenge me. You and I both know that won't be today, though-----right?"
"HA. Just have your Kleenex ready to catch all the crocodile tears you'll shoot out of your eyes."
We laughed and looked at our dining options. No burgers, but a close second: Atlantic Halibut fish n' chips, and clam chowder with sourdough bread. That worked for me. I am not all kosher, all the time, and today I was breaking all the rules and going for a bottom-feeding flat fish and shellfish. Ugh.....please don't look, Dead Relatives.
Rondo and I talked about the flight deck outdoor gym, as it was becoming known. I mentioned the sprinting was a good challenge for me, particularly since we were running into the wind, which afforded a twist that leveled the playing field. I was taller than the others, but that also made me a moving sail, slowed down by the wind against me. I mentioned that Ensign Donaldson and I would be up again in the morning for sprints and longer perimeter runs, if Rondo wanted to join us.
The meal went well, and I thought strongly that this was probably the best F & C I'd had in years. Probably only partially true; everything tastes better at sea to me. I left the table satisfied and full, and joined Rondo in another humiliating (for him) round of Backgammon. He's good, but insecure; and questions himself and his moves. If he'd stay with his first thought, he'd beat me. Maybe I'll tell him that if we play a third time. He's good to play and talk with, and sooooo good to look at.
There's no real easy way to explain in English how hot that man is. The dark features of skin and eyes contrast perfectly with his movie-star blond hair and long eyelashes. A movie studio would probably discover him someday and try to talk him into a lead role in one of those ridiculous superhero action movies. Fuck, I know I'd pay to watch him run around in Lycra; particularly if he were smiling and running in my direction. Anyone with sense would want to see that.
Heh.....to be honest: he could look ten times better and he still wouldn't come close to Ensign Donaldson.
The evening wound down. I took the exterior ladders to the flight deck to watch the jets come and go. We were in heavy seas, and despite the sheer weight of the Nimitz and her deep draft, I could feel the swell of the water; heaving up, falling, repeating, while watching the horizon move up and down with it. Motion sickness does not visit itself on me; I've been lucky. That's not to say I like roller coasters or bungee-jumping, but heavy seas are just fine with this sailor, thanks. Well, as long as I'm not on a capsizing ship.....but I think everyone would agree with me on that fine detail.
As the sea brought on more action, the jets grounded for the evening. I took another ladder down to my deck and quarters. I pulled out a notebook and copied from my laptop the measuring protocol for SEAL Fitness training, as well as an overview of the program. Rather than spend the next six weeks transcribing everything on my computer, I hooked up my portable printer and shot out page after page of exercise graphics and instructions, as well as spaces for record-keeping for reps and follow-up measurements.
After saluting a couple of the Fly Boys who returned to the ship safely, I made my way back toward my quarters. A quick stop to pee and brush my teeth, and I'd be ready to slide between the sheets. I would not mind a bit if the ocean swells rocked me gently to sleep. Before getting in my bunk, I planked for 15 minutes and alternating knee-elbow sit-ups. Once in my sheets and on my side, I said my Maariv (evening prayer), and I was out.
My watch woke me up at 0600 to calm seas. And just as I was getting excited at the prospect of running through gale-force winds, too. Four hours until Donaldson showed up. I smelled myself. Not bad; not yet. I got in a jock and shorts and took the ladder up to the flight deck. Other sailors were assembled and smiling when we saw each other, so someone got the go-ahead from the air boss to pound around that inch-thick steel plate. I didn't see Donaldson or Rondo, so I began my circuit ten times around the flight deck perimeter. It was faster than jogging, but not yet sprinting. It would be interesting to see what Rondo would bring to the run party.
On my third pass, I didn't see either of them. Hmmm.....sleeping in, you slacking fuckers? Fuckin' slackers? Don't let me win today by default this time! Each step on the circuit was working up my heart rate and perspiration, even though the Sun was barely above the horizon off the stern.
Then suddenly there were two pairs of arms pumping in synch with my own on either side of me. I turned port and saw Rondo smiling back at me. I turned starboard, but no smile greeted me there; just the forward stare of bold determination on the face of one Thomas Donaldson of Baker, Montana, as the three of us reached the bow of the floating nuclear island.
We pivoted to port, with Donaldson increasing his speed to stay abreast of Rondo and me. That guy seems to have two speeds: Off and Variable. Being a gymnast, he had trained and competed successfully while making his tight, muscle--knotted body defy one or two laws of physics. Running atop an aircraft carrier was probably the easiest thing he did during his day. He was certainly the easiest thing to look at on my days at sea, or at least since I got aboard.
Whether because it was morning or because Standing Bear and Donaldson were the fault, my cock was now hard and straining against my jock strap. That felt good and annoying at the same time. When a gust of wind smacked into us on our way back toward the bow for the fourth round, all three of us were buffeted to an obvious speed reduction, and our shorts and t-shirts made us look like we were being shrink-wrapped in navy or khaki cotton jersey. I looked down to see that I wasn't exactly (or at all) hiding my hard cock. In fact, the wind just advertised it for me.
While looking back up and forward, I caught Donaldson out of the corner of my eye. He also glanced left at my cock for a couple or three steps, and then resumed his attention forward. With the barest of smirks on his lips, no less. My Bubbie used to say, `Never trust a smile on a man's face before he's had breakfast. He's not happy; he's thinking of how he can get away with something during the entire day in front of him.' I hope you were right, Bubbie.
We finished the circuit and rested, with most sailors returning to their bottles of water. I forgot to bring one, since I had a different compact container on my mind. Rondo pointed his bottle at me and I nodded, squirting a couple of swallows in my mouth. I smiled and handed it back to him. Donaldson was talking with another of the thousands of sailors on the ship I did not yet know. Ensign looked over his shoulder and me briefly and returned to his buddy, both laughing. Uh-oh.....what now. I looked down to make sure my cock wasn't hanging (or thrusting) out of my shorts. Nope. Secure and secluded. Thank you, Bike.
When I turned around, I saw a couple dozen pairs of eyes looking right at me. What the heck?! Ah. I got it. They were waiting to see if I'd sprint again. I walked back to the first line off the stern and turned facing the bow. I bounced a couple of times and taunted them with a stud-fuck smile to join me at the line. Oh, they did. Fools.
Rondo stood on the side and counted down to `go'. Within seconds, we were done. Heh.....someone with a sense of humor and a finger on the button raised the brake net at the very end. I kept running until I was right at it, slowing myself by leaning backward. I turned to see I still crossed the finish line first, but today, the distance between me and the others was a lot tighter. Donaldson was on my heels and hit the net beside me. We both laughed and breathed heavily.
"Captain, you realize today is the last day that's gonna happen, right?"
"I realize no such thing. I was still victory-lapping in my mind from yesterday and didn't open the throttle this morning. `Last day'. In your dreams!"
"I can think of worse things to dream about than this new run-fit routine with you, Captain....."
Sly fox. Keep it coming. You think you're wearing me down, don't you? Truth is: I'm wearing you down, Ensign. YOU'RE the one doing too much loose-lipping. I'm not saying anything.
Yet.
I smiled and looked back into the wind. We caught our breath and walked toward the ladder to go belowdecks and get our real days going. I slowed a bit and dropped to my knee to tie my tied shoelace. Donaldson stopped with me. The others were well ahead of us when I resumed standing. We were only fifty feet from the tower. I kept my eyes forward, voice lower and hopes higher.
"What're you doing later?"
"Getting intimate with a measuring tape, Captain."
"Oh. Is that today....?"
"Don't tease yer boy, Montana!"
With that, he smiled and turned to run backward, saluting. I returned it and we both laughed as he ran inside and slid down the ladder railings on just his hands, his legs straight out in front of him and his toes pointed perfectly like they'd be if he were in the air on gym rings. I walked through a bulkhead opening and took a different ladder to my quarters. This had been a good morning so far, and although he broke protocol again, I welcomed the familiarity of him calling me by the name of the state we were both born in.
You might think it was a fairly extreme coincidence that we might both connect as Montana ex-pats, but when you remember there are thousands of people aboard this ship and they all come from fifty states and a handful of territories, it's bound to happen you'll meet someone who knows someone who knows someone you know from the same state.
Donaldson and I met my first day aboard, and that only added to being happy I was asked for a peer review of the ship's commander, on behalf of the Waaay Higher-Ups. If I hadn't overstayed my welcome underneath the watchful gaze of Ol' Sol, I'd have been bored out of my mind without any eye candy worthy of my time, attention and lust.
Once in my quarters, I grabbed my gear and headed for the head. I wasn't done with my work-out routine for the day, but I wanted breakfast to still smell good in the mess after I walked in. In my current state, I might be handed a to-go bag and catapulted right out of the officers' mess by everyone else.
The morning was well underway, and men were waiting for a shower nozzle to open up. A head is one of the rare places on a ship where rank has no privilege. If the admiral himself were aboard, he'd wait in line like everyone else. Although to be fair, anyone showering who saw the admiral standing there would be in and out before even getting wet.
When my opportunity opened up, I started stripping while walking to the far end of the room. Every man in the room but myself had a job to do, and clocks wait for no one. I wasn't going to luxuriate under hot water for hours, although the thought was appealing. Unless my mind turned to Ensign Donaldson.....and then the handle would be turned all the way to the right, just out of necessity. Cold-cold-COLD water, please.
Finished with all the requisite grooming, I grabbed my towel and headed back to get dressed. I still had UOD (uniform of the day) orders to follow, regardless of my rank or status on the ship. I liked how my khaki pants fit me, and the entire service uniform was comfortable.
My cap and all USN caps doesn't signify rank----like in other branches (there are other branches?). It just has to be clean along with the rest of me. I'm insanely anal about keeping my boots polished. I wanted Vladimir Putin to see my face in them when I launched him teeth-first into downtown Kiev.
Breakfast today was simple, fast and nutritious. Heading up the galley was CS (Culinary Specialist) Margaret Schweitzer, and she took her surname (German for `Swiss Citizen') literally. Butter Gipfel (Swiss croissants), Muesli, Quiche and Rosti (out-of-this-world fried potatoes with chives, onions and cheese). She made it possible for me to not totally piss of G_d two days in a row; the entire meal was kosher, and just damned delicious. I ate well and entered the galley afterward to thank her and her team.
I could hear the jets' roars as they took off above us. It is always an awesome sight to see that much power incarnate from the brilliant minds of engineers who got us from the very first powered flight to this plane's very technology in only 92 years. It was entirely possible that a kid witnessing Orville Wright's first 20 feet long powered flight in 1903 could look above her and see a Super Hornet on her 98th birthday.
I hope quite a few `kids' saw that and marveled at the advances made in fewer than one hundred years. I wondered what I'd see on my 98th birthday. Maybe the face of a 92-year-old kid from Baker, Montana, waiting for me to blow out the inferno of candles on my birthday cake? Aw, now I'm just being mushy. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with Donaldson; just the rest of this cruise.
As impressed as I am with the pilots of the planes, it's the air traffic controllers who have all my respect. They have up to 39 planes to keep track of on this vessel, whether they're below, up top, in the air and in combat, or---G_d forbid---lost. The man or woman who can do all that successfully and still sleep at night can herd cats blindfolded. Or run a daycare. Produce the White Party in Los Angeles. Lots of things. Watching them in the tower is nothing short of amazing, but honestly, watching everyone on this floating wasps' do his or her jobs is amazing.
Heh.....I'm surrounded by WASP wasps, and I can outrun all of `em! Mazel Tov!
The day was beautiful. I wasn't precisely certain of our position, other than calculating time of day and direction, both by the Sun. One of my earlier captains said he could tell with his eyes closed if he was on the Pacific or the Atlantic, just by the way each smelled differently from the other. Unless we had time-traveled overnight, we were still in the Gulf of Aden, and would soon helm northwest into the Red Sea and eventually through the Suez Canal.
Whatever our GPS at that moment, I was enjoying the ride, and looking forward to sharing some SEAL training with a young man who seemed eager to meet the task. I was eager to teach, no matter what else I may have told you about the time I'd LIKE to spend with the Hospital Corpsman, whose own rate celebrated its 125th anniversary in the United States Navy this year.
My chronograph informed me I was two hours away from Go Time. This was a good time to hit the gym or do some isometrics in my quarters, but I wanted a true baseline with Donaldson today, so working my muscles would disserve me two days from then when we'd measure again. Neither of us were out to impress each other. I think that had been done already. Challenging each other was not out of the question, though; and perhaps the results would be impressive.
We were both sailors in our Twenties. We had the rest of our careers to be impressive. This morning was more about.....well, for me, anyway: being expressive. With a measuring tape. Here and there. On the far other end of Montana.
I occupied myself for those two hours searching for the first petty officer I could find who might direct me to a measuring tape. Sent through the gangway maze to the laundry, I got what I needed and tried to retrace my steps back to my quarters, stopping at the head to brush my teeth. Whomever had my room before me left a clipboard on the bulkhead above the desk. Perfect. That'd serve as the folder for the measurements file, as well as my copy of training exercises.
Now it was a matter of time and how I could occupy it until ten hundred. As a matter of example, I got everything within those one hundred square feet as ship-shape (literally and figuratively) as possible. I found some innocuous classical music and played it low. Mendelssohn particularly keeps me concentrated on numbers. When a knock finally came to my door, I turned the music lower but still audible so Donaldson would not feel he was walking into a courtroom or the lion's den. I was the nice spider welcoming the fly to his parlor.
I waited five seconds before opening the door. There's no physical point in that room that would take me more than half a second to reach the door from, but I didn't need him knowing that. I held the clipboard in one hand and welcomed Donaldson in.
He saluted and stepped through. I returned the salute, but kept the door open with myself slightly out of the way.
"Here's your last chance, Ensign."
"No need of that chance, Captain Weiss."
I closed the door and stepped in front of it with my feet spread in a power stance. That was pure posturing; I'm not `that guy' who has to announce any kind of alphadom. Still, I was gauging his reaction. I saw none. His eyes didn't leave mine, and mine didn't blink in return.
"Good. Your ass belongs to me now."
"Neither my ass nor I will disappoint you, Sir."
I smirked just barely. Donaldson was standing with his back to my bunk, square up against it, actually. I stepped to the cliched `DSD'---Drill Sergeant Distance---to him. Maybe five or six inches. Just enough to invade his personal space and welcome him into mine. Like yesterday, his nose was in a point directly between my nipples, prominent through my t-shirt. This time he looked at me when I spoke.
"I hope we can agree that'll now be implicit whenever we are in this friendly territory. I will not repeat myself."
"You won't have to, Sir. I'll spend our time together reminding you of that not with your words, but with my actions."
"Ah. And remind me: what will your actions remind me, as well as yourself?"
"Ahh.....that my ass belongs to you, Sir; and you won't be disappointed."
"Well then. Since we are in agreement, let's cover some basic rules. Have a seat."
Donaldson looked around for a chair, but it was behind me at the desk. He saw it and was obviously thinking how he was going to get around me for it.
"Just sit back, Donaldson. Remember how that mattress feels; it's the last time you're going to get off so comfortably."
He smiled and I placed the palm of my hand on his chest for just a moment before pressuring him backward. I smirked and took the chair from my desk and positioned myself in front of him. With both of us sitting, I showed him the clipboard, first with the exercise regimen and then the measurements chart graph beneath it.
"There are five pages of lifting and other exercises there. Look through each page and tell me if there is anything not possible for you. Following are three pages of physical points to measure with the tape. I choose to believe all of those are possible for you, but dare to correct me if my assertion is negatory."
Ensign Thomas Donaldson reviewed each page, moving his eyes to meet mine a few times throughout. At the end of the last page, he looked back up and told me he had no objection to anything on the pages.
"Oh, I know you don't object, Donaldson; you relinquished that opportunity when you didn't run from the room before I closed the door. But what you could do, and still can do, is commit to staying candid with me throughout this process, from thirty seconds ago until we are no longer in association. There's no harm, no foul, in having a physical challenge that would prevent or impede any of those details on those eight pages from being fulfilled. Simply put: open your mouth if you have a concern."
"I have no problem opening my mouth, Sir."
"Well, good. You've covered both ends."
"`Both ends', Captain?"
"You've confirmed your ass belongs to me, and you have no problem opening your mouth. Both ends."
"HA! Captain Weiss has jokes!"
"Do I LOOK like I'm joking, Ensign Donaldson?"
I stared squarely (and if I may say so, all `SEAL-y') at him. His eyes widened just a bit and he was quick to answer.
"Uh, no, Sir!"
"Well, that's too bad, because that was me joking. Relax. I'm not here to bust your balls; just turn them from iron to chrome-plated steel."
"WHEW! Well, THAT's a relief! So far, this is some anatomy lesson, Sir."
"Donaldson?"
"I've been here less than five minutes, and my ass, mouth and balls have been topics of conversation. I can only imagine what we'll cover by the time I leave to go on watch."
"Oh, so now YOU have the jokes. But I plan on covering all of you with a measuring tape today, but all of me on all of you over at least the following thirty days."
"I hope so, and often."
"You may count on it. Let's establish a few rules, some of which will be mentioned as we go. First of all, when we are alone together, will you please do me the honor of dropping the Sir' and just call me Zach, or the nickname my brothers and friends back home have for me: Griz'. Save the official recognition and respect for the other side of the door-----unless for some reason it's warranted on this side, too. We'll both know when it is and when it's not. Fair enough?"
"That's fair, and thank you. I'll honor that. Please be patient and forgiving, though, if everything I've been drilled with to date reverts me back to Sir' or Captain' once in awhile."
"I respect that. If you do it too much, though, I'll drill you myself until you just relax and take it. Also, I won't presume to know what you're comfortable with being called here."
"Tom', of course; or my own family's nickname for me, Dingo'. And although I'd hope you'd never have to, there's what my demented grandfather called me, my father and everyone else he sees: `Youlazysonofabitch'."
I reached forward and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"That won't happen. I don't think anyone in their right mind would call you lazy. But okay, Tom' and/or Dingo', we're clear. `Dingo', though.....hmmm....."
"I think I know where you are going with that....."
"Do you?"
"You want to know if I've been to Australia."
"Well, no.....but has anyone trusted you to babysit?"
"HAHAHAHAHA! Only the parents who knew their kids were bad!"
"Oh, so you're a problem-solver, too. Good to know. All right, Tom. Do you have any other concerns about any of this? The training you'll be doing? Who you're doing it with? Anything? Speak up, now and whenever something becomes pertinent."
"You already answered the question I had, or rather the wish I expressed: to train with you. Here I am. No doubt, I'll have questions along the way, but I think we're clear on goals and expectations. I guess we're a month out from home port. I hope you and I can do a lot between now and anchor."
"You and I are going to do a lot together. Maybe only half around the world in thirty days, but maybe all around the world eventually."
"Sounds like a good and hard itinerary, Zach."
"Ah, see? Was that hard?"
"Was what hard?"
"Saying my name."
"Nope. Not at all. But I suspect you'll have other things for me that are hard."
"Oh, yeah. I can think of about nine, off the top of my head. Hard right now and hard later on. Nothing is ever going to not be hard from me to you."
"Then, Zach, I believe both of us will be fulfilled together."
"We've talked enough. Time to measure. This will be thorough, and repeated every other day. We'll do that here. Oh---second rule: If others want to join in this training, I can't refuse them, or it would appear as preferential treatment for you. I don't want that in either of our files.
That said, they can train with you and me together in the E or NCO gym, but measuring and any specific focus will be only with you, here. Also, in terms of commitment, I'll ask from you what I'm offering you: the conversation we just had will be between only us. That includes any reference to the names we choose to associate between you and me. Understood?"
"Understood. I am sure other guys are going to want to get with you and learn your secrets. They won't, however, know them from me. I don't make commitments easily, Zach; but you have mine. My ass is yours, after all. So, do you make the same commitment?"
"Yes."
"Where's that measuring tape?"
I stood and reached for it up on the bunk above mine. Without shame or restraint, I was standing right in front of Tom. Whether he moved back or kept his handsome head right where it was, I have no idea. But I noticed how red he was by the time I sat back down. He smiled just a little and shook his head, though.
"Yes?"
"Oh, I was just thinking: the bunk where the measuring tape sat wasn't made up when I got in here. So, I guess you have these quarters to yourself."
"For now. I don't have to keep that bunk made up."
"Saves time cleaning, I guess."
"You'd think, but I spend extra time on the details. I always keep the bottom bunk immaculately prepared, although no one ever gets in to inspect it."
"I'm comfortable on both the top and bottom bunks."
"An interesting detail, but not germane to what we're going to be doing together. At least, not right away. I'll keep it in mind, though. Curious: do you have a preference?"
"No, not really. Heck, I've been known to make myself at home on my knees, if that's the only way to get through the night."
"That's a flexibility that will only serve you well when you and I are putting each other through the paces. I have no doubt we'll reach that point sooner than later."
"I wouldn't have made that commitment to you if I didn't hope for it. Sooo.....we were going to measure how long, how big around, and everything else?"
"You're going to be measured like you've never been measured before."
"Give me your best attack, Zach!"
"Let's just focus on measuring today, Tom."
"Okay."
"Ready?"