One of my wife’s friends is going on a cruise this week to some warm exotic place. Many (most?) of our friends have taken cruise ships to places like the Caribbean, Mexico, and Alaska. Our daughters cruised in Norway and New Zealand. Everywhere you turn, someone is getting on a big boat and sailing off to enjoy great food, entertainment, and fascinating ports of call. Not me. I’m never getting into anything that floats on the open sea. Here’s why:

Etain France, January 1, 1964. The bus took us to Metz, and a train brought me again to Bremerhaven (Germany) where I was among the last to board the aging troopship, the USNS Geiger, that would take me home and through yet one more dangerous adventure. The North Atlantic in the winter is not a happy place; its reputation for deadly storms is well earned. Because I was one of the last to board the ship, all duty assignments for the voyage had already been made. So basically I spent the time hiding out with a small group of similarly-situated individuals in a corridor adjacent to the galley (kitchen). The guys who worked in the galley had to cross our corridor to serve the officer’s mess (dining room). Since we were all brothers-in-arms, the galley crew would bring us food, sandwiches, fruit, and cake. So we sat and talked, some reading scripture or novels, some playing cards, idling our time away. Until the pipes started breaking and water flooded the corridor.

It was a huge storm lasting more than two days. They battened down all the hatches, closed the watertight doors, and trapped us inside. Looking out of a porthole, the waves were so high you could not see the sky. The next moment the ship would be perched on top of a wave and you could not see the water. At night in our racks down below, we could feel the whole ship vibrate as the propeller came up out of the sea and beat the air. Water began to slosh up and down the corridors as pipes broke and hatches leaked. It was terrifying.

After the storm subsided and the hatches were opened, we were still riding the giant swells of the ocean. Debris was scattered all over the deck, life rafts had broken loose and washed overboard. We breathed in the cold salt air thankfully and looked toward home. We were a little late getting there.

The skyline of New York City came into view early on Sunday morning, January 12, 1964. ….. Our battered ship, bound for a major overhaul we heard, docked at Brooklyn Navy Yard. They marched us to the processing center, and I began my long-awaited separation from active duty. There was a form to sign stating I had no lingering health issues. Eager to get out, I ignored the back pain that resulted from my jeep accident and checked the box that said “None.” Next we stood in line to get paid: final monthly pay (prorated), unpaid leave, and anything else we were due. I received one hundred thirty-five dollars and change. The last line I ever stood in as a soldier in the US Army was the travel pay line. Guys in front of me were getting plane tickets to Los Angeles, train tickets to Pittsburg, and bus tickets to New Jersey. When I stepped up to the window, they handed me a subway token. Clad in my class A uniform and lugging my duffle bag, I trudged out into the street in search of the nearest subway station. I was home.

Frohlich, Robert. Aimless Life, Awesome God . Kindle Edition.