Whirl

I chose to come to Shemya because I felt it would keep me out of trouble. If you have to do a year away from everyone you love, then it made sense to spend that time in a place where I could not wallow in self destruction? Right? Just a thousand or so new friends on a tiny island, 1500 miles at sea. What could possibly go wrong?

On the surface, the whole rational was logical, sensible, and smart. But that’s the nature of all rationalizations—even when, as is usually the case, they are complete and utter bullshit.

In truth I was running, once again. Running away from the new obligations this life was attempting to lay upon my pale, skinny shoulders. I was 26 and scared to the marrow. Frightened of being a husband and father.

But of course the minute I set foot on that island I began to understand just how important my family really was to me. That basic tribal pull of intimate companionship hit me full force. I resolved to make it through the year and return to them as a re-born Mr. Domestic.

Thus the year of 1985 became a melody of time killing stratagems: work many hours. Hike and beach comb whenever I could not work. Work some more. And fill the remaining void with the only thing I could truly feel: longing, dark and deep.

It was the first time I’d ever really missed any one. For three years I’d lived in the Philippines and never thought once of my parents. My brother had rarely entered my consciousness in the last 15 years. But now I could barely make it through an hour without straining to hear my son’s gurgling babble or even the sweet, discordant call from my daughter’s clarinet.

Of course it was the emptiness of my bed I felt the most. I missed the feel of Ada next to me in the night. Like a teenager, I longed for silly things like the curve of her fingers in mine. Sometimes while walking the beach, I’d find myself talking to her—pointing something out as though she were standing next to me. Though cold and dark, Shemya could also be a wondrous place and there were so many things I knew she would have enjoyed.

I saw many affairs of course. Many. Shemya was an island of lonely people jammed together by circumstance, duty and—for some like me—a need to escape. I found myself often remembering the words of an old buddy from the PI. When asked why he rarely went for the local bar girls, he said: “It’s just masturbating in someone else’s body”.

But damn! I wanted to remind my friend that sometimes jacking off—no matter how fleeting—was just the right prescription. And if masturbation is OK (and we all tell our children that it is), then would it really be so wrong to seek a small measure of comfort in the arms of another lonely soul?

I found my prescription about two weeks into my second month. She was another airman, much in the same boat as I. Young, separated from her husband and working hard just to make it through the cold, cold year. I am ashamed to say I cannot remember her name. But I can tell you that she looked very much like the actress, Shelly Duvall. I’m sure she ever knew how much she meant to me. After all, I was one of many and she was just fulfilling a basic physical need. It was a contract: thirty minutes, twice per month; with no long-term commitments. Just a basic formula of trust, muted conversation, talcum, soap, and the gentle sound of scissors and comb.

And her touch. Her simple, human-to-human touch. The warm feel of her fingers running through my hair, the gentle pressure of her hands guiding my head. The glorious sense of contact with another person. It was at once intimate, but never sexual. And I can tell you that I found more in this small platonic service than I would have ever found in an affair.

My little grooming ritual became an outlet for a simple desire, a basic human need fulfilled in the most innocuous way possible. I’ve had many other haircuts over the last 24 years. As haircuts are measured, most were better than Shelly’s. Many were outright pleasant. But none of them have meant as much to me. In 1985, my barber’s touch became my reset button on life.

It was a good year. A lot started for me on that little skid mark of an island. It was the beginning of a new sense of confidence that would carry me through college and the remainder of my military career. Good momentum.

It would be nice to tell you the motion is still there and the personal growth continues to be just as profound. I’d like to say I no longer feel the urge to run away. It would be even better to say that I no longer act on it. Instead, it will have to be enough for me to say that I’m still learning. And still longing, dark and deep.