Sea Hunt

U.S. Navy Diving & Salvage Center, Panama City, Florida-1

U.S. Navy Diving & Salvage Center, Panama City, FloridaA

s settled as anybody can be in the prison-cell atmosphere of a Navy transient facility, I’m leafing through the slick welcome package they gave me at the front desk. First decision after I unpack is that I’ll spend as little time as possible inside this room. It reeks of disinfectant and has the plastic institutional décor of a seedy off-road motel. It’s a place to sleep, anyway—assuming I’m allowed to sleep—and the internet connection fired right up on demand. According to the brochures, this base is busy as a hive of bees in Navy blue. You couldn’t prove it by me. I didn’t see a lot of activity on the cab ride from the airport. There were a few poor slobs mowing grass and some casual strollers between the buildings, but they all seemed to be moving slowly with no particular motivation other than getting from one place to another in the muggy Florida heat. Everybody else—about 12,000 everybody else according to the literature—is likely in some classroom or underwater. There’s a lot of water to be on or under here, mostly trapped in various pools, tanks, or tubes where dive training is conducted.

Still no idea what I’m supposed to do exactly, but that will likely be clarified on Monday when I report in to the command. According to the map, it’s located down by the marina, which looks like an easy walk from here. A note left at the front desk tells me I should get my paperwork done and then come by the Ocean Systems office in an adjacent building. Better shake out the uniform and see if my new haircut is compatible with the hat. Meanwhile, I’ve got tonight and tomorrow to get oriented. The base is surrounded by kitschy seafood restaurants and fast-food joints. Guess I’ll try one for dinner.

About halfway through something called a Lobster Roll Po’ boy at the Dolphin Bar & Grill, a guy juggling a gigantic soda cup and a red plastic basket stuffed with fried shrimp stops at my little table. He just stands there for a few seconds, obviously looking around for a place to sit. My table is the only platform in the joint occupied by only one person. He looks harmless enough—clean cut, tan, and stocky with a spread of well-maintained muscle under a t-shirt that advertises some dive shop in Nassau. There’s an issue diver’s watch strapped on his wrist that tells me he’s probably Navy.

“Care to join me?”

“Thanks…” He looks like it’s a novel idea that just occurred to him as he hooks the chair opposite mine with a foot, scoots it back, and slides into it with a grateful smile. “I was beginning to think I’d have to eat this stuff standing up.” He looks around at the crowd and waves casually at a group of guys standing at the bar chugging beers. “Saturday night at the Dolphin,” he says, turning his attention back to me. “It’s always crowded. Launch point for later mayhem.”

He dips one of the shrimp into a little paper cup of sauce, pops it into his mouth, and stares across at me with open curiosity. I turn my attention to the lobster roll giving him only an occasional glance and hoping he doesn’t run a line or start hitting on me. He doesn’t blink much. Just chews and stares with a quirky little smile around a busy mouth as he consumes his shrimp. I catch dark blue eyes with crows-feet wrinkles at the edges. This guy’s Navy, and he’s a diver of one kind or another.

“You stationed here?”

“Yeah,” he nods as if he’s pondering the effect of that admission. “Navy dive instructor. Is it that obvious?”

I shrug and reach for my cup of iced tea. “Spotted the watch and t-shirt.” He glances down at his wrist as if he’d been unaware of the clunky, luminous instrument held there by a waterproof black rubber strap. Then he reaches across the table, offering a handshake.

“Tyler Stanz, Diver Second Class.” He retrieves his hand and jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the base. “I’m on the staff over there.”

“Tracey Davis,” I say, trying to decide how much to tell him. “I’m a reservist sent down here for my active duty stint.”

“I thought you might be Navy.” He crosses his arms and leans across the table on his elbows. “Takes one to know one, I guess. What course are you slated for?”

“None that I know of. I was just sent down here to replace a guy who had a heart attack.”

He slumps back in his chair and the smile goes a little crooked. “That would be Lieutenant Cantwell.”

“I didn’t get his name.”

“It’s Mister Cantwell for sure. He’s the only heart attack we’ve had lately—at least on dry land. It’s a small dive community down here on staff. You get to know everybody.”

“All I know is I’m supposed to report to something called the Ocean Systems office first thing Monday morning. You know anything about what they do?”

“Sure. Mister Cantwell has a team of science nerds that keep an eye on currents, environmental conditions, water temps, shark sightings—stuff like that. They issue a daily Ocean Systems report, and all the dive teams working open ocean check it before they go out.”

“Sounds cool, I guess. In my regular job I work up at Woods Hole. I’m an oceanographer by trade.”

He nods and squints at me. “I know something else you are.” There’s a little ice forming behind that crooked smile.

“What’s that?”

“You’re an officer. Full lieutenant or j.g….right?”

“It’s junior grade….”

“Figures.” He extends his hand again in the process of leaving. “Nice to meet you anyway.”

And here I get a graphic lesson in how things stand down on the deck plates in the active duty U.S. Navy. Sailors are sailors and officers are officers—never the twain shall meet. The goodbye handshake is much limper than the hello one was. “Maybe we’ll run into each other out at the base.”

“Probably,” he says with a nod. The smile has disappeared. “I come by the office sometimes for the OS report.”

“That’s cool,” I say to his back as Diver Second Class Tyler Stanz heads for the bar to join the beer drinkers. A few of them glance in my direction as I clean the refuse from the table. I won’t be reporting in until Monday, but by midnight tonight the word will be spreading among the enlisted men that there’s a new female officer aboard. And that means that a lot of macho Navy Divers will be checking to see whether I’m just reservist fluff or a solid hand. Nothing new in that. My Dad always said the rank is show. Respect comes on the go.

---

At seven sharp Monday morning—0700 for those of us who now have to think beyond the old a.m.-p.m. thing used by most rational people to tell time—there’s a polite knock on my door. I give up staring at the unfamiliar image in the full-length mirror and open the door to find a petite woman carrying a clipboard and trying very hard to look all official and serious. It’s a struggle with which I can empathize. We both look like a couple of lumpy blueberries in the Navy working uniform. While she cuts a nervous glance at the room number on the door and rechecks her clipboard, I wonder once again who the genius was that decided sailors should wear blue-and-grey camouflage. Who are they trying to hide from on haze-grey ships plying the dark blue ocean? Pointless.

“Good morning, ma’am.” The woman is wearing the single gold bar of an ensign, so she’s bound to address me formally. “I’m Ensign Carla Simms from the OS office. Are you Lieutenant j.g. Davis?”

“Guilty as charged.” I extend a hand and get the hint of a smile. Ensign Simms is short and slim with a relatively nice figure, given what I can surmise in the baggy uniform. The hand she extends to shake bears a gold signet ring that I’ve seen before. Annapolis. A freshly minted boat-school grad, and not long into her first active-duty assignment. That makes us kindred spirits—a couple of juniors working hard to avoid looking clueless.

“C’mon inside,” I say, turning to retrieve my hat and a stack of official orders that will need to be stamped, processed, and forwarded with endorsement by someone to make my presence here official in the eyes of Big Navy. “Sorry I can’t offer you coffee or anything.”

“It’s OK, ma’am. I live just down the passageway. I know how it is…”

Holding my sheaf of paper in one hand, I jam the hat on my head, check the mirror, and tuck away a few stray locks. “How do I look? OK for a wayward reserve checking in?”

Carla Simms squints at me and runs her practiced eyes over the uniform. If I can pass muster with an Annapolis grad, I’m probably good for a first meeting with the senior officers who will be running my life for the next couple of weeks.

“Looks squared away, ma’am.” She stares for a minute and then steps closer in a move that would make a Naval Academy upper-classman proud. “The cover is a problem for most females,” she says, and gives the bill of my hat some shaping. “Takes a while, but eventually you work out a way to keep from looking like a dork.” The smile gets bigger, and Ensign Carla Simms points at her own dark hair that she wears in a short shag. It works well for her, and I make a mental note to ask about an appointment with whoever cuts her hair.

“If you’re ready, we’ll have time to stop by Starbucks. It’s on the way down to the marina.” I follow Ensign Simms out the door, wondering once again why the Navy insists on calling a hat a cover. OK, it covers your head, but what’s wrong with hat? I’m gonna have to learn to communicate in Navy-speak. It’s easier than Arabic. Count your blessings.

The command Admin office is full of women in uniform. Not a male in sight behind the clunky desks and glowing computer screens. It leads me to wonder whether there are any females actually working on diving and other non-clerical jobs. While we wait for forms to be stamped and processed, Carla Simms says she works in the Ocean Systems office, the only other officer there. She is quick to point out that it means I will be in charge, and she’ll be working for me. I’m a little dubious about all that since I have very little idea what we are meant to do in the Ocean Systems office, much less how to do it. She assures me I’ll catch on quick, and she will be more than happy to snap me into the routine.

With paperwork properly processed, she leads me to a last stop before I get my first look at the place where I’ll be spending most of my active-duty time. Every newly arrived officer has to make a call on the command staff, and that leads me to the Executive Officer of the Diving & Salvage Center, a burly Lieutenant Commander who wears a Master Diver’s insignia above a stack of colorful decorations and service ribbons. He seems to sense how nervous I am as he offers his hand, a chair placed precisely on the other side of his desk, and coffee if I want some—which I don’t.

Lieutenant Commander McCrary apologizes for the Commanding Officer who he says normally wants to meet all incoming officers. The boss is out today, so I’ll miss that ordeal. The XO’s voice sounds like a foghorn—probably a result of too much time breathing compressed gases under one body of water or another—but he’s pleasant in a loud, jovial way. Our conversation is brief and relatively one-way. I get the usual welcome aboard and we’re expecting a lot out of you, big shoes to fill, important work and all the stuff a lowly reservist hears from active-duty types forced to put up with part-time help. About the time we both run out of conversational gas, he taps his computer keyboard, reads for a minute, and then sits back to take a closer look at me.

“Thought I recognized you,” he says, “but there’s a lot of people named Davis, so I wanted to be sure.”

“Sure about what, sir?”

“Sure that you were who I thought you were. If your Dad is a retired jarhead by the name of Shake, I remember him well.”

Oh, my God. Does that mean my father’s an old buddy? Or does it mean Dad pissed this guy off somewhere along the line? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run into that kind of thing. Even when I was little and living on military bases, there was always some kid at school whose Dad locked horns with my Dad. Military brats tend to carry their parents’ prejudices and animosities around until they’re old enough to develop their own.