Idiot Out Wandering Around: Adventures of an Iowa Boy

By Jenifer K. Rescola and Terry Rescola

Terry Rescola began his life as the son of a United States Navy Lieutenant and lived in an environment filled with the guidance that every child needs. At the age of eleven, Terry's loving father died from lung cancer. Shortly thereafter, his mother became an alcoholic. Little Terry found himself feeling hopelessly shattered and lost. Despite his circumstances, Terry joined youth sports and became an undefeated miler, undefeated wrestler, and a hot dog in Little League.

By the time he was fifteen, Terry found himself flying by the seat of his pants, often acting on impulse and stumbling along while doing things that would never cross the minds of most people. He went AWOL in the Army, by accident, and single-handedly challenged five members of a violent motorcycle gang with a gun. From the dozen or so near fatal accidents he would encounter as he grew up, including one where he actually died and was placed in a body bag, Terry was literally and figuratively brought back to life numerous times.

From getting married and becoming a father at the age of sixteen to a nail-biting deep sea adventure, people as diverse as drummers and military personnel, bikers and fishermen, nude beach goers, nurses and sports fans will be entertained and astonished by Idiot Out Wandering Around.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483575667

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Kwajalein 1948

Who’d ever heard of this place? This far away crescent-shaped island and tiny speck on the world map was where my life began…sort of. I was conceived there. Deep in the southernmost part of the North Pacific sea and about half-way between Hawaii and Australia, lie two chains of islands all by themselves called the Marshall Islands. During World War II, this small unknown piece of land on the planet gained notoriety when the United States overtook it from the Japanese and then developed Kwajalein into a formidable military base. Once that happened and the islands were then owned by the U.S. government, no tourists were allowed on them. The only residents were the native Marshallese people, and Naval and Marine personnel and their families.

At that time, my father, Claude L. Rescola, affectionately known as Res, was a lieutenant in the United States Navy and was assigned to Kwajalein (pronounced Kwaj-a-leen).

I really loved my dad. I still feel his love almost as strongly as if he were alive today. When I needed reassurance he never hesitated to pick me up, hold me in his arms. He was a man of few words, walked with a fast pace, yet had the patience of a long-legged egret standing beside a brook when waiting for its dinner. Dad was born on October 22, 1912 in Meeker, Colorado, and grew up in a large farming family with four sisters and three brothers. Situated in Rio Blanco County in the northwestern corner of Colorado, Meeker was a small town. Its whole area was only less than three square miles all together. The town and surrounding area lay in a wide and flat fertile valley with the big White River flowing along one side of it, and huge, breathtaking white bluffs on the opposite side. Back then, Meeker was pretty much isolated from the other towns around. While living here, he and his siblings had to get up early every single morning to help with the farm chores before and after school, and with this hard-working routine, he gradually developed a very good work ethic.

When Dad became a young man at the age of fifteen, he was 5’9" and for some reason he developed a strong passion to enlist in the United States Navy. I never found out what sparked this desire, but the only thing holding him back at that time was his age.

Our family lore tells it that he wanted to join the service so badly that he had begged his parents to give their permission by signing a waiver for his enlistment as a minor. As fortune would have it, he was successful at this, and on his sixteenth birthday of October 22, 1928, he dropped out of school and became a member of the United States Navy. The interesting fact is that all of the Naval records found on him state that he was born in 1910 and not in 1912. Could it be that the Navy made a typographical error when he was signed up, or did Dad fudge the truth this one time by saying he was eighteen years old, and not his real age? We’ll never know the facts. Nevertheless, he was now a proud and happy sailor when he was accepted.

Dad was a very focused and hard-working man, two attributes he developed while attending to all of his farm chores. He was intelligent and always lived by a code of honesty and kindness. Starting from the very bottom as a seaman, he gradually worked his way up through the ranks and became what was called a Mustang, which was known as someone who enlists and then rises up to eventually achieve the rank of a commissioned officer. His highest position was lieutenant.

I was always proud to know that Dad was a Pearl Harbor survivor. Apparently, at that point he was a first lieutenant boatswain, and was performing duties as a supervisor of the deck crew on the U.S.S Seagull, during the infamous 1941 attack. He and his mates narrowly escaped with their lives only because, when the bombing began, the tug that he was supervising had just entered the harbor, and the Japanese were mostly targeting the larger fleet ships, which were positioned in a row on the inside of the harbor from his location.

At the height of the attack, as he continued toward his assigned berth, while bombs were dropping just yards away from his tug, Dad was part of the rescue operations saving the sailors who were strewn all over in the waters. They heard horrifying screams and heartbreaking cries for help on all sides as they pulled out as many as they could, as fast as they could. At the same time, Dad and his mates had to carrying out orders for this huge task to beach one of the damaged fleet ships, the U.S.S. Nevada, and continue to push against her in order to keep her from sinking. They worked day and night to try to save any survivors, while at the same time still being on high alert for another possible attack. It was a shocking and emotional time for him, since many of his friends were the sailors who died there.

The purpose of a fleet tug boat was to pull as well as help guide the larger ships in and out of port, and to go before the entire fleet of large ships. A commanding officer and crew had to silently, slowly, and very carefully search for any hidden mines and clear them out of their path. Therefore, although tugs were considerably smaller in size, they had an important and dangerous job to do.

I learned that over the many years of his career, Dad felt fortunate to be aboard the various ships and tugs that he worked on, one being the U.S.S. Litchfield, a flagship for submarine Squadron Four and submarine Pacific Fleet when they were positioned in the Leyte Gulf area near the Philippines. While on the U.S.S. Seagull, he and his crew performed dangerous torpedo recovery missions in Pearl Harbor and the surrounding areas of the Pacific Ocean, in an effort to clean up the aftermath of the attack. According to the Naval records I read, when Dad rose to the rank of lieutenant junior grade in March of 1945 after being noted for his strong leadership skills, he was then given the duty of commanding officer for the ocean rescue tugs, U.S.S. ATR 59 and U.S.S. ATR 84.

In the next couple of years, while stationed in San Diego, he carried out orders as junior beachmaster on the U.S.S. Hale and participated in various amphibious operations as U.S. Naval Beach Group One. These landing crafts or ships were the flat-bottomed ones that are able to sail close to the shore and drop down a ramp from the bow wall, in order to transport the needed land vehicles, plus the Marines and Army troops to specific beaches.

Most of Dad’s duties all along were performed during World War II while in the American Theater, which covered a vast area in the surrounding waters around the United States, in addition to the Asiatic Pacific, which was centered in areas near the Philippine Islands, New Guinea, Japan, and other neighboring coastlines and islands. His most significant duty assignment was that of being the commanding officer on the tug, U.S.S. Takelma (ATF-113), while performing two critically important, long, and difficult tows through extremely unfavorable weather conditions for most of the duration. One of these arduous assignments was towing a heavy cruiser for the entire distance of 2,700 miles from Pearl Harbor to the Puget Sound in Washington state to get its needed repairs, and Dad was highly commended for this feat. I’ll always remember my dad for who he was to me and how well he took care of me, but I sure was impressed and proud when I learned of all of his accomplishments during his career.

Bearing a true mid-western name, my mom, Imogene May Hildebrand, was born and raised proper in Newton, Iowa. When she came into this world on May 13, 1920, Newton, which is about thirty miles east of the state’s capital of Des Moines, was sparsely populated. It was a rural town with corn and dairy farmers dotted all around. Rows and rows of cornstalks stretched as far as the eye could see as corn was pretty much all they grew there.

Mom also came from a large family, which consisted of two boys and four girls, including herself. According to her, she and her brothers and sisters had a happy childhood getting to spend a lot of their time outside. They would play tag or ride their bicycles around, and often walked into town crossing over the railroad tracks by way of the Overhead Bridge. In between her chores, she would rather put her hands in the dirt to plant flowers like black-eyed Susans, daffodils and columbines, plus vegetables such as squash, green beans, tomatoes, and corn, and watch them grow. In the colder months, after they played in the snow they were up for a game of gin rummy, or worked on a jigsaw puzzle.

It was common in that era for many women to use home remedies. As Mom grew up she liked learning about them from Grandma Olive and how they could help different illnesses, so she often experimented with them. I’ll never forget, later on when Mom had a garden at our home in Newton—I was about twelve years old—when one day she asked me to go out and pick her some tomatoes and zucchini so she could use them in her spaghetti sauce. While I was doing this, a large brown spider landed on my arm and began crawling up it. I quickly shook my arm and it dropped off, but not before it bit me. One day shortly after this, a small welt showed up on my right forearm and it was about the size of a small marble. It itched badly and after Mom took a look at it, she realized it was a carbuncle, which is a cluster of boils caused by a bacterial infection. She began treating it with one of her home remedies, which in this case was a piece of bread soaked in hot milk. She then put that directly onto my wound and wrapped it with a bandage.

While we waited for it to heal, Mom said to me, Keep your eye out for any red streaks on your arm. If you see any, it might be an infection in your blood, and we’re going to have to go to the doctor. At that point I felt somewhat scared, wondering if I would be alright. So, I kept a vigil on my arm, all the while looking for those red streaks that thankfully never appeared.

A couple of weeks after the daily bandage treatments, these boils had hardened, and when Mom was changing that dressing, she noticed that the top of the carbuncle had finally opened up and then she was able to get it out. The pressure on my skin at that point was so painful, and after this she put on Mercurochrome antiseptic, which stung like crazy. Thanks to her remedy, it all healed up fine, but I never went back into the garden ever again.

Some of her other regularly-used cures were whenever we got a bee sting, she’d make a paste from baking soda and vinegar to draw out the toxins, once she applied it to the bite. Also, if I ever fell and got a bump, she’d rub salt on the wound to reduce the swelling. Later on, Mom said she used to watch her mother cook, which included many freshly picked items from her garden, and this allowed her to learn some basic skills—nothing fancy, just good country cooking. It was a simpler, less stressful era, and people like her had more time to relax, play, and create. The air was fresher than today and people were more neighborly and trustworthy.

Somewhere, along the way, Mom developed and maintained a certain sass to her friendly, fun-loving, outgoing disposition. She was strong-willed and had no problem giving people the what for or a piece of her mind, when standing up for what was unjust or disrespectful. She was also quick- witted and loved using a lot of expressions that weren’t original, but she liked saying them just the same. Intertwined in her day to day living, if someone needed her advice, she’d occasionally say things like, Well, if you can’t go first class, then don’t go at all, or I don’t give a rat’s ass about that, to a piece of gossip she was told about. The one I’ve never forgotten, and in fact I needed badly to repeat over and over in my mind at some of the particularly perilous times in my life was, The sea can only stay rough so long, and sooner or later it’s going to calm down. I liked Mom’s one-liner, lighthearted sense of humor, some of which has rubbed off on me and I use regularly, especially in anxious moments.

In that day, it was common for many small towns to be built up around a large and prosperous business, making it possible for people to live closer to their work. For Newton, this was true of the Maytag Corporation, a company that had built their large appliance factory there. It soon became the place where most of the people from the town worked, and it grew to become an important landmark for Newton. This company pretty much identified the town, and it was eventually dubbed, Newton—home of the Maytag.

My mom never worked there, but in her early twenties was anxious to flee the small town limits for a little more excitement, so she decided at this young age to move to California, land of palm trees and movie stars. She soon found a job working at the Lockheed Corporation as a bomb-maker during war time. I never asked her what she did there, but the thought of making bombs impressed on me as to how dangerous this job sounded. She told me that a lot of women did this not only to get a job since women weren’t allowed to work in that era, but to earn good money as well. It also gave them the feeling that they were needed and were doing their part for the war while their men were away.

Mom was very social and made friends pretty easily. Under her short and wavy styled brunette hairdo, she had a petite 5’4" frame. I remember she was always perfectly color-coordinated down to her jewelry and would sometimes become frustrated if her outfits didn’t quite match. When I was young, I used to see her in a lot of skirts and dresses, and later when they became popular, all she pretty much wore were pedal pushers with button-up blouses and little white sneakers. She always made it a point to be stylish and I remember that her string of pearls that Dad gave her for their anniversary, was a favorite necklace of hers. For as far back as I could recall, Mom always maintained an attractive, trim figure for most of her life.

I never found out when or where or how my parents met. My grandma Olive once told me later on that Mom didn’t want to marry my dad at first, because he was too serious. I don’t know what changed her mind, or even if his seriousness was as big of a deciding factor as Grandma pointed out, but I do know she was very proud of him, his career, and his status. It’s true though, Dad was reserved and very focused: a social enough kind of guy, but an intense thinker. During this era, which was fairly common at the time, he rarely displayed any outward signs of affection aside from a goodnight kiss or a daily hug, but he always had plenty of general gentlemanly courtesies like opening doors for Mom or carrying groceries into the house. Mom was feeling very happy about how her life was going at this point, until darkness fell and the tables were suddenly turned on her.

Mom and Dad were married on November 26, 1947 in the romantic setting of Honolulu, Hawaii. They spent over three weeks there, relaxing, touring around to the lush areas by the waterfalls, watching sunsets on the beach, plus revisiting Pearl Harbor where Dad could show her what happened on that fateful day. I have pictures from their honeymoon of both of them wearing a matching island print wrap around the waist that was popular at the time, and even my dad, the serious guy, wore one too. When the time came for Dad to go back to work, they knew that he had been given new orders to go to Kwajalein. Since the island was so far away, and not knowing anything about it, they decided it would be best for the time being, if after the long goodbyes, Mom boarded a ship to the mainland and went back home to Newton until he was settled.

While assigned to this location, he once had a duty operating under secret orders in Korean waters, but mostly, he stayed on the island and took on many responsibilities with an exhausting list of job titles. It’s no wonder he was so busy and away so much. I wasn’t even a twinkle in my parents’ eyes at this time, but later on, my own experience on the open seas would prove to be vastly different and quite the opposite from Dad’s.

Although Kwajalein with its crescent shape, was the largest island of them all, amazingly it was only 2½ miles long and only 1½ miles wide at its widest point. It also had one of the largest lagoons in the world with a surrounding area of 839 square miles. A huge coral reef encircled the lagoon keeping the rough seas at bay, and providing protection for the ships when they would come in.

At wartime, this island with its large lagoon was used as a Naval base and fleet anchorage to carry out support operations in the Western Caroline Islands, which lie about 1,400 miles to the west. The U.S. government had installed some sophisticated surveillance equipment on Kwajalein, which allowed for protection from all sides. The middle section of the island, which was the widest part, held the clustered majority of technical buildings, plus powerful radar antennas and an airstrip with two runways.

Through the years, both Mom and Dad would tell me stories of our times on this island, as well as remind me of some of the frightening moments that I had while we were there. Mom once reminded me about the fact that after we had moved there, because of the airstrip, the island peace and serenity was periodically interrupted by the airplanes that flew in and off the island. With them being so large and so loud and the land being so small, there was nowhere to escape from the noise they made. She told me that some of the smaller planes that sprayed for mosquitoes, would fly over the water, including near our house, only a mere ten to fifteen feet above it. Initially, I would cry in complete fear for my life and run to my mother’s arms, but I don’t think I was the only child who was scared by this. I was really unnerved when that happened.

I continued to hear about our life on the island and how Mom would complain about the constant heat. She told me she’d wave and say hello to the neighbors and together they often spoke about how hot it was. On many days we’d take a swim in the ocean to cool off, come home, and then she would turn on all the fans, and make herself some iced coffee while I had iced water. She said there was always a fresh salty sea smell in the air though, and that thankfully an occasional trade wind would come by and offer some relief. Mom and Dad both found the native people to be always very friendly and enjoyed watching how family-oriented the Marshallese were. They worked hard and Mom always bought some of their handmade items like soaps, coconut oil products, and purses. She not only admired their detailed, quality workmanship in all of their handicrafts, but knew it was difficult to buy them anywhere else, and she’d often mail some of the items back to her family in Iowa. She told me that when you began talking with a Marshallese person, you’d always greet them by saying, Yokwe first, which in their language was similar to the Hawaiian Aloha but had three meanings: hello, goodbye, and love.

The Marshallese were poor when it came to money, but very rich with the abundance of food sources all around them. Because of the long, sometimes sporadic rainy seasons, the plant life thrived and enabled them to live off the land. Of course, everywhere you looked there were lots of coconut trees, but the island also had other fruit trees like papaya and breadfruit, plus a less common one called pandanus. They raised pigs and chickens, but their real wealth was found in the warm waters near the island. An endless supply of all kinds of sea life was caught daily by the native fishermen, and Mom welcomed this opportunity to create new fish dishes for our meals, which always made my dad happy. Mom used to tell me how he couldn’t stop thanking her, as everything was so fresh and delicious.

In addition to the crabs, tuna, and other fish, the warm tropical air and water temperatures in the ocean around Kwajalein invited practically every species of dolphins, porpoises, marine turtles and sharks in the area. The protection of the reefs also made it a haven for the rainbow of colors found on all the different kinds of tropical reef fish like the pretty striped flat ones, the common angel fish, plus species that camouflage themselves in the sand. I’m not sure whether all this underwater color would possibly compare with the colorful life I would later have on land or not, but this remote, peaceful, and slower paced island existence was only the beginning. Aside from the military influence, this was Kwajalein.

Mom was a dutiful housewife. I learned that many women of that era lived vicariously through their husbands, since unless you were a teacher, nurse, secretary, librarian, or something similar, women weren’t allowed to work. Back then, there was no such thing as a woman firefighter, police officer, doctor, lawyer, CEO, or the like. Women simply didn’t get much notice: they were just housewives. What your husband did or was, defined who you were since you chose to marry him, so Mom felt some inner worth and importance being married to my dad. His status opened doors to a different lifestyle for her and she was able to make many friends in that social arena. The time came when Mom eventually moved to Kwajalein to be with Dad, and that December, in the midst of some holiday cheer, Dad found out he was to be commissioned to Lieutenant effective January 1, 1949. I’m guessing that they later went out and danced, drank, smoked, and celebrated, and ended the night with some romance, because before they knew it, I was conceived.

For various, well-thought-out reasons, both of my parents decided it would be best if I was to be born in Newton, Iowa, hometown and birthplace of my mother, plus it was in the United States of America. My mother would have the support of her parents, my grandpa Henry and grandma Olive, during her pregnancy with me, and it would also be far easier to obtain important documents throughout all of my future years. One of their other reasons was to save me from childhood school ridicule with a name like Kwajalein for a birthplace, as well as a lifetime of painfully repeating and explaining where it is, why was I there, what brought me to Iowa, and what was it like there.

So, sometime in mid-1949, Mom flew back to more heat and humidity in Newton to have me, and I was born on September 17,1949. Dad would come home every chance he could, but Mom and I stayed there for my first couple of years or so. She would take a lot of pictures of me to send to my dad, and many of them were of me in my favorite cowboy outfit, which I apparently wanted to wear all of the time. After a couple of years, Dad came back on a leave to help pack us up and move us to Kwajalein, so we could be with him there.

Within hours of our arrival on the island to our new home, I was driving around on my little red fire truck in the front yard as the movers were helping us move in. I was just a tyke, just over two years old at the time, and unbeknownst to me, I stopped my fire truck for a moment and soon found out it was sitting on top of a large, tropical fire ant hill. Suddenly, I felt the ants crawling all over me, biting and stinging me and I started screaming at the top of my lungs. Every place on my body was completely covered with them.

My father, who was standing nearby wearing his dress blues uniform, had been in the middle of talking to three or four naval officers who were welcoming us all to the island. Alarmed by my screams, Dad rushed to my rescue, picked me up, ran straight into the house and directly into the shower while holding me in his arms, and washed off all the ants from my hair all the way down to my toes. His nice pressed dress blues uniform was completely soaked from top to bottom, but he saved me. After that, they all had a good laugh about how Dad looked while dripping wet, and I remained in my father’s arms during the time it took me to calm down, for I was completely traumatized. This was my introduction to island life.

For the next year, we lived on Kwajalein in a nice, very modest house near the water’s edge. Most of the buildings that the military had put up were boxy looking and didn’t possess much design at all, but Mom had our house furnished in 1940s rattan beach style furniture which was upholstered in a floral print and had curved bamboo arms and legs. I remember the coffee table had a rattan base with a circular glass tabletop, and the flooring consisted of some nice straw mats throughout the house. The front yard had a small grassy area with a tall coconut tree by the driveway and since our backyard was walking distance to the beach, I had one huge sand box to play in.

With temperatures at a constant 80 degrees, it was common for Mom to leave the doors and windows open to welcome the breezes, while she kept an eye on me. I recall another frightening trauma in my young life when all 3 ½ feet tall of me walked into our kitchen and right in front of me was a giant land crab. The crabs down there in those warm, fertile waters can grow to be as big as I was tall, they being 3 feet from leg to leg. This one in our kitchen had very long legs and was creeping toward me with a scary clicking sound as it slowly moved across the tiles on the floor. In total fear for my life, once again, I screamed without stopping, and this time it was my mom who saved me. She picked me up, sat me on the counter, went for the broom, and while holding it way out in front of her was able to back it up and push it out the door, which she quickly slammed shut. I don’t remember, but I’d bet my mom screamed as loud as I did and she probably had a good laugh afterward. She most likely smoked a cigarette too.

My dad was always busy with his work, so our daily life was pretty routine with Mom raising me while he was away, but we would get to see him on the evenings and weekends. Mom and I would always rush to the door with excitement to greet my dad when he returned home, for he was the light of both of our lives. During the day, Mom would often take me for walks to the beach and I would play in the sand, or else we’d go to the neighboring park and maybe invite a friend or two. On some evenings, my parents’ social life was with Naval personnel at the Officer’s Club and/or at island events, and it always included laughing, dancing, lighting up cigarettes, and sipping on iced cocktails. This was common in the era, as most everyone smoked and drank socially. Dad smoked the long, non-filtered Pall Mall’s, while Mom preferred the mentholated Salem brand, and they both enjoyed a cocktail called Tom and Jerrys, which was their drink of choice. It was a common holiday beverage using a blend of brandy, rum, plus one beaten egg, a teaspoon of sugar, a dash or two of nutmeg and some hot milk or water.

Meanwhile, I had a nanny and I don’t remember her name since I was so young, but her robust laugh remains deep in my memory. She was a large, native Marshallese woman with a loving and jolly personality. She was caring, doting and she laughed a lot. I really liked her. She had a young son at the time and I got to play with him the whole time she was watching me.

Family gatherings for the Marshallese tended to become big events and were often celebrated with a feast, plus songs, and dance rituals. Everyone participated in them including Naval and Marine personnel. It was much like a Hawaiian Luau, and it was an all-day affair. It began with an early morning net drop, where the men would walk this huge net out into the shallows of the lagoon, then set it there and leave it for most of the day. After this, the women and some of the men would dig a huge fire pit to prepare for the day’s catch. Flowers and fruit were laid amongst garlands of palm fronds and other island foliage in order to decorate the rim of the pit. After that, many hours were spent preparing the rest of the food.

At sunset, the fire would be lit and most of the whole village, including my dad, would participate in the bringing in of the net. Excitement filled the air as many other wives and children gathered around to watch it unfold. Mom held me during the whole time this was happening and while I was completely captivated, she would point to my dad and show me what he and everyone else was doing. The net was very heavy, as it was loaded with all types of fish like grouper, mahi mahi, crabs, lobster, and other seafood.

Each person would then grab one of the short ropes attached on the side of the net and begin to pull. With each big tug of the net and each lunging step forward, they would sound a primal chant in unison as they made their way back to the shore. It was a sight. We all watched them pull so hard while waiting in anticipation for the catch to come into view. Outbursts of amazement and laughter cried out from all us onlookers when we finally saw the massive amount of fish and shellfish piled high on top of each other and flopping and crawling around. It was very exciting to watch this event through a child’s eye. Then once on shore, everyone helped to collect the harvest and take it to the fire pit.

While the fish was cooking, the natives would engage in dances and rituals. Some of the teens would duel in harmless, entertaining sword fighting, which was a pretty scary sight for someone of my young age. I thought they were trying to harm one another, but my mom assured me that it was just for fun.

When I was around three years old, while living this Navy island life, it was common to have a Navy ship anchored just off the island in the lagoon. One night, they were having a Captain’s dinner on one of the ships and that evening, Dad, Mom, and I were taken to the ship on a dory. I had never been on a dory before, and remember enjoying the sea breeze in my face as long as I was in the safety of my dad’s lap. Once we arrived, we then had to climb up the ships hanging rope ladder which was 150 feet up. I was no taller than a little more than a yard stick, and to see this huge ship right up next to our dory frightened me.

The water was splashing against the ship, and as I looked straight up knowing that we had to climb all the way up there, I immediately clutched my father’s arms. Right then, my primal instinct kicked in and I didn’t want to go. My dad with his endless patience, comforting and trusting calm demeanor, spoke to me softly and said, Son, you go first and I’ll be right behind you. I remember him saying, Don’t worry son, I’ll catch you. You’ll be alright. Get another rung, son. Put your foot on it. I’m right behind you. You won’t fall. All of this safe talk helped to change my mind, for I really loved and trusted my dad. As we made our way up, Dad hovered over me to help me feel safer. Then Mom patiently followed us while she was being safeguarded by the sailor from our dory.

Once we reached the top of the ladder, which seemed to take forever, a seaman from the ship helped me up and onto the deck. I was so relieved. When my dad got on, this seaman then blew a whistle and announced Commander on deck! and all the sailors in the immediate area saluted my father. Not knowing what it all meant, I somehow knew my dad was special to these men. With my dad holding me in his arms and Mom walking beside us, we crossed the deck of this massive structure they called a ship, and went to our quarters where Dad changed from his dress blues uniform into his dress whites uniform before we went to dinner. Mom put on a nice, floor-length evening dress and wore her favorite pearls, and she helped put me in a double-breasted suit.

The dinner was held in a large room with many round tables decorated with white tablecloths and candle centerpieces. We sat on an elevated level of the room while all of the other sailors were on the lower area. Upon entering the room, all personnel rose from their seats for my father. Even at my age, I remember feeling deeply impressed by this unfamiliar gesture and how important my dad was to them. All I had known before this day was that our dinner was served by Mom at our table in our home, so this experience stood out in my young memory. I sat in between my parents and having my dad get all of this attention felt pretty great and comforting.

After the dinner, we spent the night on the ship. When I was young, I used to sometimes sleepwalk. That night, I got out of bed, walked in my sleep out of our quarters and made my way onto the deck. As I continued along in the dark and came within a few feet of the edge, I almost fell off the 150-foot distance from the ship into the ocean to my death, until an alert shore patrolman grabbed my arm and caught me just before going over with only seconds to spare. When the shore patrolman brought me back to my parents, and although they were beside themselves with fright, my father sat me down on his knee and calmly asked me, Son, where were you going?

I told him, I was going to get my milk and cookies.

I have always been so happy to know that my dad never cussed or never spanked me. He never raised his voice at me and never punished me in any way. He was a proud officer and he usually just sat me down, asked me questions, patiently heard my answers, and took the time to explain things to me. Not to say he was never upset with me, he just handled each situation more lovingly. From that moment on, my father assigned a shore patrolman to watch me for that whole night, but this would not be the first time in my life that I would dramatically escape death.

Aside from a brief vacation in November 1952 to see my grandparents in Newton for Thanksgiving, we stayed in Kwajalein until 1953 when Mom got pregnant with my sister, Joni. Dad was then assigned to duty in Honolulu, Hawaii and the Pacific Ocean area, so we packed up our things and moved to another beautiful island. It was here that Dad became director of the M & R Division, and was responsible for monitoring all the damage control for the gas-turbine systems, the main propulsion machinery, the ship stability, as well as firefighting and chemical defense.

I was about four and a half years old, when soon after we settled in, on January 15, 1954, Joni was born. It was common in that era for new parents to leave their newborn in the hospital for a few days while the mother went home to rest as the nursing staff took care of the baby’s well-being, but Joni was premature, so she stayed a little longer than usual and was put in an incubator. Once she was ready to come home, Mom said to me, Let’s go get your sister. It was kind of exciting to me to go and