Real life: “I deserted the US Navy to Surf!”

Navy stud splits military for a little self-awarded rest and recreation… 

I turned thirty this year. Had a bitchin’ birthday in the Basque coast of France, surfing Biarritz, Hossegor and anywhere I else I could find a wave.

First birthday I’ve spent not on a goddamn ship. After twelve years in the Navy, it’s been hard to get a birthday to myself. Or one of my kids’ birthdays. Or an anniversary with my wife.

That’s what we sign up for, right? See the world (it’s all water). Figure out who I am (an asshole, apparently). Protect the country (not once).

Hitting thirty really got me thinking. Twelve years of my life spent in servitude to the man. Answering the calls when they came. Leaving on a moment’s notice. It was time I packed my shit and did my own thing. Problem was, I had three years left on my naval contract. And I have bills to pay. Car, rent, all the normal suburbia bullshit. Not the most convenient time to chuck the deuces.

Things were pretty much normal for awhile. A port visit here and there, harassment from Russian fighter jets, missile scares from Syria. You know, the norm.

So my birthday came and went, and the time came for the ship to leave on another four month cruise (deployment). I said goodbye to the wife and kids for the fifth time in two years, crammed my boardbags into a corner on the ship and left our home in Spain to go give the world another dose of freedom (bullshit).

Things were pretty much normal for awhile. A port visit here and there, harassment from Russian fighter jets, missile scares from Syria. You know, the norm.

Then came our port visit to Marseille, France. I rounded up my drinking buddies (did I mention we like to drink during port visits) and told them, no worries, I learned some French this year on my surf trip (right).

When you visit ports with the Navy you have all sorts of restrictions, like having three people in a group at all times and one of the people can’t drink. Oh yeah, and a midnight curfew (I take exception to being thirty and having a midnight curfew).

So off we went into the sprawling projects of Marseille. Fistfuls of beer turn into whiskey, glasses of whiskey turn into more glasses of whiskey, and one thing leads to a blackout.

I wake up in a hotel room by myself. Awesome. I know I’m in deep shit when I get back to the boat so what better to do than to go tie one on again?

I get day drunk. I mean, for real day drunk. I get talking to the bartender at the Olympique Marseille official bar and I figure out the train station up the hill will take me back to Spain. To good old southern Spain: my house, the beach and far away from the boat and all the douche bags contained within. I try to shake the idea, cause its crazy, and I could go to jail. Military jail. Fucking military jail.

So I left. Well, almost. Its five and there aren’t anymore trains to Spain. There’s one to Biarritz, though. Tried to get a ticket to Biarritz, but either their machines were fucked up or I was too drunk to operate them. Got a hotel room, woke up early the next day, was back in Spain by noon. I didn’t make it all the way home until about midnight, however.

After three train rides and a taxi, still in the same clothes from two days prior, I rang the doorbell to my house. My wife answers the door, sees my face, and damn near faints. After a lot of crying and indiscernible yelling, I learn that there are multiple government agencies searching for me, from NCIS to the French Police, and they’re out in droves from Biarritz to trawling the surrounding waters in Marseille.

The night I didn’t return, they started to worry. It is no secret that our friends in that organization called ISIS, or something, are pretty active in the Marseille area. To make matters worse, since my cell phone had broken a few weeks prior, and I had been incomunicado for a few days, I checked my Facebook, and I had 40 messages from people trying to figure out where the fuck I was.

After talking to some friends after the fact, there were more than a few who figured there would be a youtube video of me losing my head being broadcasted sometime soon.

I called the captain of the ship, who just happens to be a great guy from South Africa (of all places), to let him know I was alive. We had a talk. He was really cool about the whole thing. I went back to the boat after about a month of paid vacation to face the music.

I got threatened with jail time and death penalties. I told them, fuck you I want out, and pretty much got out of the military that easy. In hindsight, they were probably a bit scared about keeping me around. None of the leadership on the ship had ever heard of anyone doing what I did.

Later, I was topside having a smoke and I crossed ways with captain. He told me he respected what I did and wished me luck.

If there is a moral, or some point to this story, it’s that no matter where you are in life, or how much bullshit you are in, if you don’t like where you are, roll the fuck out.

There’s always car payments, mortgages, and everything else to tie you down. But sticking around just because of those things will ultimately make you miserable.

To summary, fuck that.