My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

92

As we spent the few days sailing to Norfolk, things returned to normal, as if Lee had never been absent, sort of. Well, maybe.

No one could forget that we’d nearly lost him. In spite of the fact that he’d ‘abandoned’ Seaview in the effort to sort out his own feelings, the crew hadn’t lost any of their respect for him. In fact, they seemed to have even more now.

Lee spent some of his free time (of which there wasn’t very much), on the videophone with Ames, reviewing official NIMR matters, dictating letters and responding to most of the juvenile messages and endorsement inquiries.

Lee’s car is scheduled to arrive in the port of Los Angeles later this week and the Lamborghini reps there will be there to inspect the car, free of charge, for any damage it may have incurred on its voyage. They too have requested another commercial, which we kind of figured on. Only this time, thank goodness, he won’t have to wear tight leather pants and a white ruffled shirt unbuttoned to the navel. At least I hope not.

I’m glad to say that he didn’t accept the offer from Speedo, much to the dismay, I’m sure, of Lola and Angie. He did accept the offer to endorse Lays Potato Chips and McDonald’s, however.

What the Navy will think about such things, I don’t care. It’s a civilian matter. Besides, they’ll get their pound of flesh when Lee makes the Navy’s commercial, which has been moved up to tomorrow.

We’ll be docking in Norfolk today and will be driven to Washington for the evening’s ceremony and gala.

Chip tried to obtain the menu, but alas for our resident gourmet, no such luck. We’ll just have to be surprised.

“Attention all hands, this is the captain,” Lee’s voice came over the PA, interrupting my musings. “We’ll be arriving at the naval station in about twenty minutes. Mr. O’Brien will have the conn during Commander Morton’s and my absence. Chief Sharkey will have shore leave details. That is all.”

Shortly after we docked, Lee knocked on my door and entered at my okay.

“Any last minute reprieve from these darn uniforms?” he asked as he ran a finger under the dress white’s high stiff collar.

“I tried Lee, but…I’m afraid all invited Navy personnel have been requested to wear the same.”

“Oh joy.”

“By the way, aren’t you forgetting a few decorations?”

“We’ve been through this…I have exemptions from….”

“Not tonight,” I said, handing him the new presidential orders.

“Damm...there’s got to be a loophole.”

“Not while the SecNav put you under active Reserve status for the next few days. And don’t forget to wear the awards you received in Europe. Not strictly kosher on a U.S. Navy uniform, as the saying goes, but their ambassadors will be expecting to see you with their nation’s honors.”

“I’m going to look like an overstuffed peacock!”

“All set to go ashore, Captain,” Chip said formally from the open door.

“Good,” I said, “Lee needs to make a few adjustments to his uniform. I’ll see you both in the limo.”

I didn’t hang around to hear the grumbling I knew Chip was going to hear.  But I had to admit, when Lee emerged on deck, while he might not have looked like a peacock, strictly speaking, he certainly had more decorations and honors than one could easily number at first glance. And included were the U.S. awards he’d received and obtain an exemption from wearing years before. Let’s just say that, by rights, due to one of them, twice awarded, I should be saluting Lee, not the other way around.

Fortunately the Navy had not allowed any press to intrude onto the base, and the official government limo whisked us away in peace. Except for the police escort we found waiting at the gate, that is.

It was a long boring drive and I was getting desperate to pee. But one had to go through the formalities when we were announced at the main doors of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

Senators, representatives, ambassadors, the mayor, and everyone who was anyone were anxious to meet us. Actually, they weren’t really interested in Chip, Joe, or me. Just Lee. I was grateful to be able to get away and ask the butler where the head was. So was Chip.

Lee glared at us as if we’d betrayed him, but I was satisfied that he’d be well taken care of as his mother approached, and embraced him, running her hand over his medals as if she’d never seen them before. Which I suppose was the case for some of them, though I’m sure she at least knew about the exempted decorations that he was wearing now.

It wasn’t long after Chip and I had returned from the men’s room that we saw the president, already hogging the limelight, at Lee’s side. Soon he led Lee and his mother into the chamber where the ceremony was to take place.

As soon as we were all assembled, I could see Lee’s eyes searching us out, relieved when he found us in the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the president said from the podium, “it isn’t often that I have the privilege of bestowing the Medal of Freedom, our highest civilian award on one of our American heroes. While it is unusual to bestow it on a man in uniform, Captain Lee Beauregard Nelson-Crane was a civilian at the time of the Ozno affair.  And I’m happy to say that the captain has been returned to his former U.S. Naval Reserve status and is actually on that status as we speak.

“The Medal of Freedom is our nation’s highest civilian award, recognizing exceptional meritorious service. I think you will be in total agreement that if anyone deserves such recognition, it is the captain. A true American hero.”

Taking the beribboned medal from the marine holding it, he placed it over Lee’s head and shook his hand to rapturous applause.

Flash bulbs, more flash bulbs and phone cameras held high to capture the moment.

Mrs. Crane kissed Lee on the cheek and posed with the president and first lady, along with Lee for the official photographer to get a few pictures for the record. There were even a few singles of Lee taken.

While they were busy with that, the butler announced dinner.

Chip and I were seated close by but not together with Lee, but near enough to read his eyes as dinner progressed. It was between the appetizer and entre that Lee whispered to his host, who with a nod, motioned one of the staff over, who escorted Lee away from the table amid the curious stares of the guests.

Of course, I knew. He really needed to go.

I made a motion to Chip and we both excused ourselves. For all our dinner companions knew, we were curious as they about Lee.  Was he ill, I’m sure they asked themselves.

We arrived in the men’s room to find Lee leaning over the sink, groaning.

“You okay, son?”

“Just had to pee.”

“Now, why don’t I buy that?” Chip asked.

“I’m fine…it’s just…I don’t deserve all this,” he said.

 “Yes you do,” I said. “No more talk denying it. Now, we’d better get back…we need to think of an excuse…can’t very well tell them you simply had to pee.”

And so, as we returned to the dinner table I told Lee (loud enough to be heard) that yes, some medications had even made me feel a bit nauseous and dizzy at times, but that it would pass.

Everyone seemed to accept that excuse, after all, their hero was bound to still be on some meds after all that happened to him, poor boy.

In fact, the president suggested the captain sit out the dances to be held after dinner, and that everyone would understand if he decided to leave early. To which Lee gratefully agreed, and requested he leave right away.

Chip, Joe, and I rose along with him, and said our goodbyes to our host and hostess, nodding to the assemblage and assisted Lee out of the dining room to everyone’s sympathetic looks.

Mrs. Crane also accompanied us, at least to the door, while we awaited our limo.

The butler, I was surprised to see, nodded to one of the chefs who appeared, with insulated ‘doggie’ bags.

"For later, if he feels up to it,” he said, “and the president insists that none of you go back to Seaview hungry.”

“Thank you,” I said just as the limo drove up, with police escort.

Giving Lee a farewell kiss, Mrs. Crane watched from the doorway as we loaded ourselves into the limo, and drove off.

“Thank God,” Lee said, after I’d closed the dark glass separating the driver from his passengers, “I thought we’d never get out of there.”

“They were going to have Ice Cream for dessert, Lee,” Chip complained, “home made Ice Cream. They can’t very well have packed that….you aren’t really feeling sick, are you?”

“I’m fine. Go ahead and chow down. I’ll ask Cookie to make some home made Ice Cream tomorrow, if he can."

And so here I am, back aboard Seaview, waiting for the dawn’s early light  to bring the Navy’s camera crew to the dock to film the commercial, even though Lee’s still writing his lines.

As I look through my journal, I can only read in amazement at yet another roller coaster ride that Lee and I have been on these past months.

Blinded, struck by lightning, buried under rubble from an earthquake, almost eaten by an alligator in the sewers of Paris. Bitten by rats, tortured, shot,  and nearly killed by a madman. He  envisioned a conquistador who turned out to be an ancestor. Then he  found the bones of a dead king and  a long lost relative of Chip's. Embraced by the bones of a long ago lady, not to mention having to endure and sometimes even enjoy the foods of various European cultures. A few girlfriends tossed in for a little comic relief along the way, and you have a whopper of a story.

And it’s all true.

But what strikes me the most, is that my son’s come home to me, and to his greatest love, Seaview.

As for the  commercial, well, I might not have a speaking part, I might not have a part at all, but at least I won’t have to wear the damned dress whites.