“So what did he do about it?”
“Same as you. Denied it. Wouldn't accept help.”
“And?”
The bartender looked me in the eye and whispered, “He killed himself.”
I stared at my image in the mirror.
“Get help, Mr. SEAL. Before it's too late.”
13: SECOND CHANCE
CLASS-A JERK or regular guy. A choice I pondered as I sat in Joan Fleming’s office. Hawk was right. The bartender down the street was right. I had a problem. My recurring dreams could be PTSD. The doc was there to help but my attitude needed major adjustment.
Dr. Fleming entered the room and extended her hand.
“You are doing the right thing, Charley.”
“I'm still not sure, doc. But I want to apologize for bolting on you last time.”
“Not necessary. Let's finish the assessment, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you avoiding activities or situations because they remind you of a stressful military experience?”
“Well, doc, every time I go to the crapper the smell reminds me of the spa treatment the Taliban offered.”
“Uh huh. Do you have trouble remembering important parts of the experience?”
“You must be kidding, doc. I remember it all, too vividly, smells included.”
“Any loss of interest in activities that you used to enjoy?”
“Negatory. I'm anxious to move on with my plan to move to the Florida Keys. Do some serious fishing.”
She nodded and made some notes. “Do you feel distant or cut off from other people?”
“I miss my teammates. Ten years with most of them. Hawk for all of it. His plan is same as mine. At the end of his tour he will join me in Florida. Jake Murphy may join us, too.”
“Do you feel emotionally numb or unable to have loving feelings for those close to you?”
“Nope.”
“I know you just said you are looking forward to moving to Florida and have plans with some of your teammates, but do you ever feel as if your future will somehow be cut short?”
“Nope. I'm a simple guy looking to live a simple life and enjoy every moment.”
“You having any second thoughts about retirement from the Navy? I understand you have an option to accept a stateside training assignment. No more active combat duty.”
“Despite what it looks like, doc, the party with the Taliban did not influence my decision to retire. Ten years is enough for me.”
“Good, let's finish this up. Do you have trouble falling or staying asleep?”
“Being a SEAL, I've learned to catch shut-eye whenever and wherever. No problem sleeping, doc.”
“What about being super-alert or watchful or on guard all the time?”
I laughed. “SEALs are trained for that. Of course, I'm watchful.”
The doctor frowned and closed her notebook.
“Charley, you have PTSD. Not a surprise, you've seen some awful things in battle. Your present state seems normal but uncontrollable panic can erupt any time. I will prescribe some medication to even things out for you. My recommendation is for discharge with health assistance as long as you need it. The first step is acceptance. And then therapy. Can you do that?”
My dad's last words so long ago. I thought about it and all that has happened since.
“Yeah, doc. I can do it.”
“Of course, the medical team that treated your infections has given you meds to prevent a setback and you should continue those as well.”
“Good to go, doc?”
“Yes, Charley, good to go.”
14: MARATHON KEYS
FINALLY IN FLORIDA, with my medals and discharge papers in a rucksack that will never be opened. No more war for me. A fishing bum’s life awaits. No worries as long as I take the meds and check in with my shrink every month. I've saved enough to survive on Social Security and drawing down my Thrift Savings Plan. Easy peasy. As a SEAL on tours in the Middle East for most of my military career, the only time available to spend my pay was at the bars during stand downs, when we weren't training for the next tour. But now I'm done.
First civilian mission: find some wheels and suitable digs. I flew in to Miami International and picked up the barely used Harley Forty-Eight a SEAL buddy in Coronado told me about. The bike was stored in Miami and the price was reasonable. It’s a cruising bike, smooth and stable. I planned to spend most of my time fishing so two wheels were enough for trips around the Keys.
TWO HOURS after picking up the Forty-Eight I arrived at Marathon Marina & Motorhome Resort. Managed it without any speeding tickets, too. A hundred miles down the overseas highway, with nothing but aqua-green water on either side of the two-lane elevated road. I had an appointment to meet with Roland Carson, park owner and resident manager. Hoped to negotiate a deal for a classic Winnebago motorhome and lease a spot for it. Another find through a SEAL buddy.
From my research I learned Marathon is actually a city spread out on seven keys, more than halfway from Miami, about fifty more miles to Key West. A lot of keys, but still sparsely populated. I'd considered Key West but it was too crowded and too expensive. After ten years of spec-ops missions, I was looking forward to peaceful, quiet living in paradise.
Roland was a Navy vet and also a connoisseur of Tennessee whiskey. I’d come prepared. Stashed in a saddlebag on the bike, I had a few important negotiating chits.
As I dismounted from the Forty-Eight, feeling like a cowboy with saddle sores, I remembered the knife cuts in my butt. No worries. A sore ass is not a problem. What caused it is history. Time to move on.
Roland came out to meet me.
“You must be Charley Manner.”
“Yes, sir, that’s me.”
“Don’t sir me, sailor. I retired as a Master Chief and proud of it. Zeke told me you clocked out early. Had some problems with the Taliban.”
“Affirmative, Chief. But that’s history. I’m here to enjoy life, what’s left of it.”
“Well, the Marathon Keys are the right place to do it. Been here for twenty years and don’t plan on movin’ unless it’s in a pine box.”
“I hear ya, Chief.”
“You must have a sore butt after the ride down from Miami. Come inside and set a spell. Have a drink before we go look at the RV.”
I reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a half gallon of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7. “Glad you asked. I heard you like good Tennessee whiskey.”
Roland spun around and flashed a grin. “You SEALs do know how to recon and come prepared.”
Roland grabbed the bottle of Jack and hustled to his bar. He poured two glasses half-way and looked at me. “Ice?”
“Negatory, Chief.”
He smiled. “We’re gonna get along just fine, son.”
The bottle was half gone just thirty minutes and a dozen war stories later. We agreed to pause and stepped out to the Florida sunshine. Roland led the way. The more I looked around, the better I felt about my decision to move here. Great climate, relaxed atmosphere, unless you count the occasional hurricane, and people with the same attitude about life. I came close to ending mine in a shithole. Thanks to Hawk and Spirit, I have another chance to get it right.
“The RV is three rows down, first spot next to the boat slips on D-dock.”
I caught a glimpse of the white and gold Winnebago as we rounded the corner. I'm no stranger to the brand and recognized the Chieftain, a 39L model. Plenty of room.
“What year is it, Chief? And I see it is a Chieftain.”
“A 2002 and the name is just coincidence, son.”
We went inside. Hotter than hell.
“Sorry about the heat. AC’s busted.”
I didn’t mind. After multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, heat was relative. And sitting next to the docks with a view of the Florida Straits made it worth it. Besides, it'll help me negotiate a better price.
“Any other problems?” The interior was in good condition and the layout
of the 39L with double slides, a queen bed, fold out couch and a bath with a decent sized shower would meet my needs just fine.
“Not that I know of, but you can have it checked out before we finalize the deal if you’re interested.”
“Let’s talk. How about we go to your office and taste some more of that brown?”
“Music to my ears, sailor.”
15: OCEAN 35
THE CHIEF LED ME back to his office on a walkway that passed a slip with an old Ocean 35 Sport Fisher listing to starboard at the end of D-dock. It had a for sale sign on it. Conveniently adjacent to the RV spot, I had an idea to go for a bundled sale.
Good thing I’d brought along a little help from Jack Daniels. I grabbed the second bottle from my saddle bag before we re-entered Roland's office.
The Chief agreed to slice 40% off his asking price for the boat and 30% off the Winnebago. You might say I charmed my way into an arrangement with my gift for storytelling. Okay, I’ll be honest. Jack did the heavy lifting.
~~~
THE OCEAN 35 had a dead battery that prevented the bilge pump from operating. Heavy thunderstorms every afternoon the previous week had caused the bilge to fill and the boat to list to starboard. Easy peasy fix. Maiden shake-down cruise scheduled for tomorrow morning bright and early.
~~~
ROLAND WAS A TRUE NAVY MAN. He arranged a deck crew that cleaned up the boat, installed a new battery and pumped out the bilge.
Technically a Sports Cruiser, the 1990 Ocean had a flying bridge and LOA of 35 feet and thirteen-foot beam. Good set-up for fishing. With twin Cummins diesels, total horsepower topped 600. The hull design allowed cruising speed of 25 knots; more than enough to reach Cay Sal Bank from Marathon in two hours.
I planned to install a fish-fighting chair on the aft deck. Did some marlin and tuna fishing while on stand downs in Coronado and I'm hooked on the sport. Time to test my fishing skill out on the Straits of Florida.
This morning started with a brilliant sunrise burning through the haze and a flat sea. Perfect for the shakedown cruise. The Chief was already on board and had the diesels warming up. Two deckhands, Milo and Juan, handled the lines as we backed out of the slip.
“Charley, I’ll pilot us out through Boot Key Harbor then you can take over. There’re shoals off the northwest tip of Boot Key I’ll show you. We don’t want to damage the props. They’re only a year old.”
“Affirmative, Chief.” I settled back in the bolstered passenger seat and enjoyed the ride.
We reached the end of the channel and open water of the Straits. The Chief pointed off the starboard bow. “That’s Seven Mile Bridge, but I’m sure you knew that. We’re still a few miles from deep water but you can take it from here.”
I slid over and placed a heading due south. “I studied the charts last night, Chief, and noted the location of Sombrero Key light due south from here, right?”
“You got that right, sailor. That’s your main marker for our return route. Now let’s cruise for an hour and let you get the feel of this old girl.”
I checked the temperature gauges, fuel level and compass heading and marked a waypoint when we passed the light.
Thirty minutes into the trip I noticed the darkening clouds on the eastern horizon.
Roland said, “Let’s head west, Charley. That looks like a decent sized squall forming. They roll in pretty quick from the Bahama Banks.”
“Aye, aye, Chief.”
“Don’t sass me, son. How would you like to cruise over to Key West? It’ll take about ninety minutes from here. We can stop at a place on Stock Island called The Hole. It’s actually on Cow Key due east of the Key West Airport.”
“Sounds good.”
“The full name is The Hurricane Hole. There’s a sheltered lagoon used during hurricanes. I think you’ll enjoy the fare. If you plan on doing serious fishing, I’ll introduce you to Chef Tyler. He’ll cook your catch any way you want it and buy what you can’t eat.”
“I'll keep that in mind, Chief. I skipped breakfast so an early lunch sounds great.”
The flat sea had already become a light chop. With a following wind, the twin diesels barely strained as I tested the boat's top speed for a few minutes.
“Easy on the throttles, sailor. You don't own this barge, yet.”
“No worries, Chief. Just stretching her legs a bit. She does handle well. A little loose in the turns. I feel the hull flexing.”
“She's been through some storms in the past twenty-five years, Charley. Her transom needs attention, and the keel has been replaced—damn mollusks attach and eat through anything if left alone long enough.”
I backed off to cruising speed. The chop increased and a rolling swell lifted us several feet before dropping us twenty. Five minutes earlier the sea had been calm. Now a full-blown squall enveloped us. I'd survived a hellhole in Khyber. This boat better get me to a hurricane hole in Key West.
Thirty minutes of rolling and crashing into the following edge of each swell, we pulled into the lagoon to smooth water and idled up to the dock at The Hole. The Ocean 35 actually handled well in rough seas. For most of the trip I’d managed to match our speed with the swells and ride the leading edge like a surfer, making our ground speed close to thirty knots. We arrived in record time. Milo and Juan hopped off to tie the lines.
After a healthy mid-morning breakfast, we headed back to Marathon. The seas had picked up pretty good, but the boat handled well. By the time we slid into the slip on D-dock I had decided to buy the boat. She had issues, but doesn't everyone?
“Chief, if you knock the price down another 5%, in case I have some hull problems, I'll buy her.”
He didn't hesitate. “For a genuine frogman that appreciates good whiskey, I'll do it. And throw in the first month’s rent for the slip.”
We shook and I made out a check. I had already lined up a loan for the RV and a boat at the Navy Federal Credit Union.
~~~
I KICKED BACK on the reclining Captain's chair that swiveled around in the driver position. There was another designed into the passenger seat. Convenience and efficient use of space in a motorhome. That's what it’s all about. I hit speed dial on my cell phone.
“Charley, is that you?” Katie answered on the first ring.
“Affirmative, Sis. Calling from my new motorhome in Florida. Well, not new but she's in good shape. Same as the boat.”
“Motorhome? Boat? Slow down, little brother. What have you done?”
“When I called you from Bethesda, I wasn’t sure how things would go with the medical people, so I didn’t mention my plan to head south.”
“Well, I’m not your nanny so I guess that’s alright. So, what is your plan?”
“You know how much I hate winters. The Florida Keys are beautiful, and I’ve found a way to live a simple life, K. I’ve located a spot with a view of the Florida Straits and a boat slip right next to my motorhome on Marathon Key.”
“That’s about a hundred miles from Miami, right?”
“Affirmative.”
“You know, the winter here on the Cape has been miserable. The summers are great but the off-season sucks.”
“Why don’t you come down for a visit?”
“I do have a ton of back vacation piled up.”
“Then it’s settled. I flew into Miami and picked up my bike.”
“Wait, you have a bike, too?”
“Not really a bike. It’s a Harley Forty-Eight. Sweet ride.”
“Don’t kill yourself. And if you think I’m riding with you from Miami, you’re crazier than I thought, brother.”
“No, I was saying I flew into Miami but there’s a decent sized airport right here in Marathon. You should be able to fly in and I’m less than five miles away. Easy peasy.”
“Okay. I’ll email the details when I get them.”
16: KATIE VISITS
KATIE ALWAYS wanted to live in a warmer climate. Cape Cod is nice but too cold in winter and the summers are too shor
t. Maybe I can talk her into moving down here.
I took a cab to the terminal and checked the arrival board. On-time flight scheduled for noon. Fifteen more minutes. Time to check out the fishing reports at the terminal bar. On the Keys, it’s all about sport fishing. Got to get up to speed, pronto.
“What’ll ya have, mate?” The bartender had an Aussie accent. Looked to be in his forties.
I took a seat. “It’s almost noon. I’ll have a Fosters.”
“Good choice. Waiting for your girl?”
“No, my sister.”
“I haven’t seen you here before. Just on a visit?”
“Actually, I’m in the process of settling here permanently. Left the SEALs and the clusterfuck war in Afghanistan and decided to retire.”
“Crikey! A genuine frogman. Let me shake your hand. And the Fosters is on me.”
“You look in good shape. What’s your story?”
“I’m ex-CDT 3. The Royal Australian Navy Clearance Diving Team 3. The Gulf War was my last hitch.”
“Another clusterfuck. What do they call you?”
“The name’s Jake. Jake Brown.”
We shook. His hands were massive with a grip like a vise.
“Diving Team, huh? Do you still dive?”
“Sure do, mate. But I’ve been here for more than ten years and fishing is more to my liking. Although I’ll do a little salvage diving if someone needs it.”
“That’s good to know. Deep sea fishing is the linchpin of my plan. Just bought a sport fisher. An Ocean 35.”
“I know the model well. Any chance you’ll be needing a helmsman? I know the waters from here to Cuba.”
“I’m planning a trip to the Wall. You know it?”
“I do. Normally, you’d need to clear Bahamian Customs in Bimini first, then down to Cay Sal Bank. Rules say you need to make the same triangle route on the return, but I know some people. We can clear virtually, on the Internet and go straight to the Cay and back.”
Charley Manner series Box Set Page 4
