William - Running To

The world is full of surprising twists.

You see, the first time I ran away from home, I was fifteen years old. My mother, some weeks before, quite happily, had announced over dinner one night that we were moving to Annapolis. She was offered a job at the college there, and she was prepared to uproot the rest of us to take it. I love my mother, though, don't get me wrong. She's a wonderful woman. But I was happy where I was. England is my home. Was my home, two years ago. It still is, I suppose.

When we come to Maryland, I was determined to give it a chance. I was sure I woldn't like it, but my sisters seemed to regard it as being somewhat of a vacation. I tried to share their enthusiasm, dutifully bidding old friends goodbye with a smile.

After a week, I was still miserable. One night, I ran away.

They found me quickly. I had made the mistake of choosing to go towards the Naval Academy campus. A Marine on guard duty that night brought me home. My parents hardly had time to notice that I was missing.

It seemed only fitting that I should take the same route the next time I ran away.

Well, perhaps it wasn't quite running away. I don't run away anymore. Being dragged home in the early morning by a Marine is not exactly my idea of fun. Still, that's the only phrase I can think of. Maybe it's more of a -- running to. No, that sounds stupid. In any case, I have returned to the Naval Academy, except this time as a student.

Now I reflect on it, it was perhaps not the smartest thing to do, but I didn't think of that then. See, I didn't know about the hazings, or I would have thought twice. I would still have enlisted, I think, but that's only because I'm an idiot and, I sometimes think, a bit of a masochist.

I am kidding, you know.

I have long loved the water; I think that's what really drew me. Oh, I can't swim very well, but that makes no difference, being in a submarine. I hardly think it matters if I can swim well or not when the only time I'd really have to get out of a submarine and swim around is if we get hit. If we get hit, we'll either be blown up or just underwater. If we're blown up, well, I really can't do anything about that, now can I? And if we're too deep underwater, I couldn't make it to the surface anyway. If I made it to the surface, I doubt I could make it to the shore, and living the last few days of my life without food or drinkable water on a piece of -- whatever I can find, I suppose -- hardly sounds appealing. Though I really have to wonder what my commanding officers will say when they find out. Ah, well, we'll see. Either way, swimming or not, I finally feel as if I belong out here. Trite, I know, but true.

Funny; I just noted how I said 'then,' as if last summer was so far in the past. Then again, everything beyond this very second is the past, isn't it? And as for the hazings, well, it can only get better from here. Or worse, actually, but eventually better. At least, I certainly hope so. . . . Perhaps I should learn how to swim.

posted at 3:04 p.m. on 07-29-02