Opinion

One more mission

The orders came directly from the Commander-in-Chief: Lead a normal life, spend money, and travel.

Although I retired from active service five years ago, I still know what to do when an order is handed down.

Actually, the "normal" aspect of the directive proved the most difficult since I've never really figured out exactly what "normal" is. If anything, I try just a bit not to be too "normal," but I can still put up a pretty good front when circumstances require.

The "spending" part was easy. By the time Christmas rolled around, I felt as if I'd more than faithfully acquitted my duty in that category.

Travel, on the other hand, required more planning; and I didn't think that trips to Bend and Redmond satisfied the Commander-in-Chief's expectations.

Some time ago, my wife decreed that winter vacations necessarily involve warm climates, which -- you will immediately recognize -- are far away.

I love flying. In the aggregate, I've spent weeks -- maybe months -- in airplanes. Still, I'm always a little nervous in the air, and terrorists with murderous intentions don't make it any easier.

For this mission, we chose Hawaii. I'm sure you admire my courage.

On the day after Christmas, we avoided the high-priced flight segment out of Redmond and headed to Portland for Hawaiian Airlines' non-stop DC-10 to Honolulu.

So, there we were in the check-in line and -- I'm not making this up -- right in front of us was a swarthy man with Arabic features.

I checked him out. He had no luggage, not even a carry-on. I looked at his feet. He had the biggest, thickest-soled shoes I'd ever seen. I nudged my wife.

"I know," she said. "I see him."

As he checked in, a businesslike ticket agent never batted an eyelash. We proceeded to security, where hundreds of passengers waited like cattle in a chute; and I noticed the dark-skinned, thick-soled fellow was in a neighboring line.

The line moved slowly but steadily, and I lost track of the suspicious-looking man. I was hoping he'd be strip-searched.

It took something less than an hour to negotiate the security line. I heard only one complaint from a woman behind us.

"We're going to miss our plane," she whined.

Apparently, she didn't allow the recommended two hours. We did and had time to spare, but not a lot.

Airborne, I read, dozed and wondered what it would be like to have the plane disintegrate around me.

When we hit the halfway point to Hawaii, it dawned on me that we were probably over Ocean Station November. In the early 1970s I was assigned to a ship that provided -- from that exact spot -- a safety checkpoint and navigation station for aircraft crossing the Pacific.

We also manned another one between Hawaii and the Asian coast. Many of our customers were military aircraft headed to Vietnam.

In May of 1972, U.S. ships mined Haiphong harbor, and my ship was at this remote spot in the Pacific when we learned of the operation.

I wondered if retaliation might include a torpedo into my stateroom. Never mind that the delivery system was a bit unclear, as was the rationale for expending a torpedo on a Coast Guard Cutter.

I didn't really expect my ship would be destroyed; and, on the flight to Hawaii, I wasn't seriously expecting my plane to go down, either; but, both times, the thought was there.

I mentioned it to my wife.

"Go back to sleep," she said; but I still wondered where the swarthy man was.

Well, I successfully completed my mission and -- except for a little sunburn -- made it back to Sisters without injury.

I hope my Commander-in-Chief is proud.

In the final analysis, it's probably worthy of note that I felt in the greatest danger while dodging Saturday-night-drunks between Salem and Idanha.

God bless America.