A Captain's Duty

especially to the parents. “Today you lost your boy,” he said at one point. “When we return him to you, he’ll be a man.”
    When the last parents’ car had cleared the parking lot, the instructors turned and started screaming at us. We weren’t these bright young men to be cherished anymore. We were “youngies,” and youngies were worth about as much as spit on pavement. The instructors screamed at us as they herdedus into a barbershop to get our heads shaved and screamed at us while they marched at double-time all over the campus before ending the day by screaming at us for no reason at all. The MMA turned out to be a true-blue military school where they broke you down before they built you into a merchant seaman. I had to give it to my brother. He’d gotten me good.
    We went through a year of constant hazing. There was an admiral called Shakey who was supposedly in charge of the academy, but the upperclassmen ran the school. You’d be walking down the hall and a three-striper—a junior—would come around a corner and demand you list the twenty-five things found in all lifeboats, in alphabetical order. If you couldn’t do it, you had to drop and give him twenty push-ups. On the summer cruise to Bermuda, they’d dress you in four layers of clothing including a winter coat, gloves, hat, and goggles and take you into the engine room on the training ship in the middle of summer, where the temperature hits 160 degrees, and work you until you dropped from dehydration. And you had to suck a lollipop through the whole thing, don’t ask me why. If you ratted on a classmate, they’d cut a fire hose, slip the end under your door, and turn it on full blast. Say good-bye to your stereo equipment and your camera, pal. If you messed with a four-striper—a senior—the boys would have what they called a “blanket party.” You’d be sleeping in your bunk, and all of a sudden a blanket would be thrown over your head and ten upperclassmen would pummel you to within an inch of your life. Or the upperclassmen would ambush you in a place called Four Corners. People had nightmares about that place. You’d turn the corner and there would be a gang of stripers lying in wait. They’d immediately beginscreaming for us to “be a steam engine.” One guy would be the vertical piston, another would be the prop and the shaft and the steam drum, which meant you were running in circles or pumping your body up and down or making a damn fool of yourself in some other way. For hours.
    It’d all be illegal now. Back then, hazing was a character builder, but now it’s not politically correct. I’m sure they have sensitivity training there the first week and you can get demerits for even implying that a youngie might tie a better knot. But in my time, some of the lieutenant commanders who lived on campus were afraid to walk into the dorms.
    One senior, an upperclassman, made a special project of me. We just rubbed each other the wrong way, mostly because he was a stickler for rules and respect, and I don’t give any unless I get it in return. It was like a chemical reaction. Instant dislike on both sides. He made it his mission to drive me out of the school.
    Every time he saw me on campus, he would make my life miserable. “What are you, a virgin?” he’d scream at me. “What’s the matter, never been laid?” I wasn’t going to take that from a punk kid who was younger than me. “Way before you, loser,” I said. And ever since that day, he’d had it in for me.
    One time, close to the Christmas holidays, I was walking with some classmates from mess hall toward our dorm. Of course, he was waiting for me at the Four Corners.
    “Goddamn it, Phillips, are you still here?” he yelled. Some of his friends snickered. Everyone knew the skinny bastard had it in for me. “Why don’t you just go pack your bag, because you’ll never make it out of here. I’m guaranteeing that right now.”
    If I’d ever had any doubts of making it out, they ended right there. My ancestors are from County Cork, and I’m told it’s known as the Rebel County, for its opposition to British rule. I have their genes.
    “I swear to God,” I whispered under my breath, “you’ll never get me out of here.”
    I smiled at him, a big, enthusiastic smile. He did not like that.
    “Drop and give me twenty!” he yelled. Yeah, they actually said that.
    I shook my head. “Sir, that ain’t even worth going down for,” I said.
    He