In 1971 I was working at a dead end job as a sporting goods manager for a small department store. I was nineteen years old with no real plans for my life. I was engaged to my girlfriend, but had no idea when we would marry. I guess I was in no big rush.

The Vietnam war was still raging. Night after night the news carried stories of different battles that had been fought and the numbers of enemy dead, as well as American casualties. I suppose like so many other people I had grown numb to the statistics, at least until my number came up.

The draft was still going on at the time. For those who don't know, the draft was the way the government filled vacancies in the military when there weren't enough volunteers. They randomly chose a day and everyone whose birthday was that day was assigned a number at the time. It so happened that I was number 52. Suddenly, I developed an intense interest in what was happening in Vietnam. The thought of traipsing through the jungles of Southeast Asia getting shot at didn't especially appeal to me. Since there were a multitude of men ahead of me before my number was taken, I had the option of joining a branch of the service other than the army. I chose the navy; or perhaps it was where I was predestined to be.

Few places on earth are less hospitable to human beings than Great Lakes Illinois in January. Naturally, that's where I ended up. In boot camp we were issued thirteen button wool pants, which, by the way, you learn to unbutton rapidly when the need to pee arises, wool sweaters, wool tops, wool caps, gloves and the famous navy pea coats. The wisdom of having wool clothing became apparent almost immediately, as we stood in formation outside of the mess hall waiting for seating. The fierce wind coming off Lake Michigan drove the already arctic air even lower and caused tears to fall on our cheeks and freeze.

After I'd been in boot camp for four weeks, word passed through the ranks that President Nixon had discontinued the draft. At number 52, I would never have had to serve. The news came to me somewhere around the time that myself and the rest of my company were standing in four rows, bare footed on a cold floor with just our white t-shirts and boxer shorts to ward off the chill. We were about to get shots. What they were for escapes me now. What I remember vividly, but wish I didn't, was when the chief petty officer told fifty some young sailors, black, white and otherwise to drop our shorts and bend over, faces straight ahead. We were spaced just far enough apart from the row in front of us to avoid contact, but needless to say, the view was less than pleasant. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it, but several corpsmen were walking down the rows of men slapping each man with an alcohol soaked cloth followed by others with syringes in their hands. It must have been a game to them because they were tossing them into the buttocks of each sailor, much like one would play a game of darts. Perhaps they were imagining a bulls eye on my bum. From the corner of my eye I could see the men on my left jerk involuntarily as the cold cloths came in contact with bare skin. Afterwards we were told to slap the area where the shots were administered and get dressed. We were going marching. Oh joy.

Our days were filled with everything navy. We attended classes to learn the jargon and the history of the navy. We spent part of every day marching and several times a week we had physical education. Maintaining the cleanliness of the barracks was an every day chore. On certain days we were required to wash our clothes. There were, of course, no washing machines that would have been too easy. There was a special room for washing our clothes with long trays of pumice-like stone and overhead faucets. On day one we were issued small brushes for scrubbing our duds and a length of cotton string that had to be cut into twelve inch lengths. I discovered later that the strings took the place of clothespins. When our clothes were sufficiently clean, we took them outside to the courtyard and tied them on clotheslines with our cotton strings, being careful to use a square knot. Overnight they froze as solid as a slab of beef. In the morning we would collect our frozen dungarees, underwear, shirts and socks and take them inside to a drying room. It was somewhat primitive, but I suppose they were trying to teach us discipline, which, for me at least, was in short supply.

Somewhere around week six, the rules were relaxed a little bit and we were allowed to go to town on leave on the weekend. Half the company left on Saturday and half on Sunday. The half left behind was permitted to bring in a radio to listen to, and we were allowed to play cards. I think I was listening to a Chicago radio station when Harry Neilson started singing his hit song Without You. In the song he was lamenting having had a girl that he let go and then realized that he wouldn't be able to live without her. It got me to thinking about my fiance' and how I would feel if she left me because I couldn't get serious about our relationship. The next chance I got I hit the pay phones and made arrangements for our wedding as soon as boot camp was over. We were married on March 24th, forty nine years ago.

If I hadn't joined the navy, I'm not sure that I ever would have given much thought to how lonely life would be without her. While I was in the navy I was stationed first in Key West and later in Charleston South Carolina, where we moved next door to a lady who was an elder in a Christian group who was moving to Alaska. I happened to rent our bungalo from another elder in the same church. We too moved to Alaska in 1976 and have been here ever since.

I can't see another scenario where moving to Alaska would have even been a thought, much less a reality. It's all because I chose to join the navy and see the world. So as you can see, choices have consequences, often very good ones.