Homesick Blues - I’m sure you’ve heard the old adage that if you want God to laugh, tell him your plans. Of course, that need not apply solely (or soully) to a deity. I would also include muggers, IRS auditors, amphetamine-addicted surgeons, and maybe even your financial adviser, especially if he is busily assuring you that everything is fine but forgets to put away that dog-eared copy of “How To Fake Your Own Death.” Or the parachute.
As we anchored once again in Apra Harbor inside the friendly confines of Naval Station Guam, I had plans. Well, not big plans like, say, purchasing large chunks of real estate or attempting a hostile takeover of a frigate, but important plans, plans that would make this particular trip to Guam worthwhile, provided all my stars – Sirius, Orion, Britney Spears, etc – were in alignment and my moons were in the seventh house
of pancakes or something.
I will never understand what Nancy Reagan saw in astrology. Judging by how my own plans went awry, my horoscope must read like, well, “How To Fake Your Own Death.” With pictures. Or more accurately, pictures of those who were mostly successful, except for the fake part.
The first plan was for me to acquire a merchant mariner’s card, or Z-card as it is known among hardy seafaring types. While I am not currently required to hold such a card, it would be a handy document to
have, in case I should happen to get hit in the head with a brick, suffer amnesia, and need to remember who I am and the other three or four pieces of picture ID I already carry aren’t enough to convince me.
Hey, it could happen.
Anyway, in order to begin processing for a Z-card at the US Coast Guard station, one must produce a valid birth certificate and, if applicable, a Department of Defense form certifying that you served in the military
and were honorably discharged. I was proud to serve my country in the United States Air Force, and extremely fortunate to leave same four years later with an honorable discharge, which I immediately secured
upon my person as I hurried from the out-processing center. You know, before they changed their minds.
Unfortunately, I don’t normally carry my birth certificate or discharge papers around with me. So I asked Pamela to search the premises of our home in Appomattox in order to locate the necessary documentation.
Deputies were summoned and Boy Scouts enlisted to assist her in searching the stacks of paper scattered throughout the house. Lifelines were attached to belt loops and secured to our front porch so the search
party could find their way back outside. At last, the papers were located and Pamela promptly sent them via Priority Mail.
Three weeks ago. And I am still waiting.
It turns out that nothing right was in the cards for me this trip, and I mean that literally. Besides the mariner’s card, I also made plans to obtain a new identification and access card. Having jumped through all
the necessary hoops to ensure that I was in all the necessary databases, I was assured by the folks at the Personnel Services Department that all I needed to bring were two forms of picture ID in order to obtain my new card. I even made an appointment, which meant I would only have to wait for two or three hours instead of eight, and my request would be processed by someone who could type with more than one finger.
And speaking of one finger, that was exactly what I felt like displaying for all and sundry to see when I was asked for the application form that I had been told I didn’t have to bring (and thus didn’t). The good news
is, I got the identification card. The bad news is that all it is good for is identifying me. In order to obtain a card that will do more than that, I need to produce the application form for processing, which the base folks assured me they would be happy to do first thing Monday morning.
Which is when we will be sailing to Japan.
It’s almost enough to make one look forward to being microchipped. If Big Brother always knows where you are, it cuts down on the paperwork.
