Fall 2015; NAS Oceana, Virginia Beach, VA
We draw moral and ethical guidelines for ourselves in an attempt to set standards that we believe we should meet, standards that define us and guide our conduct. For me, long ago I laid down two such lines in thick permanent marker: I would not engage in a sexual relationship with a man in my squadron, nor would I engage in a sexual relationship with a man in a committed relationship, be it marriage or a girlfriend back home, wringing her hands hoping the guy she loves comes back alive. Those lines could not have been clearer. And no matter how high the stress, sexual tension, strength of the cocktail, or charming the behavior got, nothing could blur those lines. They mattered to me because I felt not crossing those lines preserved some special dignity for me that no wife nor whisper behind my back could take away. I felt that by not crossing those lines I could always stay above criticism, innuendo, and avoid looking like a girl who slept her way into the backseat of an F/A-18.
Those lines, however, were drawn when I was strong, before I had a gaping emptiness inside of my chest, back when my defenses were still up. It began innocently enough.
I was in a sushi bar in Virginia Beach, staring at a plate of uneaten nigiri, drinking my third glass of Sapporo as slowly as I could. I didn’t want to eat and didn’t want to get drunk (though the idea was getting more appealing with every sip), but more than anything I just didn’t want to return home to leaden loneliness waiting for me inside my apartment. I knew from the JO group text message that there was a party at the JO house, but given my treatment the last time I was there, I would not be dropping by uninvited, or invited. I had picked the restaurant not for the food I wasn’t eating, but because I was hoping I might run into some Navy SEAL friends. They often hung out there when not on a mission. I’d seen them a couple of times before and we’d talked and exchanged numbers, but I didn’t want to call or text. I wanted to bump into them.
Virginia Beach is like that. One minute you think you’re in a sleepy seaside town packed with retirees, and then you look up from your bowl of edamame and there’s a handsome guy who’s jacked like an NFL running back sitting next to you at the bar in a pair of shorts and flip-flops, and you know that less than forty-eight hours before he could have been on the other side of the planet snatching a terrorist out of a heavily guarded compound.
I found myself drawn to these types—not necessarily SEALs per se, but those who, to one degree or another, lived on the far edge of the spectrum and had shared some of the intense experiences I had, or at least had some context. I have never dwelled on the lives that I had taken, but I’m neither proud nor regretful. I did it to protect the innocent lives of those who couldn’t protect themselves, and because it was my job. That said, part of my experience included killing sixteen terrorists. That’s not a normal thing to do outside or even inside of the military. Nor is the way I killed the men normal. I used technology that allowed me to essentially reach down with my hand and swat the ISIS soldiers with a fistful of fire while tearing through the sky at five hundred miles per hour. Guys like the SEALs and the Jet Girls who’ve fought in combat understand that even the most well-adjusted of us are affected by what we do. There’s baggage that comes with it. It’s neither good nor bad, but it’s part of me. Some people know how to handle it, others don’t. Sitting in the sushi bar, I wanted to be around those who get it.
Perhaps more impactful—at least in my case—was what I witnessed ISIS do to other human beings and realized the profound influence my experiences had on my worldview. After watching ISIS take human lives for granted like they did and after more fully understanding their ideologies, I have become less sympathetic to those who intellectualize the US’s role in the Middle East. I feel justified in what we do, have done, and what we need to do to finish, to keep America safe from the dangers we cannot even fathom. Knowing what life is like for both the citizens in these war-torn countries and for the men and women who are fighting to help bring order, makes it hard to come home. I struggle to connect with people whose biggest problem is a long line at the grocery store. And I have little patience for those who endlessly complain about our leaders, policies, and our country without having done a single thing for it, save grudgingly paying taxes every year. Once I saw the magnitude of the true evil that exists in the world, it made me more accepting of taking a hard line with our enemies and enacting careful screening mechanisms to help ensure those with evil intent and the capability to inflict mass harm stay off of our soil. Having this sort of worldview in most circles means I either need to debate, hold my tongue, or receive unwanted compliments. And what I really wanted, on a Friday night after a long week of work, was just to be understood, and ideally by a handsome, single, thirty-something operator.
Unfortunately for me, and for the terrorists of this world, it looked like the SEALs were out there somewhere in the night working to keep us safe. It was a quiet evening, me alone at the bar, three or four two-tops seated with couples out on dates and Bon Jovi playing quietly on the radio. My phone buzzed on the countertop. I thought it was another group text about the party I wasn’t invited to, but I was surprised to see it was Buck, an F/A-18 pilot who had been one of the nicest, most respectful men on deployment. Buck was not only handsome, and an operator of the highest skill, but he was a good man.
I checked the message. I have long since deleted his text, but it read something like, “Hey, haven’t seen you in a while. Just checking in. U all good?”
Unlike Chick and Beans, who I felt had inquired into my well-being only to evaluate me and try to improve my performance, I believe Buck was reaching out because he cared about me and wanted to know if his friend who fought alongside him in war was doing okay. Many people knew I was having a tough time. And others were as well. It’s natural. And so is checking in. But this was the first such text I’d gotten from a squadronmate—guy or a girl—since being back home from deployment. This gesture, as slight as it was, was like a powerful drug that not only numbed the loneliness and pain that was killing me from the inside out, but also instantly filled me with a profound sense of gratitude and warmth. I turned my body away from the bartender as my eyes welled with tears and I stared at my phone.
“All good,” I typed with a thumbs-up emoji.
His response came quickly: “Well, if you ever want to talk about it, LMK. I’m back in town next week.”
I watched his blurry response populate in the text window on my iPhone and felt my heartbeat skip in my chest and the hairs on my arm raise. I also watched as those clear lines I had drawn years ago went blurry. Buck had been in my squadron, but had left for his next duty station after we returned from deployment. I had heard he was doing well, professionally, at least. Buck was married, but technically he was either divorced or waiting on the finalization, or so I had heard. I couldn’t tell if it was the beer or the prospect of catching up with Buck that was making my head spin, so I left cash for my tab next to my half-drunk Sapporo, and called it a night. I tried to regain my senses as I made my way home, but at the same time I didn’t know what to make of Buck’s offer. But then as I crossed the threshold and breathed in the loneliness of home, I knew that blurry lines or not, I needed someone to connect with.
While there had always been plenty of pent-up sexual tension and attraction between me and Buck, we did not leap into bed. What happened between us slowly developed over long conversations, a little witty banter, lots of listening to each other, and a few too many work trips to the East Coast. To look at him, Buck appeared to be the archetypal pilot, clear-eyed, square-jawed, cut and strong biceps. But as in many cases, looks deceive. While not exactly a navel-gazing poet type, Buck was surprisingly sensitive and a tremendous listener.
In Buck I found a man I could open up to in a way I had not even done with the Minotaur. I shared with him my frustrations, feelings of isolation; I even told him about my suicidal thoughts and the feeling that if I didn’t get out of the squadron something bad was going to happen to me. He encouraged me to leave, to try out for a public affairs position with the Blue Angels, which I did. Even though I did not make the team, trying out for the elite organization was one of the highlights of my aviation career. With the Blues I experienced firsthand how respect and professionalism can elevate a group of humans to regularly perform superhuman feats. The team cohesiveness and supportive culture on the Blue Angels was the polar opposite of what I was living with in the Blacklions.
Buck was the only one who seemed to understand why I felt there was something deeply toxic about the Blacklions. He was appalled at how I had been treated by people we had deployed with. I had told him that it was as if the bonds we formed in combat turned from iron to flimsy plastic as soon as we returned to Virginia Beach. Buck, who had been on two deployments with the Blacklions, told me that he understood the group dynamics and saw the shift. Even though no one dared belittle Buck, he did not participate in the bro culture. Thus even when he was in the squadron, he kept to himself.
Since Buck was far away, in a different squadron operating on an unpredictable flight schedule, the two of us were constantly playing phone tag, exchanging short texts throughout the day, and stealing away on trips where we could be alone. We’d meet where work trips took us, whatever we could fit into our busy work schedules.
Buck was a really good pilot, one of the best I’ve ever flown with, an air-show-quality pilot. We talked about a fantasy life flying performances. I would be Buck’s WSO and we would blast around the country in our jet, on the air-show circuit, showing the public what our jet and their tax dollars could do. Crazy as the idea sounds now, we believed it could be within reach, if only for a short time.
Like many illicit relationships, ours was intense and burned quickly. Initially upon reconnecting, I was naive and thought he was happily divorced. Then after finding out he was separated, there was always the idea, at least at first, that he would formalize his separation from his wife in a divorce. He told me one day when we were opening up to one another that he actually hadn’t found his own place yet, but because he was gone so much for work that it was like a separation, and when he was home he was sleeping on the couch. Later he claimed he was sleeping on a friend’s couch. Finally, I learned, he was at home in his bed all along. The lines I drew were no longer blurred. They were clear and I had crossed well over. Even when I knew this and was aware that I had misunderstood his relationship status and knew there was no chance of Buck leaving his wife, I couldn’t get away—despite my best efforts. It was like a black hole sucking me in and I hung on long enough until I felt like I had gotten back some of the strength and confidence I had lost.
Buck helped to heal me, at least partially. And as soon as I was better, I cut him off and ended it for good.
I do not regret my relationship with Buck. He helped pull me up from a dangerously dark place and it would be wrong to regret the good that came out of the relationship, even if it violated my own moral code. That said, I certainly regret any hurt I may have caused his family. I do not envy Buck or his wife. My understanding is that Buck’s marriage had been suffering long before me. But that is for him to figure out, not me, and certainly not my place to judge.
An odd by-product of this short affair, which I sincerely hope to be my first and last, was how it changed my view of Navy wives. I now knew firsthand why the wives feel so threatened, why they convert their husbands’ flight suits into sexy outfits, why they send centerfold-style photos to their men at sea, and whey they tend to treat women like me with suspicion, resentment, and even outright hostility. Understanding the why firsthand and knowing there was a real reason to feel threatened helped me to see myself through their eyes and forgive them.
The women who are married to naval aviators make tremendous sacrifices—quitting successful careers for their husbands’ careers, raising children alone, uprooting their families to move around the world, never seeing the fathers of their children more than a few months on end. The wives make those sacrifices so their husbands can risk their lives serving their country.
They also make those sacrifices so their adrenaline-junkie husbands can live out their childhood dreams of having the coolest flying job. Getting to race across the globe at the speed of sound in the most badass vehicles humankind has devised, blowing up bad guys, partying their faces off in every port of call that will take a US supercarrier, and chasing women, even the ones who fly with them. The spouses of active military bear a heavy load for us all. And while I would still like to make a few of the wives eat a fistful of their own hair extensions, most of the feelings of hurt, anger, and resentment I have felt at times toward them have been replaced by a deep and abiding respect.