Stereamers: CGC Halfmoon

November 5, 1955, to December 12, 1955

A piercing, glacial wind howling across the yawing deck, solid sheets of frigid water and salt spray blew across the superstructure. The prow of Halfmoon, rising from the water, slammed back with a jarring crash.

His watch cap pulled low on his forehead, wet and cold and even though he wore foul-weather gear and layers of clothing beneath, still, spray coming through the collar trickled down his neck.

Standing on the port side of the lookout bridge, he tried to find a place where there was even minimal protection from wind and water, but the pitching ship offered no concealment.

Glancing at the luminous face of his watch: 0557.

“Shit!” Not sure if he’d said it because there were still two hours left to this miserable watch, or because of his miserable—Why’d I do it?—thoughts. Why? Am I that God damned lonely? Actually, yes. Am I that  hard-up? Actually, yes. “Shit!” She ain’t even all that pretty!

The frustration of, once again, being cheated out of intercourse, even though he was married, even though it was justifiably and legally right had been on his mind since the start of this patrol and highly negative thoughts had festered and filled his heart with doubts about Marsha, himself and, most certainly, about their marriage.

If her mother had stayed in her room another minute! One minute more! Shit, five seconds later and I’d been there!—the thought still incomprehensible—Inside her! He thought reverently, Inside Marsha!

Due to circumstances throughout his life that had made actual penile penetration impossible, the completion of the sexual act, in Mitchell Lipensky’s mind seemed an impossibility, and even when he does do it, if he ever does it, that in some way, some how… in this respect, more and more, Mitchell had actually come to believe—and maybe so—that God was truly against him.

But then again, considering the potency of a healthy, twenty-one-year-old male and the fertility of a healthy, nineteen-year-old female, and the fact that the healthy, twenty-one-year-old male did not have a prophylactic handy, maybe, after all, God may not have been against him.

And all of a sudden, he thought, why all of these God damned problems?

At first the complaints that he’d received from Marsha and his mother seemed minor, and more than likely gross exaggerations.

But for the last few weeks…

“Mitchell, your future mother-in-law…” Future?

“Mitchell, your future wife…” Future?

“Marsha never calls anymore.”

“Marsha won’t let me tell her anything!”

“Marsha includes me only when she absolutely has to!”

And the big one, oh, yeah, the real big one…

“Marsha refuses to address me when she talks to me.”

And Marsha! And Marsha! And Marsha!

Also…

“Mitchie, I don’t know what’s wrong with your mother!”

“Mitchie, I can’t seem to do anything to please your mother!”

“Whenever I talk to your mother she sounds like she’s mad at me.”

“I can’t ever do enough for your mother!”

“I don’t know what your mother wants from me!”

“Your mother!” “Your mother!” “Your mother!”

“Marsha this!” “Your mother that!” “Marsha…” “Your mother…”

“Damn it!” “Damn it!” “Damn it!”

Hunching his head lower into his jacket. Pulling his watch cap lower onto his head. Jamming his hands even deeper into his pockets, Maybe we shouldn’t have done it, he thought. Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married. As black waves surged beneath the ship, black thoughts surged through Mitchell’s mind, and heart. But we did! he reasoned. We’re really married! Rather than the wonder he felt when he was with Marsha, Mitchell now thought of his marriage as a sentence and again, Shit, we never even screwed! And a nagging thought came to mind, a thought he’d put down each time he’d thought it. But now, letting it surface, he remembered hearing: “When a guy’s married, until he and the girl screw, they’re not really married, and the guy can get it…?” Thinking, trying to remember the word…

The yawing ship, the biting wind, the frigid spray and drab sky coloring the world exactly to his depressed mood…

Remembering, he said the word aloud, but, the wind carrying the word away, as though the word was the solution, saying it louder: “Annulled! I can get the whole fuckin’ thing annulled!”

Digging its way through, in the distance a thin stream of light pierced the clouds and shone, beacon-like, onto the roiling ocean below.

Mitchell’s eyes focused on the streamer of early morning light, But, he rationalized, her parents have spent so much for the wedding. As the adage, “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” for Mitchell, now, where there was light, there was hope and, the beam of light bringing a ray of optimism, But she loves me! he thought. Maybe even more than anyone ever has or ever will! Remembering! He remembered a sad time in the past when he’d said these exact words to a different girl under yet worse circumstances. And lo, now another positive thought came to mind…