Wolves of the Coast

Chapter One

I never thought of a different life. Why should I do that? Mom left us when I was three. I can still slightly remember her dark hair and blue eyes. Loved by her family, or at least till my father looks her away from them. Now I have nothing. It’s just me and the piss of a father. Here I am once again, hiding in the forest near our home while he is drunk and yelling for me. Not today, old man. I’m staying here. Why should I go home so he can shove me from doing the dishes wrong or forget to change the laundry fast enough? No Id rather sit here in the neighbors deer blind. Not warm, but safe. This location proved elusive to him. Too drunk to stumble this far. “Ethan, get your ass home now”, he yelled. No thanks old man, Ill wait till you pass out on that worn down crappy flannel couch with holes. Ill wait to slide in from that creaky kitchen door. I can’t wait for any longer for my 18th birthday to come. I already talked to a recruiter on our old desktop computer. I was out of here. Leaving this old white farmhouse home my mom had loved. Away from the man who beat his own child cause he was too alone. I hope he dies here feeling the pain and loss he caused me and my mother. My three-year-old self keenly remembers that day my mother died. It was a stormy afternoon on the Oregon coast, the kind where the sky turns an ominous shade of gray and the wind howls through the trees like a mournful ghost. I remember clinging to my mother’s leg as she stood by the window, watching the waves crash against the cliffs.

Her gentle touch and soothing voice were always my sanctuary from the world’s turmoil. But that day, something was different. I felt a deep, inexplicable tension; a sense of impending doom resonated within. My father was nowhere to be seen, likely lost in one of his drunken stupors.

Then it happened. A loud crash, the sound of breaking glass, and my mother’s scream. I lacked comprehension, but sensed negativity. It’s etched in my mind: her collapse, body hitting the floor, and all that blood. I stood frozen, unable to move or cry out, as the storm raged on outside.

The next thing I remember is the paramedics arriving, their faces grim as they carried my mother away. My father entered, drunk, irrevocably changing my life. My mother was gone, and with her, the light and warmth that had made our house a home. After my mother’s death, my father was never the same. The man who once laughed and played with me, who held my mother with such tenderness, slowly disappeared. In his place was a hollow shell, consumed by grief and anger. He initially tried to remain strong, but his sadness proved unbearable.

It began with casual drinks, easing the suffering. But soon, one drink turned into many, and before long, the bottle became his constant companion. The house, once filled with warmth and love, grew cold and silent. Instead of echoing laughter, the halls now resounded with the clinking of glass and the slurred speech of a man in despair.

As his addiction took hold, my father became unpredictable and volatile. He reacted intensely to trivial matters; I walked on eggshells, constantly wary, unsure when his next explosion would occur. The bruises and scars on my body were a testament to his rage, but the wounds in my heart ran deeper.

The impact on our lives was devastating. My father lost his job, and with it, any semblance of stability. Bills piled up, and the house fell into disrepair. The once-proud man who had provided for our family was now a shadow of his former self, consumed by his addiction. Alone, I struggled navigating an harsh world.

I hoped school would be my safe haven, a brief respite from the disorder in my home. But no, my father pulled me to homeschool. The weight of my father’s addiction followed me. The fear and uncertainty awaiting me after online school distracted me, making it hard to concentrate. I remained isolated, fearing discovery, thus limiting friendships. I wanted them, but living in the deeper part near the coast, not everyone could handle living so isolated.

Despite everything, there were occasions when I glimpsed the man my father used to be. In his rare moments of sobriety, he would look at me with a sadness that broke my heart. I knew he loved me, but the alcohol had a hold on him he couldn’t break. Those fleeting moments of clarity were a cruel reminder of what we had lost. Yet, he would emphasize that he wasn’t the man I longed for, but the monster who inflicted harm on me.

The Oregon coast’s rural landscape showcases a dramatic meeting of land and sea. Towering cliffs rise sharply from the churning waters of the Pacific Ocean, their jagged edges softened by a blanket of emerald green moss and hardy coastal vegetation. The air is thick with smelling salt and pine, a heady mix that invigorates the senses.

Below the cliffs, the shoreline is a wild tapestry of rocky outcrops and hidden coves, where the relentless waves crash with a thunderous roar, sending plumes of white spray into the air. The beaches are strewn with driftwood, bleached and weathered by the elements, and the occasional tide pool teems with life, offering a glimpse into the vibrant ecosystem that thrives in this harsh environment.

Inland, dense forests of towering Douglas fir and Sitka spruce stretch as far as the eye can see, their ancient trunks standing like sentinels against the coastal winds. The forest floor is a carpet of ferns and fallen leaves, dappled with sunlight that filters through the thick canopy above. Narrow, winding trails snake through the underbrush, leading to hidden waterfalls and secluded glades where the only sounds are the rustle of leaves and the distant call of seabirds.

The rural Oregon coast is a place of raw, untamed beauty, where nature’s power and majesty are on full display. It’s a land that demands respect and inspires awe, a fitting backdrop for the beginning. This is what he would miss. His escapes to the ocean coast and the waves and treasures it brought him when he could escape his own father.

From a young age, the idea of the Navy captivated me. Instead: The appeal was not uniform or adventure, but belonging and purpose. Growing up in the shadow of my father’s alcoholism, I longed for a way out, a chance to break free from the cycle of abuse and neglect that defined my life.

The Navy offered that escape. I would spend hours poring over books and magazines about naval history, dreaming of the day I could leave the rugged Oregon coast behind and embark on a new journey. The stories of bravery and camaraderie, of men and women working together to protect their country, filled me with a sense of hope and determination.

The idea of becoming a combat pilot particularly fascinated me. Conquering skies, commanding war-altering machines felt exhilarating. It represented freedom in its purest form—a chance to rise above my circumstances and take control of my destiny.

As I grew older, my fascination with the Navy only deepened. I would watch documentaries and read firsthand accounts of life in the service, imagining myself in the cockpit of a fighter jet, leaving the past far behind. The discipline, the structure, and the understanding of duty that the Navy embodied were everything I craved but lacked in my own life.

The Navy also offered something else: a family. The bonds formed between sailors, the sense of brotherhood and mutual support, were a stark contrast to the isolation and fear I felt at home. I sought a larger purpose, a place to fit, where my work mattered.

Joining the Navy became my beacon of hope, a light guiding me through the darkest times. It was the promise of a fresh start, a chance to redefine myself and build a future free from the shadows of my past. Every time my father raised his hand in anger or drowned his sorrows in another bottle, I would remind myself that one day, I would leave it all behind.

My life: Enlisting felt liberating. It was the first step towards reclaiming my power and forging a new path. Joining the Navy wasn’t just a way out; it was my chance to become the person I was meant to be.

From a young age, the idea of the Navy captivated me. Rephrased 2: More than uniform allure or promised adventure, I sought purpose and belonging. Growing up in the shadow of my father’s alcoholism, I longed for a way out, a chance to break free from the cycle of abuse and neglect that defined my life. The Navy offered that escape. I spent countless hours researching the enlistment process, studying for the ASVAB, and pushing my body to its limits with a rigorous fitness regimen. Every step I took brought me closer to the freedom I craved.

Preparing to leave wasn’t easy. I took on odd jobs around the community to save money for my journey, doing everything from mowing lawns to cleaning boats. Despite my efforts, financial struggles were a constant obstacle. An unexpected car repair drained a significant portion of my savings, forcing me to make tough decisions about what to buy and what to leave behind. My father’s resistance was another hurdle. When he discovered my plans, he reacted with anger and disbelief, accusing me of abandoning him. In a drunken rage, he even tried to physically prevent me from leaving, but I stood my ground, knowing that this was my only chance to build a better life.

As the day of my departure approached, self-doubt plagued me. I questioned whether I was making the right choice and if I could succeed in the Navy. But I reminded myself of the reasons I was leaving and the dreams I was chasing. The emotional weight of leaving the only home I’d ever known was heavy, but I took one last walk along the cliffs, saying a silent goodbye to the place that had shaped me. With a heavy heart and a glimmer of hope, I turned my back on the past and began my journey into the unknown, determined to forge an alternative path and reclaim my future.