Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  I was woefully ill-prepared for what lay ahead. Even though my father treated Ian and me equally, imparting lessons learned from his time in the navy to both of us, my teenage self lingered in the Mall of America, devoured the latest issues of Vogue, and even donned a white lace gown with elbow-length gloves for the Minneapolis Honors Cotillion.

  The grief from losing Ian overwhelmed my carefree soul, but entering the Naval Academy crushed it altogether. I was irrevocably changed through that experience, withdrawing into myself to survive, knowing I couldn’t quit because Ian wouldn’t have quit. To succeed at the Academy, you really have to want to be there. And as a woman, immersed in an invisible, insidiously misogynistic culture, it’s doubly true.

  Somehow, I managed. Somehow, I graduated. And then, a strange thing happened. I did well in flight school. Really well. And one day, it dawned on me that I was enjoying what I was doing. The training, the missions, the stick and rudder skills. I was growing and melding and succeeding in the navy without even realizing it. I wasn’t just doing this for Ian anymore. His dream had truly become mine. I had found what I was meant to do.

  “But I know who I am,” I say. “I’m a pilot. I’m—”

  She holds up a hand. “I’m not talking about being a pilot.”

  She gives me a knowing look, pausing well before continuing. “Sometimes I get glimpses of the real Sara, like when we’re at home. But I tell you what, at the squadron and out here, you’re different. I mean, really different.”

  The real Sara … Em is right. Even though I’ve found something I do well, something I enjoy, it has come at a steep price. In the deepest depths of my damaged soul, I know that the real Sara is lost. She has been for a long time, hidden behind so many defensive layers, I can’t find her anymore.

  I deny it anyway. “No, it—”

  The hand goes up again. “I’m not saying that this different you is a bad you. But you don’t have to suffocate all that’s Sara. Like now. We’re going to a party and it’s fun to dress up. So why not?”

  “I don’t know, Em. I just … I don’t know.”

  She reaches into one of several shopping bags lined under the bathroom counter, and I throw my arms up in front of my face as she draws something back like a rubber band and flings it toward me. A pair of lacy black underwear lands on my extended fingers. I look up as a black bra follows, landing on my shoulder.

  “What the—”

  “I’m telling you,” she says, her playful tone returning. “You need these.”

  “When did you—”

  “While you were in one of the fitting rooms. Come on, Sara. No one will know.”

  “I’ll know. I just can’t do this. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, turning her attention back to the mirror.

  “I’m sorry, Em. But thanks anyway.”

  “Hey, you’re a work in progress, but I’m patient.”

  I climb out of bed and don my new blue blouse, tying the wrap myself. It doesn’t look as good as when Em did it, but close enough. After brushing my hair, I’m about to pull it into a ponytail when I feel a hand on my arm.

  “Please,” she begs. “Don’t ruin it.”

  “Ruin what?”

  “Your hair. Keep it long.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like it in my face, and with who we’ll be seeing tonight … I mean, just wearing something like this is on the edge for me.”

  “Okay, just humor me for a second.” She turns to the dressing area counter and rummages through her toiletries bag. “Here, stand still and let me see how this looks.”

  She slides a brown, wooden headband over my head, pulling my hair back on the sides in the process. “What do you think?”

  I look in the mirror. At least my hair would be out of my eyes.

  “It’s sort of not too bad,” I admit.

  “Oh, thank fuckin’ god.”

  She makes a few last-minute additions to her makeup and final touch-ups to her hair.

  “Okay, let’s get outta here,” she says. “I need a drink.”

  18

  Emily has timed our arrival to be exactly forty-five minutes late. We walk into the Crystal Ballroom, just off the lobby, into a sizeable crowd. The strike group officers here number in the hundreds when you include the pilots from the carrier air wing. And the women? Like moths to flame. They’re everywhere. And they’re gorgeous, too. I don’t know where they came from, but they all look like they’ve just stepped off a runway. I don’t think I could look or feel any more plain.

  Emily fits in perfectly with this group of women who wear bright colors, strapless dresses, and perfect makeup. And if they were looking to meet up with someone, they picked the perfect place. The men outnumber the women easily five to one.

  Just like the scene at the pool, it’s obvious that this group has been imbibing for hours prior to our arrival, probably hitting several pubs en route to this event. The conversation is loud, the laughter excessive. I stealthily scan the room for Eric as I follow Em, who makes a beeline for the bar.

  It’s not long before she twirls a half-emptied drink in her hand, holding court with two male admirers—officers from another ship. Soon, several more men join our little gathering. Emily gives them all a grand hello, happy drunk style.

  I feel so out of place. My hands are shoved in my pockets and I stare at the ground while Emily buzzes in animated conversation. In addition to the extremely uncomfortable no-uniform thing, I’m just plain introverted. It’s always been this way, but now it’s getting worse. And in this single evening, it’s getting way worse. The more people that cluster around to join our group, the more withdrawn I become. Emily seems intent on introducing me to everyone who arrives, and I’m offered enough drinks over the next thirty minutes that had I accepted them all, I’d be lying unconscious by now.

  But standing here does give me a chance to observe Emily. Sure, she’s tipsy, but boy does she shine in an environment like this. Her personality flows unrestrained—loudly amusing, uncannily clever—and she draws a crowd, a big one. She seems to extract energy from a gathering like this, glowing brighter by the minute.

  Me? There’s no glowing here. I start chuckling as I stare at my feet, the image of a supernova and a black hole, side by side, coming to mind.

  “What are you laughing at?” Em says.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. What is it?”

  “You’re, um … well, you’re just sort of amazing, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I am rather amazing, aren’t I,” she declares, pointing her nose up.

  “I’m going to see if I can find Captain Magruder and maybe get something to eat,” I say.

  “Fine,” she says, but then quickly grabs my arm. “Just come back.”

  I squeeze through the crowd, wondering why she would want me to come back. I don’t exactly bring much to the conversation. But she’s always been like this. Even at home in San Diego. Always sticking close. The best friend thing, I guess.

  I head for the buffet and spot Commander Claggett, who stands with Chad, Matt, and Zack, all with drinks in their hands. They’re in deep discussion with three, no, make it four women. Doesn’t look like they’re going to notice much else tonight. No Captain Magruder, though, which is secretly good because it means I can’t leave yet, raising the chances I might bump into Eric.

  Once at the food table, I walk back and forth, checking the selection. I’m approached by a group of men wearing civilian clothes topped with navy-issue brown leather flight jackets. Out of the group of six, five busy themselves at the table while one strikes up a conversation. His name tag has only his call sign embroidered on it—Bull. He never gives me his name, nor does he ask mine. He’s a bit heavyset, his jacket straining at the zippers.

  He talks. I listen. All I need to do is nod my head a few times because he has a lot to say, mostly about himself. But there are moments when I have to speak up or else it would be completely awkward. So I offer ques
tions here and there.

  “So you fly what again?” I ask.

  “Jets. F-14s, F-18s. You know.”

  “Wow, you fly both.”

  “Yeah, we switch around.”

  He’s lying. On several counts. First, F-14s were decommissioned years ago. Second, his squadron patch says E-2 Hawkeye, which means he’s not a jet pilot at all, but flies turboprops.

  “So what does your patch mean? E-2?”

  “Oh, it’s just another aircraft. I fly those, too.”

  “Three aircraft…”

  “And—not that this is a big deal—but I also fly with the Blue Angels.”

  “Really? You’re a Blue Angel?”

  He nods.

  I can’t believe this. He must be awfully desperate. Even a civilian wouldn’t believe this. Or would they? The more I think about it, he would probably only employ a known tactic, one he knows works. Yikes.

  “So how do you do the airshows and all that when you’re out here?”

  “Oh, I just fly back and forth. It’s no big deal. We all do it.”

  “Your resume is impressive, definitely.”

  “Yeah, well, when I graduated from the Naval Academy, I set some high goals for myself.”

  “An Academy grad, too?”

  If he is, I’ll be surprised.

  “You know, I had a friend who went there,” I say. “He said you all stayed in some huge dormitory, thousands of people in one building. The name began with a B but I can’t remember what it was.”

  “Oh, Bingham Hall, yeah. We all stayed there. But that was a long time ago.”

  He didn’t go to the Academy either. We lived in Bancroft Hall. No such thing as Bingham Hall, and no Academy grad anywhere, no matter how far removed or however drunk they might be, would ever forget the name Bancroft Hall.

  He laughs. “I’m sorry, I feel like I’ve been talking this entire time.”

  You have.

  “Do you want—” he starts.

  We’re interrupted, fortunately, by a welcome voice. “Hey, Sara, is that you?”

  It’s Tom Jenkins.

  “Tom!” I say.

  Bull looks at me in surprise and then at Tom. “You know her?”

  “Yeah, we were classmates at the Academy.”

  Bull’s drunken smile turns to a scowl. “Bitch,” he says, before marching away.

  “What the hell was that?” Tom says.

  “I don’t know. Well, actually, I do know. He’s embarrassed because he told me he was a Blue Angel, among other things.”

  “Really? What an idiot.”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t nice of me to play along when I knew he was lying.”

  “Hey, that’s on him. He was the one lying. Anyway, just forget that guy.”

  Good ol’ Tom Jenkins. I could always count on him to back me up. I had many classmates like Tom—forward thinking, open, and firmly seated on the tolerant end of the women-in-the-military thought continuum. Always respectful, always inclusive, a true friend in every sense of the word, and a dream for a squad mate.

  But while Tom fell on one end of the continuum, there were a few who fell on the other … and it was an extreme end—the women-haters. An aberrant group who acted as if they were afraid of us, like we were contagious. Mutant humanoids to be kept at arm’s length and more. They would even go so far as to ignore you. If I don’t acknowledge you, then you’re really not here.

  Next to them on the continuum, a slightly less extreme cadre. Those who were okay with women as a member of the species, but only if they behaved, and stayed in their rightful place—in the kitchen, the nursery, that sort of thing. They firmly believed women shouldn’t serve in the military or attend the service academies. The women who did were abdicating their responsibilities to family while engaged in more selfish pursuits.

  In the middle somewhere, many male midshipmen believed that yes, women could attend the Naval Academy, but most weren’t qualified, ushered in by quota only, and not up to standards. Certainly not the standards they had met.

  Beyond them came those who begrudgingly accepted that women were indeed up to task and could meet the standards, but who were just plain pissed, damn it, that women had infiltrated the fraternity.

  And then, finally, you could exhale as you slid into Tom’s space. Where women deserved to be there just like him, well qualified, equally devoted, and serving their country just like anyone else.

  A roving waiter, tray in hand, passes next to us, proffering glasses of red wine. Tom takes a glass, while I politely decline.

  “Hey, sorry I took so long in answering your e-mail. The op tempo has been insane,” he says.

  “That’s all right. It wasn’t really important, anyway.”

  “So do you have plans for later?” Tom asks, taking a sip from his glass. “A bunch of us are gonna grab some dinner and you’re welcome to come.”

  I discreetly look behind and around Tom, doing a quick scan for Eric.

  “Um, yeah, maybe. Thanks for asking.”

  “We’re meeting in the lobby at twenty-one hundred, so if you want to join us, just show up.”

  Tom’s squadron mates begin to trickle over and he makes introductions. He’s with a nice group. No Blue Angel stories here.

  “I thought you were going to get food,” Emily says. She sidles up next to me with a fresh drink in her hand.

  “I was but then I ran into Tom here—”

  She leans over and whispers in my ear. “So, come on, girl. Introductions! ASAP!”

  I introduce the group to Emily and then excuse myself. She smiles as I leave, mouthing, “You’re the best!”

  “Happy hunting,” I say.

  I turn away and run smack into Commander Egan.

  “Heyyy, Sara,” he says. He must be sweating alcohol, the smell is so strong. He looks me up and down, nodding approvingly. Just cue the nausea.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

  “No thank you, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, sir.”

  And then I see him. From over Commander Egan’s shoulder, a herd of stumbling partygoers moves past, revealing a small group standing just behind. Eric has just joined them—three of his detachment pilots, Stuart, Rob, and Ken; and three women who look like they’ve spent the entire day in a beauty salon. Talk about faces lighting up when Eric arrives. He smiles, talking easily, and I grow sicker inside as I watch.

  One woman in a royal blue halter leans over to whisper in Eric’s ear. He responds with a quiet laugh, at which point she slides her arm around him and one of her friends takes a photo.

  I look down at my own blouse, the same bright blue, the color that Em raved about because she said it matched my eyes. It’s not even close to being filled out like that woman’s. And below that? Stupid faded jeans and sandals I’ve owned since high school.

  “How ’bout a stroll?” Commander Egan says. “Why don’t you and me take a stroll outside?”

  “What?”

  Like an annoying fly, he pesters. I swat at the air, shooing him away while my eyes remain riveted on the scene in front of me. The woman in blue squeezes Eric closer to her as the group laughs. This is so devastatingly hard to watch.

  Honestly, Sara, did you really think he’d be looking for you? And why are you upset? He can talk with whomever he wants. It doesn’t mean anything. And besides, there’s nothing between you two, anyway, so this is just silly.

  My reaction to this situation is almost more upsetting than the situation itself.

  I look down again at my blouse, awkwardly tied, and my headband slides forward, reminding me I’ve worn my hair long.

  You were trying to look nice for him. Admit it.

  I chance one more torturous glance at the scene, and the woman in blue throws her head back, laughing. Her hair cascades in perfectly highlighted waves across her shoulders as she reaches for Eric’s arm for balance.

  Like you ever had a chance, Sara.

 
“Hey, this is a party,” Commander Egan says. “You need to relax.” His voice echoes somewhere in the background, but I’m not listening. I’m backing away.

  In less than thirty seconds, I’m slapping the elevator button for the twenty-seventh floor. I wait until the doors close before slamming my palm into the side paneling.

  “You can fly a helicopter with a failing transmission and not waver,” I say out loud. “You can stand tall while Commander Claggett throws daggers and not flinch. But you compare yourself to another woman based on what you’re wearing and you slink away like a frightened puppy? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” I give the side of the elevator one more good whack before the doors open, then shuffle to my room, defeated.

  19

  It’s approaching six o’clock in the evening in the makeshift shore patrol office housed in the Harbourview Hotel’s banquet hall on the ground floor. Scores of round dinner tables, stripped bare of their coverings, crowd the room. Couches and wide-cushioned chairs line the sides. Petty officers and chiefs representing each ship in the battle group, all dressed in the uniform of the day, summer whites, lounge, play cards, eat, or watch TV as they await their turn on roving patrol.

  We have over one hundred men assigned to shore patrol and just one shore patrol officer—me. Our job is to aid in the security for our sailors while they’re ashore, but also to act as a liaison for any matters involving the local police or other civilian authorities.

  I woke up this morning at the Hyatt Regency in Kowloon, took the subway to Hong Kong Island, checked into the Harbourview Hotel, changed into my uniform, and reported for shore patrol duty at 0700. Now, back in my element, I’m regaining a bit of dignity. I’m secure here. Confident. I know how to do this.

  For some naïve reason, I thought we would enjoy a light day today, being that it’s Sunday. I couldn’t have been more off the mark. Most of the people we’ve seen this morning and throughout the afternoon never went to sleep last night. We’ve already sent close to forty-five men back to their ships under the escort of MPs for their drunken or lewd behavior.