Chapter 1

It was fall 1963, in the Tidewater area of Virginia a hodgepodge of cities, small towns, and major military and naval bases. An area more associated with history of the Revolutionary War in the minds of people, rather than the modern area it was becoming. Historic sites and areas such as Colonial Williamsburg and Yorktown where General Cornwallis met his final defeat, or as some would say got his ass kicking.

An area also rich in odd nicknames for their school's athletic teams, like the Hampton High Crabbers, the Newport News SB&DD Co. Apprentice school Shipbuilders, and last but not least the Suffolk High Goobers (no not those kinds of goobers, the peanuts, you know the "sitting by the roadside on a summer day chatting with my messmates passing time away goodness how delicious eating goober peas" kind.). Just think how careful as a cheerleader you had to be with some of those names. I mean give me an s, give me an h, or we are the goobers mighty, mighty goobers, well you get the idea. These names though that reflected the one time economies of the towns they served. Suffolk, is the home of Planters Peanuts, and even has a statue of Mr. Peanut.

Some where on the peninsula, in a small town on a crisp fall night in early November, we notice the stadium of the local high school filled with students, parents, and just plain town folk, here to follow their respective teams. The sounds of the marching band and cheers led by the spirited cheerleaders fill the night, the crisp autumn air, the glare of the stadium light's, where the grass is a full, lush green, adding to the contrast with the chalk lines white.

There in front of me was Chad Steele: star quarterback, Notre Dame recruit, poised to throw another dart down the field. As I picked up the pace, I lowered my shoulder to deliver the hit sure to be the last of my football career. The offensive lineman's outstretched hand hit my ankle, and down I went.

Not just down, but humiliatingly down. My facemask gouged through the pristine turf like a plow in the Nebraska prairie. At least I didn't get forty acres or yards, but it was enough. As I rose and looked downfield, I saw the hands in the air, another touchdown. The scoreboard flashed into the final minute, counting down into the fifties, with fewer and fewer seconds to go.

These memories accompanied me as I walked on the beach that night, leaving the end of the season party and good feelings behind. Fresh Chesapeake crabs deviled delightfully provided the flavor while the beer provided the inebriation. The kegs illegally, but graciously supplied by those who had played before us while we celebrated and honored the fine losing tradition, that they had helped establish, of football at our school.

As I was leaving the end of season party and for me the end of three years of football, I reflected on the years and the work I had put into this. I had finally had my chance for one satisfying play, one play that would at last satisfy me, even though it was in a meaning less game. But once again the bench warmer and practice team star (in my dreams) tackle had missed again. We had been playing the Suffolk High Goobers. Yeah the goobers, goobered us, usually they competed with us for the worst record in the league.

This Year though, they had that one player that had made the difference, and drove them to the state championship. Perhaps in my mind, but certainly in my dreams, I had wanted to be that player for our school. Hell, it was simply a desire, I thought, to be something in my school. Something besides the blob; yep, I had heard it all the time, the blob it creeps and weeps and slides and glides along the floor often enough in a sort of fun teasing way. To them, it was fun and teasing. To me, it was just cruel and insulting.

Walking alone heading south, the retaining walls to keep the beach erosion down marking my progress like the yard lines had never done, other than in my dreams. The lovely blonde cheerleader of those dreams was never there to greet me as I crossed the goal line, either. Humming a bit of the Kingston Trio's "Tom Dooley", interspersed with a bit of "Where Have All The Flowers Gone", as I reflected on the year so far.

Like Casey, bench warmer Tom had struck out.

Lost in thoughts as to where the year was going and had gone, I realized I was closer to home than the party. I noticed the light from the lighthouse chasing over the empty sea was even with my shoulder. I cleverly decided to walk home, rather than go back for a ride.

Nearing home, I heard, rather than saw the crying figure out on the retaining wall.

Sitting on the sand, I wondered if it was just my imagination, or perhaps the echo of my thoughts, until I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye. Focusing on the retaining wall, I barely got a glimpse of movement along the rocks. Not sure if I might be intruding, I just sat and bided my time, wondering who else was sharing the loneliness of the night. Suddenly, the figure rose. It was definitely person, and not my own haunting spirit. The splash rang out like a shot. Spurred at least into looking closer, I walked to the other side of the wall. Between the waves, I saw the person's head rising and falling, heading into the emptiness of the black sea.

Being a bit clever, I figured out that whoever it was had some odd thoughts of recreation. The Chesapeake was not a good place for swimming in November, and the swimming was a bit on the futile side. Here thanks to the retaining walls, the water was shallow for a good way out. Not far from here, in fact, the captain of the Missouri, intent on entering the harbor at Norfolk with white foaming bows and clever maneuvers, had, at good speed, succeeded in ending his career as he ran aground off the army base at Fort Monroe.

Watching the struggling figure continuing to head out to sea, I decided to take off my clothes and wander out to see what was going on. I thought they would at least be dry after the trek. Part of the advantage of being big, as I neared where the figure was, I was still wading rather than trying to swim: a great benefit, as it turned out.

It seemed I was not the only one locked into deep concentration that night, as the figure stopped and turned as I started humming a bit (no not a sea chantey). It was just a nameless tune, something to take my mind off how cold the water felt.

I had thought, during the brief glimpse I had, that it was boy. Boy, was I wrong. That "just leave me the fuck alone" had a rather feminine ring to it. She turned to me and, bouncing on the bottom tried, to turn back to the sea. Clever me: while my grip had no chance at the game earlier, I made a clean grab of the back of the jacket she wore and pulled her back toward shore, to a chorus of "let me go, bastard" and a few off references to me being a canine offspring. I pulled until she could stand up. Slowing here was a mistake, as she tried a bit of an assault on my chest with fists, as well as attacking my legs with a knee. Fortune smiled on me, however, as she was too short, and in deep enough water, not to reach the target that surely (and sorely, I wince, at just the thought) would have stopped me.

Little fists, pulled down stocking cap and jacket, mad as a wet hen, and all that aside, I had no idea who it was, or what she was doing out here. So I asked, and got a bit of "none of your damned business". She could sure cuss like a sailor, even if she wasn't one.

The waves broke, the wind picked up, and the cold started to penetrate her one tracked mind and she noticed something.

"Why don't you have any clothes on?"

Rather Bondishly I replied, "I didn't want to get them wet. It is cold enough without walking around in wet clothes."

"You got that right," was her brief reply. Followed by a giggle.

Thus a rather coherent conversation seemed possible

"Don't you think you should get out of the water?"

"No. I don't want to at all, and if you hadn't stopped me, I wouldn't have started getting cold"

Ah, female logic at work. I stopped her, so now it is because of me she is cold. Can you believe that?

"But I will," she said as a follow up, "because it is obvious you won't let me drown myself."

"Ah, great minds realize truth." Such a snappy reply on my part.

As we got on the shore, she just kept walking toward the wood line, until she realized I had stopped and was trying to put on my clothes. "Aren't you coming, Tom?" she asked.