In September of 1971 I became a card-carrying member of Uncle Sam’s Yacht Club.
It was an interesting time to be a 19 year old male. The Viet Nam War was still in full swing, The Draft was still going on – as was The Lottery.
I was not in school, had a low Lottery Number, I was late registering with the Selective Service – and then burnt my Draft Card… Not what one would necessarily think of as a prime candidate for Military Service.
I had spoken with my parents about NOT going to Viet Nam. If drafted, I would head to Canada. While my mother more-or-less supported my decision, my father said try an alternate service before you make a decision that will affect you for the rest of your life.
I headed over to Treasure Island.
Questionnaires, interviews, tests… I signed the papers.
I had driven on and off the base several times during the process. It was still very much an active military base at the time and entrance and exit were controlled by MPs. One showed ID, stated their business, etc… Not a problem.
On the day I signed, on leaving I was asked the standard “are you a member of the military?” I had just signed the papers, so I responded “I guess so.” He asked for my Military ID. I didn’t have one.
It then became a “where is it?” “I haven’t gotten one yet.” A couple of phone calls… I was on my way asking myself what had I done.
I asked that question a few weeks later when I reported to San Diego for Boot Camp.
There was a very raucous going away party held in my parent’s garage the night before I departed. When I got up, I was still drunk from the night before…
My normal attire back in those days was Levi 501s, boots, and an old army jacket with an Out Now button. And I had mutton chops and a handlebar moustache. Barely able to function, that’s how I dressed, orders in hand, as my father drove me to the airport. He looked at what I was wearing and just smirked. He didn’t say a word.
Air traffic being what it was back in those days, it was only an hour flight from SFO to SAN.
I landed in San Diego and wandered around until I found the Navy registration area where I was to report. I walked up – feeling like shit – and the fun began…
I started to explain why I was here and he grabbed my papers and told me to get over against the wall with maybe 8 or 10 other guys – some looking like model recruits already – and a few looking a bit worse for wear like me. I just stood there thinking what the fuck have I done?!?
That was to come later…
The first few days were regimented like you wouldn’t believe. On Day One, we were woken up at 0400 hours – that’s 4 ayem for the real world – and immediately out of the barracks without the chance to pee or look in a mirror- let alone brush teeth.
We were marched for 2 hours before being allowed to use the restroom. They led us into a huge bathroom with a wall of toilets maybe a foot and a half apart – no dividers, no privacy. Drop trou and do your business. Disconcerting to say the least.
The first month was spent at Camp Nimitz – the newest part of the base dating back to about 1955 but continually updated and modernized through the 60s.
This was where we were orientated in to Military Life. And what an orientation it was.
First was uniforms and physicals. And shots. They were delivered by air pressure – one on each arm in assembly line fashion. I do not recall how many I got, but there was no place in the world where i was in danger of catching anything!
That’s me with the patch over my eye. I remember having a patch for a brief while – I don’t remember why…
In the middle of all this I got pulled out to be questioned by Security Specialists because I had answered “Yes” to “Have you ever smoked marijuana?” It was 1971 San Francisco, fercrissakes! I figured if I said no they’d know I was a liar! I told them I had tried it once at a party but didn’t like it and never tried it, again. They were also not amused by my Army jacket and Out Now button. I had taken off the button after checking in – I didn’t even realize it was on the jacket – but the Military has eyes everywhere… They were some intimidating people.
Then it was a battery of testing and TV classes. I scored really high in all the tests and literally had my choice of schools and professions I wanted to do. Alas, for anything like computers or nuclear-related, I had to extend my active duty enlistment to a minimum of six years. After a week of total hell, six years did not sound appealing. I had already been promised Commissaryman Class “A” School. I stayed with that.
It paid off in little ways… Once we “crossed the river” and went over to the main camp, we had a week of mess duty – working in the galley and mopping floors, washing pots and pans, and generally being a kitchen grunt. Because I was a Commissaryman Striker, as it was known at the time, I got to work with the cooks and bakers, learn the tricks of the trade, and was actually treated as a near-equal.
The main base was where the various schools were located, as well as the second half of training.
Where the first month was spent forcing conformity, the second half was putting it into practice. While it was still very strict, we started to understand the rules of the game. It became easier.
Practice does make perfect, as they say…
This is our Graduation Day. Soon to get our orders and be off as Regular Navy… Mine were to Commissaryman Class “A” School.
This is our Recruit Petty Officer group.
Not that I was exactly military leadership material, but that pot smoking question definitely kept me out of the running…
The kid on the far left in the second row from the top and I were roommates after bootcamp when we were both going to our “A” schools. His dad was a career navy officer – fairly high-ranking, if I remember correctly – and he was a surfer dude from Capitola. He was smart as a whip and was definitely not interested in being an officer. We shared an apartment in Ocean Beach – right on the beach. It was rough – NOT!!
Once out of bootcamp, we were treated like actual human beings – most of the time. After graduating school, I got orders to San Francisco and The USS Ranger (CVA-61). It was in drydock at Hunters Point Naval Shipyard. There was lag time from school to ship, so I floated around San Diego for a few weeks TAD to different Naval bases down there. TAD=Temporary Assigned Duty.
With selective memory and rose-colored glasses, I guess it wasn’t all that bad.
Hell – I survived!
And just for grins and giggles, here’s a video I found on YouTube from 1970. It’s Graduation Day in San Diego!