They say deployment builds character. I say it builds trauma—and back muscles, from clenching everything you’ve eaten for six to eight months straight.
This day marked the halfway point of my last deployment, which means I’d been sweating in the Arabian Gulf, just long enough to be cooked medium-rare. The heat index hit 153 degrees this day. That’s not a typo. I sat in what they call the “air-conditioned” section of the ship (which is just a slightly less angry oven), and wrote this in my diary, while trying to rotate my body like a rotisserie chicken. Half-baked, all I got to do is flip once an hour and I’m done.
Now life on a Navy ship is… rhythmic. Loudspeakers tell you what to do. You line up for food like it’s Black Friday at Best Buy. And most important of all, you listen when someone tells you not to go into the head (that’s the bathroom for all you land lubbers). Because the head… the head holds secrets. Horrible, squishy secrets.
This particular memory, permanently seared into my mind like overcooked Navy meatloaf, started like any other day: with a blood-curdling whistle and a man whose dream job must’ve been fairground loudspeaker yelling “REVEILLE! REVEILLE!” into the 1MC, or PA system, like he was paying us back for some ill conceived prank. This is your cue to wake up and pretend to function like a normal person.
I shuffled to the head to attempt what we call “morning hygiene.” The shower had all the water pressure of a dying camel’s sneeze, and by “water,” I mean steam so thick it could braise a pot roast. Brushing my teeth? No dice. The sinks were as dry as my humor. So I thought, hey, at least I can pee. That’s the one thing the Navy can’t take away from me. Right?
Wrong.
As I neared the toilets, I noticed a… rumble. A slight shudder in the deck beneath my feet. This happens all the time. The ship’s always creaking and groaning like your Grandpa getting out of a recliner. But then it happened again. This time, from the toilets themselves. That’s when my gut whispered, “Son… don’t do this.”
First stall: out of order. Second: occupied. Third: no door on the hinges. Of course. So I stood there waiting, while the ship gave one final Jurassic Park-style tremble… and that’s when it happened.
Stalls one and three exploded.
Not with fire. Not with gas. No, friend. With the fury of Old Faithful after Taco Tuesday.
Now, if your stomach’s weak, skip this part. Seriously.
Imagine cake batter. Now imagine it’s been left out in the sun, mixed with expired seafood, and then fired from a pressure cannon. That’s what erupted from those toilets. With a sound that defied God and physics, waste water (a term that doesn’t do justice to the actual horror) shot out of stall two like a demon had been exorcised through the plumbing.
And out of stall #2? A man. A hero. A victim. He stumbled out, soaked, dazed, bare-legged and broken. Covered in… well, let’s just say it wasn’t conditioner or lotion. He staggered past us, eyes hollow, straight into the “shower,” which, of course, offered only steam. I think he’s still in there. Still scrubbing. Still crying, maybe.
As for me? I turned right around and waddled back to my rack. Ain’t no way I was risking my backside in that warzone. I’ve seen combat, but I ain’t built for whatever that was.
So yes, I was halfway done with that deployment. Halfway fried, halfway roasted, and now… halfway traumatized.
So now, I hover over the toilet. You never forget the first time you almost became Old Faithful’s next geyser victim.
Hope today’s a clean one.
— Austin in the Gulf
(See what I did there?)
