The shocks to the system during the transition from high school parent to Naval Academy parent number too many to count. From being a part of many of your child’s decisions to knowing most of their friends to seeing them most every day, parents learn they, too, are in for a grueling four years.
The four years on the banks of the Severn River serve to train our young men and women to become the next generation of Navy and Marine Corps leaders. The physical, mental, and emotional challenges prepare them to face the significant, often life-or-death challenges that await.
At some point, parents realize the training extends to them as well. When a young man or woman goes to a civilian college, things change. But even if it’s out of state to some far-flung location, the changes for family and friends are never as dramatic as the changes for those entering an academy. The same for when that person graduates from a civilian college and takes that all-important first job.
Yes, they may be further from home. Yes, their lives will involve a host of people you will likely never meet. But when they leave Annapolis, they begin another life in another place for yet another phase of training. Eventually, they take that final step and the changes dwarf those of civilian college graduates.
One of the threads that pulls through the entire experience is communication. USNA delivers that message clearly after I Day, cutting Plebes off from the rest of the world aside from old-school handwritten letters and three phone calls that pass faster than the Roadrunner outrunning Wile E. Coyote’s latest brainchild. While those restrictions lift during the Plebe academic year, the flow of communication does not necessarily improve significantly.
Like much of the USNA training, it purposely serves both the Midshipman and the family. The Midshipmen learn their duties go beyond the traditional 9-to-5 and that the mission stands not as a priority, but as the priority. Phone calls, texts, and video chats fall down the list pretty quickly and families find in-person visits often upended by a last-minute issue.
For many, that eases over the last three years but never really disappears. With good reason. The situation only gets more complicated after commissioning.
After the challenges of nuke school and prototype, my submariner landed in Kings Bay, Georgia where I expected communication would finally improve. It did not. Full disclosure, he’s never been fantastic at communicating, but his USNA experience took it to a new level. His daily work hours went well into double digits and much like his time at USNA, aside from the occasional text, there was a lot of radio silence.
At this point, let’s take a detour to help illustrate a point. He came to visit in February and our stops included my favorite microbrewery, Arlyn’s Good Beer (yes, I realize such a visit is a gift beyond measure and treasured every single moment; side note, if you ever in or near Northwest Ohio, I encourage you to visit Aryln’s). After some admittedly good beer and conversation, he eyed up the merch.
“That would make a good underway hat,” he said. “And the shirt is pretty cool, too.”
Note: While the submariners have their official ship’s hat, when they are underway, any hat within reason suffices, a variation on Navy uniform policy. Hence, “underway hat.”
He made his purchases and the owner asked that, if it were possible, he’d like a picture of him in the hat or shirt with his boat to share on their Facebook page. With that, we shook hands and called it a night.
The months rolled by and come this May he was once again submerged in the deep blue sea. As has become my practice, I sent emails through to the ship’s secure system and received a response of about 1 to every 5 or 6 emails sent.
Then come mid-July, I was sitting in this very spot, tapping away on this laptop when my phone dinged. It was a text from, you guessed it, my submariner. A picture of him standing on the deck of the USS Florida, wearing his Arlyn’s hat and holding a cigar.
As I puzzled over the photo, “Anchors Aweigh” erupted from my phone (yes, that’s his ringtone and, yes, “Wild Blue Yonder” plays when my daughter calls; I am that dad). I fumbled with the phone for a moment and answered with a startled, “Hey!”
“I can’t explain it, but I have a signal in the middle of the ocean,” he said, “I only have a minute, but I sent the photo they asked for at Aryln’s.”
I confirmed receipt of the picture and asked how he was doing.
“I can’t really hear you,” he said. “I’ll call again when I can.”
And that was it. That was the extent of the communication over the course of about three months.
We would have a legitimate conversation weeks later when the boat was docked. While we both would have probably preferred a deep father-son discussion, our limited time was spent on very practical matters, making sure his bills were paid and talking about repairs to his truck while he was away.
Then this weekend, I received a notification on Messenger. Guess who? Yep.
Again, a brief conversation, the crux of it – he hasn’t seen many emails, which is disappointing since I had sent some, his sister had sent some, and other family and friends had sent some. We exchanged a few sentences on typical business matters and I gave him a brief update on his sister (knowing he wouldn’t be able to contact her directly). Just like that, it was over. The conversation ended as abruptly as it began.
Reflecting on these three brief interactions, it strikes me that my USNA training served me well. I always have my device nearby and never silenced (sorry folks in a meeting with me when a spam call comes in, triggering the theme from The Avengers). I answer immediately, whether it’s a call, text, or Messenger. I let him start the conversation to make sure if there is something he needs or needs done, I get the pertinent information before the opportunity to message ends. I fully expect the discussion to end mid-conversation without warning and understand I won’t know when the next communication will happen.
When your Midshipman commissions, you will not cross a stage and shake hands with dignitaries. You will not receive a diploma nor will you toss your cover in the air. But make no mistake, you will have completed your training and it will serve you well.
My Kid The Mid 