March 4–6, 2014; Athens, Greece
Of all the Triple As, I’d probably grown the closest to Taylor. At a time when it felt like no other twenty-something female in the world got me, knowing there was a Taylor around made life easier. Not only was she a fellow WSO in the Blacklions, she, like me, loved shopping, fashion, and making plans, so when we got a little freedom, the two of us went to town.
After two weeks transiting the Atlantic, our first port call was Greece, and Taylor and I booked a cute little hotel room in Athens next door to the apartment the rest of our squadron had rented for the weekend. We weren’t snobby, but the boys’ apartment didn’t have a separate bedroom with an attached bathroom that Taylor and I could lock ourselves in, if need be. Of course no one in our squadron was a threat, but we’d learned that being proactive and staying in our own space protected against unwanted advances or drunken mistakes. There were also added benefits, like not sharing towels with twenty-six other aviators and not finding a “floater” in the toilet. Though Taylor and I never talked about it, I supposed there was some irony that we had to take these precautions with the same group of guys we trusted every day with our lives.
Our first night in port, it was my turn to stand duty. As aviators, we assigned and chose our duties based on an intricate points system, so for our first watch of deployment, Taylor and I chose to return to the boat for a VIP reception being held onboard. As officers on duty, clad in our dress blues, we were there as Navy showpieces for all the Greek heads of state, American dignitaries, attachés, diplomats, politicians, and socialites. The Bush was not actually docked in Greece, as the pier itself was too small for a supercarrier. Also, we had a nuclear generator in the belly of our ship, and since many countries do not want a nuke parked on their shore, we had to take tenders to the mainland.
The reception itself was a nice chance for Taylor and me to put on some makeup and brush elbows with some interesting people, the most intriguing of which was a tall, mysterious blonde who called herself Jennifer.
“Excuse me, are you Caroline Johnson?” I felt a tap on my shoulder, just as I was polishing off a cocktail shrimp. I turned to find a well-dressed, perfectly composed woman. Not only was she beautiful, she was glamorous, and she knew my name.
“Yes, ma’am.” I offered my hand which was met with a firm handshake.
“Earlier, on a tour of the flight deck, I saw your name on a jet … and I just wanted to introduce myself.”
Jennifer went on to explain that she was shocked to discover that girls flew jets. We had some champagne and good conversation, and as the food was starting to run out, she said, “You should know, some of the skills you have could be very useful and could serve our country in other ways, if you ever decide to get out of the Navy.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crisp card. “Keep in touch.”
I took it politely. Then glanced down at the embossed CIA logo. Jennifer was a spy.
She read my reaction, turned, and dissolved back into the crowd of VIPs making their way to the tenders.
While I found the encounter amusing, at that point, I was unable to conceive of my life without the Navy in it, so I pocketed the card and hurried to find Taylor.
“If we want to get on a tender, we have to move,” I said. We ran back to the Sharktank, threw on civilian clothes, and barely caught the last transport to shore. Overflowing with Sailors, aviators, and party guests, the seating area felt like an escape boat off the Titanic. Taylor and I were searching in vain for open seats when I heard a familiar accent. “Don’t bother. There are no seats here.”
I looked up to see Lorde walking briskly toward us. “Come on, you two. I saved you space in the cabin.” He extended his hand, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Caroline,” he said as he led us to the cabin, “do tell me. How, at this late hour, do you plan to make it to town?”
“It’s not that late,” I said stepping over legs and around bodies. “We’d planned to just take the bus to the metro and walk into the bar district.”
“Nonsense, ladies, you can’t possibly do that. It’s much too late. Athens is too dangerous and schlepping it across public transportation will take too long. You can ride with me and my driver.”
Given his rank, I knew Lorde had a nicer stateroom on the boat and enjoyed other perks, but up until that night, I hadn’t realized what privileges it afforded him.
The first to step off the tender, Lorde whisked us directly into the gleaming white Range Rover awaiting him at the pier.
“After you, ladies,” said a tall Greek driver, holding open the door.
We hopped in and hit the bars, with Lorde treating us to rounds of drinks and introducing us to various senior leaders and dignitaries. Having worried a little about Lorde’s advances, I’d found myself pleasantly surprised by how respectful he had been that night. I was charmed and grateful. But the night wasn’t over.
After a few hours of somewhat formal, stuffy conversation, we managed to drag the high-ranking group to meet up with the rest of our squadron, who’d been letting off steam since earlier that day. I could hear the sounds of carousing emanating from the small Greek bar a full block away. Bartenders were running across the street to buy more beer because our gang was drinking the place dry.
Inside the bar, I slipped to the periphery to take it all in. As pop songs blared from the jukebox and my squadronmates and our bosses toasted with locals, the war in Afghanistan seemed impossibly far away.
“Caroline, what are you thinking about?” A familiar voice drew me from my zoned-out state.
“Oh, hey, Lorde. Thanks for tonight. It’s been really … great.”
“The least I can do. But honestly, what’s going on in your head? I’m intrigued.”
I shrugged.
“To watch you, I’d guess you’re missing a special someone back at home…”
“No, not anyone in particular,” I said, and he moved in closer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I shifted in my seat, trying to create some distance between us but realizing I was in the corner, trapped.
“Are you enjoying all this craziness? Because I was just thinking we could head somewhere more quiet … so we could talk. I know a place that’s more our style.”
Before I could come up with an excuse to get away, I heard someone shout, “Look out!” Beer rained down from somewhere above. One of my friends was trying to pour a beer in another buddy’s mouth while standing on a second-story balcony inside the bar. Of course he missed and splattered beer all over the bar and the table near Lorde.
“Good God, man!” Lorde leapt back.
The crowd below cheered for an encore. “Try another!”
This time, the cascading beer splattered mostly on his face and chest. I would not partake but was grateful for the distraction. The waterfall of Pilsner splashed Lorde and allowed me to slip away and grab Taylor.
We dashed out the door before Lorde could catch us, and made our way to our hotel, laughing down the cobblestone streets of Athens just as the sun began to rise.
People often ask me, “So, like, what do you do when you’re in port? Are you able to do anything fun?” And most are surprised by my answers. First, we do anything you would normally do if you were to visit an (often) exotic city on the water with cash to burn—with the caveat that we also have been holed up for weeks, if not months, so there is an added splurge factor. To answer the second part of the question, it depends on what you consider fun. If you find shopping, getting massages, going to spas, doing sightseeing without making it your job, enjoying decadent lunches and dinners, wine tasting, and dancing with your best friends fun, then yes, you are able to have fun.
Every port call is different. For example, if you could park a carrier in a giant lukewarm puddle of water on the edge of Reno, Nevada, it’d be a bit like pulling up to Bahrain. It gets the job done for people to get their sins out but it’s not as glamorous. For those curious, I’d suggest the next time you are in Cancún to try limiting yourself to low-end all-you-can-eat buffets, warm beer, and staying in hotels with two stars or less and you’ll get the vibe. When we pulled into Oman, we were the first aircraft carrier to do so, and it was literally a pier with a bunch of sand, beer tents, and a pizza oven. It was like a giant adult’s pizza party in the desert with camel rides.
Turkey was one of my favorites and well worth a trip if you have not been. Our second port call was in Antalya. Our day started off with weird dress restrictions for women which resulted in a lot of female Sailors disembarking dressed in sweatpants and Hello Kitty shirts. The dress code was meant to pay respect to the local culture, not to offend by criminal fashion faux pas, but as soon as we got off and saw the beautiful Turkish women dressed like they were visiting Paris fashion week, we pulled a Superman-style phone-booth change in our hotel rooms and were back on the streets looking like respectful visitors, not a horde of female Michelin Men.
After browsing the local bazaars for scarves and foot mats for the boat, we visited a Turkish hamam, a spa in which all of the girls were laid out on a marble table for body scrubs, followed by a surreal, heavenly ritual called torba where the masseuses fill pillowcases with bubbles that they wafted over us before sending us off into the next room for our massages. We healed our bodies, which already were under tremendous strain from taking off and landing our jets on the USS George H.W. Bush, but then after all the pampering we transitioned to a decadent ladies’ dinner on the stark white cliffs of town which overlooked a dazzling turquoise sea to eat seafood caught that day below us in the Mediterranean.
Later, we went to a nightclub to meet up with the guys, and once again, I was blindsided by Lorde. He materialized at my side like a ninja, immediately hitting me with the hard stuff, skipping the small talk about my previous relationships and straight-up professing his love.
“We’ll spend weekends flying around the motherland in jets, our jets.”
I’ll admit, the life he described (in even more detail than his SERE plan) did sound tempting, and I did find him charming. But the longer I listened, the more I felt physically ill.
“Lorde.” I interrupted him midsentence. “Look, maybe if you were not married, and were twenty years younger, and not a superior officer within my chain of command…”
I could see his mouth trying to open in defense but I held up my hand and continued. “But by now you should know that’s not the way I operate, and that’s not the way the US Navy operates.”
“But Caroline, I’m not in your Navy.” His fingers made quotations in the air. “I’m not bound by your silly rules.”
“It’s not always about you, Lorde. You have to understand … I haven’t worked this long and this hard to have an impeccable reputation, just to ruin it in a night. It’s not worth it. Even if you do have the most tempting offer in the world. In our Navy, perception is reality.”
I looked across the room and found at least two guys in my squadron openly staring. “Like right now, for example. Look at those two dudes over there. By constantly cornering me while we’re in port, you’re giving them the impression you and I have something going on, which is fatal to my career if you keep it up.”
“Then I’m sorry, Caroline,” he said, “but that’s their problem. And why would you care what they think?”
I held up a hand, feeling woozy. “Maybe it’s the warm beer. I’m feeling a little … excuse me, please.”
I left him at the table and headed to the bathroom to catch my breath. I took a minute to think about what to do, realizing that if I feigned drunkenness, one of my more sober squadronmates would walk me back to the hotel, so I pushed through the swinging doors of the ladies’ room, intentionally stumbling across the club like I was wasted. As if on cue, Crocket came over. “Dutch, you’re wasted. This way.” He waved toward the door. “I’ll make sure you get home.”
Back in my room, I logged onto Skype and tried to call Minotaur, but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. I Skyped my parents instead, filling them in on the past few weeks and Lorde, unsure how my father would take it.
“Ha,” he said, “knew my girl could handle herself with a dodgy old bugger!”