Memories From My Service: Sicilian Dreams

Sicilian summers were oppressively hot. It was the kind of hot that could make you a little nutty if you weren't careful and would wear you down if you spend all day in it. I like to think that the heat factored in when they decided to take riposo (the Sicilian siesta) centuries ago.  All shops and businesses close around 1 o'clock and stay closed for 2 or 3 hours while people went home to take a nap. It served the dual purpose of recharging your batteries and cooling your engines.

This custom wasn't embraced by the Americans on base, however. There were two types of work schedules on base: the standard Monday through Friday 9-5 and watch rotations.  Watch rotations varied from command to command. The majority of my friends fell into the second category, and our rotation consisted of 2 twelve-hour days, 2 twelve hour nights, and 96 hours off. After our last mid-watch, we'd try to stay up as long as we could in an attempt to get back on a regular schedule. This was typically accomplished by either taking care of things that needed taken care of so as not to impede on precious liberty time or by drinking. Drinking was my preferred method.

I lived in the barracks, which had its pros and cons. The biggest pro was also the biggest con: there was usually a party going on.  It was a pro depending on whether you were working your rotation or on your 96.  It was considered common courtesy not to bitch about parties too much because you knew the tables would be turned in the next four days. Each room had a bunk bed and a single bunk, and your rank determined whether it held two or three people. The rooms were only big enough to hold three people by military standards, and if you didn't get along with your roommate, you worked it out. Sometimes civilly, sometimes there were fights. One of my friends had a dirtbag move in, and after a night of heavy drinking, he decided he was going to go into the room and cut off his big toe with a bottle cap to teach him a lesson. He woke up pissed off, but he got the message, and at 0300, he was washing both his ass and his dirty draws.

During the summer months, the temperature would peak around 100 frequently but cooled off considerably once the sun dipped below the horizon. This was when we would typically take our tables and chairs out of our rooms, sit outside, crank tunes, play Euchre, drink beer, and told sea stories all night. We talked about the Chiefs we hated and the girls we liked as Shannon Hoon sang about only wanting to be 16 and free. Trump was called, books were won, and shit was talked. This became our routine to the point that the base police stopped hassling us because they knew we weren't going to stop and that we weren't really doing anything terrible.

We were reluctantly setting up one night because it was a rare Saturday off, and there was nothing else to do. There was usually a party somewhere out in town, and parties out in town typically had an open invitation. It didn't matter if you knew the people or not, just bring your own booze and don't be a dick.  But there were none going on that night. As if to drive the point home, people who lived off base came to the barracks to see what we were up to.  We were all coming up empty-handed. One of the girls mentioned she knew of a secret beach in Siracusa, and in no time at all, we had loaded up a caravan, and in less time than it took to get through Pearl Jam's "Ten," we pulled off into a layby. We weren't far from a spot where a few of us would go cliff diving every now and then.  We walked through a copse of trees that opened up to the waves of the Mediterranean crashing on the beach. Some went to unload the cars of the coolers of beer while others roamed the beach for driftwood so we could start a bonfire. There was a large piece nearby, and we set up camp around it, but it was too big to reasonably start on its own and precious little kindling to be found. We had given up hope of having a bonfire when one guy came back dragging two-by-fours behind him.

"Where'd'ja get those?"

"Whole pile of 'em back a ways."

We had a bonfire going in no time.  

It was full-on dark, the night was clear, and constellations gazed down at us as we gazed up at them.  Clothes were shed as people raced into the sea. The boom box played albums that will be forever linked to Sicily: Blood Sugar Sex Magic, Ritual de lo Habitual, The Chronic, Dirt. Beers were shotgunned. Couples drifted away in search of solitude. Conversations shifted from braggadocious banter to hushed confessions as the batteries in the boom box faded. The moon had dipped below the copse of trees, and couples returned to what was left of the fire as the sun peaked its head over the sea. Sand scratched the eyelids of those roused to consciousness. Coolers were dumped over the fire to douse the coals as the empties were packed away. We made our way back to our cars and headed home silently.

If I find myself walking through that copse of trees again, I'll know my deeds outnumbered my sins.