The year was 1968. My friend Eddie Baca and I were boarding an airplane in Albuquerque bound for the U.S. Coast Guard boot camp at Government Island in Alameda, Calif.
We’d enlisted during the Vietnam era and now faced a 10-week ordeal initiating us into the armed forces, completely ignorant of what awaited.
As 19-year-old out-of-condition know-nothings with several extra inches around our waistlines from “college socializing,” we’d lit stogies that afternoon and jokingly carried on, saying, “the Coast Guard can’t make it tough enough for us.” Uh-huh.
At the Oakland airport, we waited with other arriving recruits for the bus that would haul us in darkness to the foreboding island.
Rain was pounding in sheets as we disembarked to intimidating screams and unrepeatable name-calling from drill instructors.
They ordered us to stand at attention on one of about 50 yellow boxes painted on the asphalt in front of our barracks as they continued “welcoming” us to Company Echo 57.
Eddie and I exchange nervous glances. Those celebratory cigars were long extinguished as reality began to expose our immature and ignorant preconceptions.
I’ll not forget the words of the veteran drill instructor who would become our company commander over the next 70 days. “Welcome to Government Island, pathetic s- - -heads!” he bellowed.
“Perhaps you ladies have heard of Marine Corps Boot Camp at Parris Island. They surely have a very good, tough boot camp! But I’m pleased to inform you those folks can’t hold a candle to what you’ll be enjoying during our coming weeks together!” He then darted his forefinger to the right and said the island’s parade field and running track was a quarter-mile down the street and the track was covered in red rocks.
“Now [more obscene names], I want you to sprint single-file down there and bring me back one of those rocks. Make it a pretty one. Hurry! Go!” Off we sloshed through puddles in our soaked street shoes and slacks until at the field our breath gave out and we had to stop to bend over to regain oxygen. I collected my rock and headed with the group back to attention on my yellow square.
“Everyone got my rock?” he shouted. “Hold it up for me to see. That’s very nice, ladies. Now take it back and place it right where you found it.” After running a half-mile, my legs were rubbery and I was still gasping along with everyone else. Nonetheless, off we went back through the downpour. This happened twice more until some among us were nauseated and sprawled on the wet pavement.
Only then were we were allowed into the barracks where we were issued linens, uniforms and sleeping assignments within a sprawling room lined in bunk beds.
It was about 10 p.m. and we were already exhausted, yet far from finished on that welcoming day. Our instructor entered with a roar and ordered our beds be made the Coast Guard way while explaining what was expected. This wasn’t ordinary, pull-up-the-covers bed-making, not in boot camp.
Sheets had to be tucked and folded just so and pulled tightly enough to bounce a quarter off the mattress. Some didn’t understand and wound up doing push-ups in an effort to jog their memories.
We also had weekly barracks inspections where our abilities were ranked alongside the other companies. Sometimes we’d return worn out to find our barracks ransacked because one recruit had failed morning bed inspection.
Before day one had ended, it was nearly 2 a.m. Morning reveille was at
5. That first night few among us in the unfamiliar, sprawling room with the air conditioning steadily kicking on could fall into restful sleep. There were nights where I’d lie awake listening for that sound and pondering my circumstances and fate.
I shut my eyes. Suddenly a bugle was sounding in the darkness. Our instructor burst into the room banging a garbage can lid and flipping on the lights, screaming, “up and at ‘em, girls! The day’s wasting and I want another red rock. You have 10 minutes to visit the head, dress, make your bunk correctly and be at attention on the squares!” Only my creator knows how I made that initial deadline. But within 10 minutes Echo Company was again single-filing it for another red rock to be immediately returned. Then it was off for morning physical training.
This was all unfolding within seven hours of our arrival.
After receiving class assignments, we ran, as we did everywhere, to the mess hall about 200 yards down the street. Here we were allowed 10 entire minutes to consume breakfast then head as a company for morning classes.
Eddie, who would wind up being assigned to Delta Company, gave a slight wave as we passed in line.
Those grueling days on Government Island passed in similar fashion. We learned to wash our dungarees and scrub our white inspection uniforms and sailors’ hats to radiant white. Our black shoes had to remain polished to a glassy sheen.
As weeks ensued, we continued to run everywhere without privileges (radio, soft drinks, candy bars, even walking) until the instructor announced we’d earned some as a company, which took three weeks.
Then these small, appreciated privileges could be revoked with one transgression.
In reflection, the rule of earning privileges would prove instrumental over my lifetime by reminding me not to take even the simplest joys for granted.
By the seventh week, some in our company had washed out. They hadn’t been able to meet the rigid expectations of being a worthless boot. One wet his mattress at night to get released from service. Another was caught trying to swim to the mainland after dark.
As the weeks passed, the stress and humiliation of boot camp became unbearable for some.
It was routine during weekly inspections for recruits, dinged for all form of infractions, to drop on the spot and give the instructor 20 push-ups. I lost track after the early weeks of how many I was averaging.
But with each passing day, I also felt myself becoming stronger and firmer than I’d ever been, even during those twice-a-day August football practices back home in Harrison.
I vividly recall one morning during inspection when the drill instructor drew close to my nose as I stared ahead and expressionless. “Boy!” he shouted. “Why did you decide to bring that pet green bug sitting on your white cap to inspection with you today?” Confused, I responded, “Sir, I didn’t know he’d tagged along, sir!” “Funny boy, are you? Well, by damn, he sure did. Now I don’t mind him coming out to enjoy all this hoopla with you. But next time you’d better make damn sure he’s also at attention. Now drop and give me 20! No, let’s make that 30!” I never knew if the bug was real or simply another excuse to see me do push-ups.
The days flew faster than I’d expected after that first tumultuous week. We regularly ran to fetch red rocks, competed against other companies in various athletic events like tug-of-war, attended classes, wolfed down our three daily meals and adapted to lights-out by 9 and rising before daybreak to the call of a trumpet blaring over the base intercom.
There were no “safe spaces” for the easily offended or those who found the ordeal too much to bear. The intent behind such training was to teach us to endure and overcome under especially harsh circumstances. So it was best to weed out those who couldn’t adapt.
By the beginning of our final week, we’d finally become a more privileged senior company who watched bus-loads of new arrivals and felt for what they were facing. That sense of empathy only made each of us increasingly proud of what we’d endured and achieved.
As I look back on those momentous weeks, the pride I felt in myself at graduation while standing at parade rest on the red-rock encircled parade ground as the band played military marches was among the highlights of my life.
The truth was the Coast Guard set our attitudes straight by making life awfully tough on me and Eddie. The rigors far exceeded our naïve expectations on the night we arrived. Yet we also hadn’t broken.
As we embraced, smiles wide, after I’d tossed my white cap high in the air, I realized just what we’d accomplished personally in our paths toward becoming adults.
Today, a half-century later, I continue to regard my boot-camp experience as perhaps the single most life-influencing decision of my existence. It was every bit as demanding and difficult as the drill instructor had promised that night in the rain.
And I grew up in 10 weeks, remaining thankful even today that the Coast Guard had indeed made it as tough as we could possibly endure.
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Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master’s journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com .