By Nicole Hayes
And I'm proud to be an American,
where at least I know I'm free.
And I won't forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.
~Lee Greenwood
My husband is enlisted in the Navy. We live in Hawai'i, on a tall, red-dirt hill that overlooks the electric blue waters of Pearl Harbor. In the evenings when the weather is fine, we watch the enormous sun set low over the bright white structure of the USS Arizona Memorial, its edges trimmed brilliant gold with the sunset's smokeless fire, and it brings to mind a story of my husband's.
And I'm proud to be an American,
where at least I know I'm free.
And I won't forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.
~Lee Greenwood
My husband is enlisted in the Navy. We live in Hawai'i, on a tall, red-dirt hill that overlooks the electric blue waters of Pearl Harbor. In the evenings when the weather is fine, we watch the enormous sun set low over the bright white structure of the USS Arizona Memorial, its edges trimmed brilliant gold with the sunset's smokeless fire, and it brings to mind a story of my husband's.
As an act of respect and acknowledgment, when commissioned naval ships pass each other on the water, sailors stop what they are doing, stand at attention and salute the oncoming ship.
The sight is striking: Sailors line the upper deck while standing at attention and whistles blow to prompt the changing positions. It is quite an emotional moment, especially if one is a returning ship which has been away from an American port for a long time. The crisp white uniforms appear like pillars against a clear ocean sky as these enormous gray floating cities pass each other with magnificent dignity.
Once a young seaman recruit was out at sea for the first time. His ship had been in foreign waters for several months, and the crew was eager to touch American soil again. But none was more eager than the young seaman recruit. He disliked the daily grind of ship life, working every day and never seeing anything but the endless, flat blue ocean. He especially detested the ceremony and ritual of Navy life and the restrictive uniform. He simply couldn't see the point to all that pomp and ceremony.
Finally they were on their way home to the United States. He was looking forward to his freedom and time away from the monotony of ship life.
Their first stop was Hawai'i. The weather was perfect, and the ship's path was clear and open. The Pacific Ocean was calm, and there were no other naval ships around as far as the eye could see. All hands lined the deck, to "man the rails," as was the custom when heading into port.
But this time was different. A whistle blew over the loudspeaker, calling the sailors to attention. The seaman recruit was irritated at yet another pointless ritual. He couldn't understand why they had to do this when theirs was the only ship in sight. So he complained to the chief petty officer standing beside him.
"Why are we at attention when there's no other ship around?" he asked.
"But there is a commissioned ship around," the senior man replied. "And we are honoring this ship as we would any other."
All the seaman recruit could see was the bright white arching structure of the USS Arizona Memorial.
"But, it's just a museum," he countered. "That ship sank fifty years ago!"
The chief petty officer continued to stare straight ahead, his hand now saluting. "The USS Arizona is still a commissioned ship, seaman recruit, and there are more than 1,100 men still entombed in it. They are all U.S. sailors, and you will treat them as such."
The chief petty officer did not move his head, but the seaman recruit could see the emotion in his eyes. "My grandfather is one of them," he added, his voice hoarse but steady.
The gray carrier dotted with bright images of several thousand sailors standing at attention gently eased into Pearl Harbor. The seaman recruit stared at the ocean surface. Then, as he stood straight and tall, eyes now cast ahead, his hand set in a firm salute, he wondered if there had ever been a more beautiful sight.
The sight is striking: Sailors line the upper deck while standing at attention and whistles blow to prompt the changing positions. It is quite an emotional moment, especially if one is a returning ship which has been away from an American port for a long time. The crisp white uniforms appear like pillars against a clear ocean sky as these enormous gray floating cities pass each other with magnificent dignity.
Once a young seaman recruit was out at sea for the first time. His ship had been in foreign waters for several months, and the crew was eager to touch American soil again. But none was more eager than the young seaman recruit. He disliked the daily grind of ship life, working every day and never seeing anything but the endless, flat blue ocean. He especially detested the ceremony and ritual of Navy life and the restrictive uniform. He simply couldn't see the point to all that pomp and ceremony.
Finally they were on their way home to the United States. He was looking forward to his freedom and time away from the monotony of ship life.
Their first stop was Hawai'i. The weather was perfect, and the ship's path was clear and open. The Pacific Ocean was calm, and there were no other naval ships around as far as the eye could see. All hands lined the deck, to "man the rails," as was the custom when heading into port.
But this time was different. A whistle blew over the loudspeaker, calling the sailors to attention. The seaman recruit was irritated at yet another pointless ritual. He couldn't understand why they had to do this when theirs was the only ship in sight. So he complained to the chief petty officer standing beside him.
"Why are we at attention when there's no other ship around?" he asked.
"But there is a commissioned ship around," the senior man replied. "And we are honoring this ship as we would any other."
All the seaman recruit could see was the bright white arching structure of the USS Arizona Memorial.
"But, it's just a museum," he countered. "That ship sank fifty years ago!"
The chief petty officer continued to stare straight ahead, his hand now saluting. "The USS Arizona is still a commissioned ship, seaman recruit, and there are more than 1,100 men still entombed in it. They are all U.S. sailors, and you will treat them as such."
The chief petty officer did not move his head, but the seaman recruit could see the emotion in his eyes. "My grandfather is one of them," he added, his voice hoarse but steady.
The gray carrier dotted with bright images of several thousand sailors standing at attention gently eased into Pearl Harbor. The seaman recruit stared at the ocean surface. Then, as he stood straight and tall, eyes now cast ahead, his hand set in a firm salute, he wondered if there had ever been a more beautiful sight.
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