The Running Evolution

About the Book

Turning twenty-nine was not catastrophic for me. I had heard about people having midlife crises, even known some people who were either having one or just using it as an excuse for their behavior. But for me, I had only one concern: a good set of orders. Graduating from the Coast Guard Academy had obligated me to serve five years in the Coast Guard. My first four years were served in vessels: Two on a high-endurance cutter mostly in a “training or learning” mode and two as commanding officer of a small patrol vessel stationed on North Carolina’s southern coast. Despite being prone to seasickness, I loved “the lure of the sea.” While I did miss my wife (and now two children), getting under way has always been a wonderful experience, where anything could happen and often did. Following those four years afloat, I was assigned to be chief of recruitment for Northern California, Nevada, and Utah and was now nearing the end of a three-year assignment ashore. Three years ashore was about three years too many, and I was eager to get back to sea. It had been a good and challenging three years, living in fairly typical urban style: carpooling into the big city during the week and catching up on home duties during the weekend. Somehow, riding a desk, even a nice desk, did not compare to life on a ship. The Coast Guard did provide us some input to the assignment process, so after some thought, I decided to be bold on my assignment request and ask for a buoy tender in Hawaii as executive officer. I had no buoy tender or overseas experience, but our assignment card was commonly referred to as a “wish sheet,” so I figured I’d wish. Executive officers were “second in command” on the ship, generally managing all the administrative aspects and running the day-to-day routine of the ship. Once under way, the commanding officer became the “man,” often referred to as the “Old Man.” On a small patrol vessel such as I had previously commanded, there was only one officer, so I had handled all the administrative aspects as well as the operational aspects. I would only need to learn the art of tending buoys if I was fortunate enough to get the assignment. I don’t think it influenced my choice, but one of my long-distance childhood memories was a postcard my father received one day from a friend. I was only about eight or nine, but I remember the words and the picture, which is what really caught my attention: palm trees, white-sand beaches, and crystal-blue water. Keep in mind that there were no high-definition big-screen TVs in that day and few color TVs (none in our house), so a color postcard made quite an impression. The words also made an impression and burned themselves into my memory: “Sell the boat! Sell the house! Quit your job! Move to paradise, Hawaii!” If it had mentioned leaving the eight kids behind, my father might have jumped at the idea, but he was afraid to fly, so we were not moving to Hawaii—at least not then. Lo and behold, twenty years later, I receive my first choice, and I was going to Hawaii! I didn’t need to sell anything and was perfectly happy to bring my wife and young children. For some reason, the Coast Guard thought that after three years ashore, I might have forgotten all those semesters of navigation plus the subsequent four years I spent on ships practicing. So they sent me to a refresher course for two weeks in San Diego. Turns out I hadn’t forgotten, and even if I had, it didn’t matter. The only two things an executive officer needed to know in that era were how to balance the budget and how to catch the young seamen smoking pot. They didn’t have courses for those things, and I didn’t need them anyway; I was pretty good at both. But who can complain about two weeks in San Diego? Most of my classmates were naval officers of various ranks and levels of experience. As a “Coastie,” I was never much impressed but enjoyed listening to the break discussions. One particular discussion during t

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