You never know...

Seattle, Washington. November, 1974.

Actually, to be more precise, it was Bremerton, an hour's ferry ride across the sound. My first real job.

I had enlisted in the Navy in January, 1974 to escape a small town life of pumping gas (which I had never done), or driving tractor (which I had, and didn't much want to do the rest of my life, as many had before). I graduated high school the previous June. I couldn't afford to go to college, and had no real desire to, even if I could. "Join the Navy and see the world!" In my first eleven months I'd been to three corners of the United States. Not bad, for a start.

My first year was taken up with training and schooling and preparing and screening. After all, it isn't everybody who could go to sea in a submarine for months on end.

The USS Nathan Hale (SSBN623). Blue Crew. The first time I saw my boat, it was suspended in the air and had very large holes in the side, through which machinery was being removed and replaced. I was so naive, I don't believe the thought ever occurred to me that those very large holes would need to be repaired for this 425 foot long, 33 foot wide beast to submerge to depths in excess of 400 feet.

It's funny, that. The only thing that we could say regarding our depth capability was that it exceeded 400 feet. But anyone that had access to "Jane's Fighting Ships" could see that we could safely submerge to 1300 feet.

That's where I met Troy.

We shared many things. Coming from small towns: mine in California, Troy's - Pennsylvania. A love of music. Troy got hold of a guitar somewhere, and was (like so many others) torturing all those around him with his never ending quest to learn "Stairway to Heaven". The desire to drink too much and sometimes live life a little more on the edge than we should. Hell, we were 18... we were invincible.

The years passed. We served together for three years. Shared time underwater together for about half that. "Join the Navy and see the World!" We saw the inside of a submarine. Boomers never go anywhere. That's what they call 'em - Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarines - "Boomers" for short. I'll let you conjure your own idea of the conversations that created the nickname. Boomers just take off, disappear, and come back three months later. Our longest patrol was 105 days. Continuously underwater. That gives you a long time to cultivate a friendship.

I remember one summer Troy and some of our buddies lived in a little place outside of Charleston (South Carolina, the new homeport of the Nathan Hale). Troy introduced me to some of the native flora and fauna. Let's just say the little pond by their house was designated "Lake Shroom".

We got out. Went our ways. But Troy always called. Sometimes quite some time would go by between our conversations. But Troy always called.

When he got married, Kim and I went back for the wedding. Anyone that knows me knows that my memory is roughly the equivalent of a burlap sack trying to hold water. Yeah... not much in there. But I do remember Troy being ecstatically happy with his young new bride, Sherry, who was just the sweetest thing.

More time passed. One Saturday morning Troy parked in our driveway, got out of his rented Cadillac (Troy couldn't rent just any old car!) and knocked on our door. Kim came to get me before opening it, because she couldn't really believe Troy would just show up on our doorstep. But he did.

Then Carley came, and he sent me a picture, and she looked just like him. Then a few years later, Corey came. Carley just turned 13, and Corey's 9. Where did all that time go, from when she was just a baby with a scrunched up face that looked just like her dad's?

Only once in all my travels did I manage to work anywhere near him, and stopped by to visit a few years ago. We didn't stay in touch as often as before, but every once in awhile, I'd still get a call when he got a new guitar. Or a new race car. Or another new toy. And we'd talk.

I'm going to miss Troy's calls.

Troy was going to call me. He wanted to tell me about his new motorcycle. But I'd moved since our last conversation, and our new number was listed under Theresa's name and I never gave it to Troy.

Sherry called me on Friday to tell me. Troy was killed when someone pulled out in front of him. He was three months older than me. Fifty two.

You never know.