Chapter Twenty-Four

 

 

Be Proud, Be Professional, Press On, Steam, Fly and Fight

Motto of the USS Kitty Hawk

 

The Outer Banks of North Carolina were formed over the ages as changing sea levels, storms, and the relentless currents of the Atlantic Ocean steadily gnawed and whipped at the protruding eastern shore of the North American continent. The continuous assaults resulted in a narrow strip of land stretched for 200 miles, forming the outer boundary of the state. The string of peninsulas and barrier islands were separated from the rest of the state by shallow bodies of water known as “sounds”. Historically isolated and home to pirates, (most notably Blackbeard), outlaws, and fishermen, the region became more accessible in the late nineteenth century as the state road system improved and travelers found it easier to access the remote islands. Word spread of the pristine sandy beaches and tall sand dunes that rolled along the seaside. Although still relatively remote and far from the burgeoning state capital of Raleigh 200 miles to the west, visitors began arriving.

Working in their bicycle shop in Dayton, Ohio, brothers Orville and Wilbur Wright had become possessed by the idea of creating a machine that would allow men to fly. For years they worked on designs and concepts, and by 1899, they had a working model ready for testing. Early versions of the young airplanes were unstable, difficult to launch, and nearly impossible to control. A friend suggested that the steady breeze, soft sand, and relative isolation when compared to Ohio would be a perfect location to continue testing and development of the amazing contraption. The brothers loaded up their tools, equipment, and models, and relocated their operation to a section of remote beach just south of the North Carolina town of Kitty Hawk. After years of steady progress marred by incremental setbacks and failures, on December 14^th, 1903, with Wilbur at the controls, the aircraft lifted into the breeze for three seconds before crashing. Progress came quickly, with the next flight by Orville going for 12 seconds and 120 feet. Subsequent flights continued to increase in time and distance. History had been made outside the small North Carolina town.

The desperate struggle in the Pacific between the United States and Japan had proven the importance and utility of aviation to military forces. Specifically, the floating, mobile air power that the innovation known as an Aircraft Carrier provided had been a key to the victory of the US in World War II.  As tensions rose between the US and the Soviet Union in the 1950s, a new generation of “Supercarriers” was designed. Named after the remote North Carolina town that had been the launching pad for the first flight of a powered aircraft, the USS Kitty Hawk, designated as (CV-63 – the C standing for Carrier, and the V designating that it carried fixed wing planes) was commissioned in April of 1961, just a few months after the inauguration of President John F. Kennedy. With a length equal to three football fields including the end zones, and a full displacement of over 81,000 tons, the “Battle Cat” was a floating city, loaded to the teeth with sailors, aircraft, and more firepower destructive capacity than most nations of the world. In addition to sailors, the crew of 5,624 included a detachment of Marines. Since the founding of the country, Marines had served on Navy Ships. Their mission was to repel attacks from enemies trying to board the vessel, as well as jumping, swinging, or climbing onto opposing ships to generally wreak havoc in often brutal and bloody hand to hand combat with pistols, knives, swords, or anything else they could get their hands on. Additionally, the Marines would be used to project power ashore to attack enemy strongholds or carry out other missions deemed necessary near the coast. The nickname of “leatherneck” stems from those early days, when Marines wore stiff leather collars to protect from sword blows meant to sever their heads from their bodies. The Kitty Hawk was no exception, boasting a detachment of Marines for any security mission that arose.

President Kennedy would visit the impressive ship in 1963, watching a demonstration of weapons capability from the deck. He addressed the crew and told them of the importance of their mission as part of the nation’s navy, providing for control of the seas. He later wrote of his visit “…impressed as I was, on my visit to Kitty Hawk, with the great force for peace or war, which these mighty carriers and their accompanying escorts provide, helping to preserve the freedom of distant nations in all parts of the world." (2)

The cold war with the Soviet Union was in full swing during most of the 1980s, with the world’s two super powers jockeying for position and preparing for a potential global conflict. In 1984, the Kitty Hawk found herself in the Sea of Japan, being closely followed by the Soviet attack submarine K-314 of the class “Scorpionfish”. Either by incompetence or misplaced boldness, a little after 10 PM one night, the K-314 surfaced directly in front of the bow of the ship. Too close to avoid a collision, the massive carrier slammed in to the Soviet sub a third of its length. As both vessels were thought to be carrying nuclear weapons at the time, the potential for a horrendous accident was high. Luckily, the carrier escaped serious damage, but the submarine was not as fortunate and sustained substantial damage. Unable to leave the scene under its own power, the sub remained in place for two weeks until a Soviet tug boat could tow it and its crew of 94 to a friendly port for repairs. (1) The crew joked that the “Battle Cat” was the first carrier to take out a nuclear submarine and painted a red sub on the side of the vessel near the bridge to commemorate the event. Unamused, Navy brass had them paint over the provocative image when it returned to home port in California. The Kitty Hawk served with distinction during the Vietnam years, launching aircraft for raids on targets and providing welcome close air support for Marines and soldiers fighting on the ground.

In January of my freshman year in college, the Kitty Hawk set out from her home port of San Diego for a scheduled cruise that would take her around the entire world. As a Midshipman, a part of the summer was reserved for active duty to gain experience and learn more about the Naval Service and its role in the defense of our nation. I eagerly awaited my assignment for the summer of 1987. After finishing the Spring semester, I received official orders from Headquarters, Marine Corps, and was on my way to my assignment. After several flights and plane changes, I ended up at the US Navy facility in Sigonella, Italy where I boarded a flight to my final destination along with a handful of other Midshipmen. Glancing at their collar insignia, I noticed I was the only one that had the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor of a “Marine Option”. Soaring about 25,000 feet above the Mediterranean, a small propeller driven plane carrying mail, supplies, and a few passengers lazily banked in a wide arc over the deep blue sea below. Far down in the distance, I first saw a small dot in the ocean. The dot grew steadily as the plane descended, I could make out the distinctive shape and dull grey of an aircraft carrier. As we descended further, the host of airplanes on the deck came sharply into view. I picked out F-14 Tomcat fighters, helicopters, and few aircraft I didn’t recognize. The flight deck was a beehive of activity, with every figure wearing goggles and brightly colored helmets. I disembarked the plane, carrying my cover tightly in my hand as I had been sternly warned that a cover blown into the turbine of a jet engine could cause millions of dollars of damage. As directed, with my sea bag over my shoulder, I followed an officer off the flight deck, replaced my cover, saluted the Ensign (US Flag) on the stern of the ship, turned and saluted the Officer on Duty, and asked “Permission to come aboard, Sir?” Permission granted, I made my way to a briefing room for an initial orientation. We were given a small map of the ship and told about areas we should avoid. The flight deck was specifically off limits, as were certain weapons storage and aircraft maintenance bays. The young Navy Lieutenant also added that we should stay out of the Marine spaces, as there was no reason for us to go there. He told us that the ship had just traversed the Indian Ocean, then made a port call in Mombasa, Kenya before continuing on through the Gulf of Aden and into the Red Sea. They crossed through the Suez Canal, and out into the Mediterranean where I had embarked. After some flight operations and training, they were going to make a couple more port calls then set out across the Atlantic to the east coast of the United States. To my surprise, rather than being assigned to the Marines, I was assigned to the ship’s Air Conditioning and Refrigeration (AC&R) maintenance crew. I removed my khaki midshipmen’s uniform and donned the dungarees and soft blue cotton shirt of a sailor. The dungarees featured wide bell bottoms, that looked odd to me at first, but they explained that the style was functional, as the wide bottoms allowed you to get your jeans off over your boots to be able to swim better if you got thrown into the sea. We were also shown how the jeans, once wet, could be removed and used as a short-term emergency float.

The AC&R shop was home to a great bunch of sailors. I eagerly followed them through bowels of the ship, checking on various components of the AC system. After a few days, I understood the basics of how the system worked. At night, I would spend time on the bridge. It was a fascinating place to be. From the radar technicians who kept track of was around us, to the plotting station where our past and future course was plotted out, to the communications office, where messages from around the world came in. The most amazing experience though, was watching the night operations of the aircraft. In total darkness except for a few dim running lights, the F-14 Tomcats would rev up their jets, which would quickly glow orange and red. After safety checks completed and permission was granted, they would rocket down the ship’s runway and off into the blackness. Eventually they would return, circling, coming into a path centered on the deck, slowing, and dropping a hook from the undersection of the plan. The hook would catch on a cable stretched across the deck which would quickly slow the plane, allowing it to come to a safe halt. This magnificent choreography of machines would play itself out over and over during the night, as the pilots and crew perfected their part in the intricate and potentially deadly dance. The show at night would have been impressive for anyone, but for an 18-year-old only recently graduated from high school, it was simply the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I loved being at sea, and I loved being on the ship. The salty smell of the ocean breeze, the indescribable vastness of the water, and the sharpness of the stars in the unobstructed night sky filled me with an excitement and overwhelming appreciation just for being alive and present at that very time and place. I would often go to the fantail (rear) of the ship to watch the evening sun slowly descend through the horizon, wondering how many of my ancestors had sailed that same sea in search of a home.

Eventually, curiosity got the best of me, and I wandered down to area that held the Marine spaces. The entrance was painted red, with a gold Eagle, Globe, and Anchor stenciled in gold paint. As I approached, the door opened, and a Marine walked out. Catching the door as he passed by, I entered. By the standards of the ship, the space was generous, but filled with weapons, packs, helmets, and stacks of lockers containing other equipment. There were bunks, a table, and a few chairs scattered around. A weight set occupied one corner. Young Marines focused intently on manuals, continuing to work despite my intrusion. A young officer walked over, and I told him what I was up to. He was pleasant enough, nothing like the Major at the armory in Chapel Hill. He spent a few minutes explaining his role, and told me his Marines stayed busy studying, working out, cleaning weapons, and reviewing tactical references. He told me I was welcome to come down anytime, but there wasn’t a lot of action there, and I’d probably enjoy learning about other parts of the ship and its operation while I had the chance. I’d have plenty of time to learn about weapons and tactics in the future. I continued my work with the AC&R crew, and spent time in other parts of the ship, but mainly around the bridge. I continued to be amazed at how the Captain coordinated the activities of the crew, and how the whole ship functioned with precision around the clock and in all sorts of weather. After a short time, we anchored off the coast of the island of Palma de Mallorca, Spain. I explored the historic island and relaxed on the beach with the sailors of the AC&R team. The ship was soon underway and conducting flight operations again, but before long dropped anchor in the harbor of Cannes, on the French Riviera. One of the local universities hosted a party for the ship’s junior officers, and the midshipmen were invited to come along. At the party I met a group of students from Sweden, and one of them became my tour guide and companion for the next few days. I was enthralled as Christina described how students in Europe travelled the continent cheaply and quickly by train, and I wished I could take a year off to visit the region. She showed me around Cannes, guiding me through the narrow cobblestone streets to cafés, surrounding beaches and countryside. Before long, the port call ended, and we were back on the ship heading towards the Straights of Gibraltar, out of the Mediterranean and in to the Atlantic Ocean. My first period of active duty coming to an end, I boarded a helicopter and was flown to a nearby base in Spain, and then back to the US. The summer experience had thoroughly sold me on military life. I loved the travel, the excitement, and the mission. I couldn’t wait for the next adventure

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

“. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

Thomas Wolfe

 

August came quickly, and by the middle of the month, Chris and I had moved on campus. Our room was part of a four-room suite on the fourth floor of the dorm named after former Governor John Christoph Blucher Ehringhaus, who had graduated from the University in 1902. We called it “E-Haus” for short. We explored the campus, visiting the Old Well for a good luck drink from the fountain, and walking by the Confederate statue of “Silent Sam”. The Undergraduate library, weight room, and basketball gym were all found and checked out. I spotted Michael Jordan, who had returned to campus to finish his degree after a few years in the NBA. Living on campus was a dream come true, and I was certain the next four years were going to be a great experience. I was so glad I had decided on UNC instead of pursuing the academy. I figured my Midshipman responsibilities would only take me a few hours a week and would have only minimal impact on my social and academic life.

The Captain that presented me with the scholarship at North Stanly didn’t have a lot to say, but he did notice my longish hair with the semi-mullet style of the 80s and commented that I better get a haircut before reporting to school. His hair was shaved on the side and back, with only a small scruffy patch on the top. It fit him but was definitely not my style. I found a barbershop and told the barber that I was joining the Naval ROTC unit and needed to get cleaned up. He asked me how short and tight I wanted it, and I told him to cut off the least that I could get by with and still be within regulations. While I was excited about being in the military, I still wanted to be able to blend in and not instantly be labeled and stereotyped. He complied, and I reported to the Naval Armory, where I was issued the uniforms of a midshipmen, and briefed on the schedules and activities in which I would be participating. I was issued a green canvas sea bag in which to put my newfound treasures. 

The Navy officers and staff I had met were helpful, friendly, and cheerful. They seemed to enjoy their job and I figured the post at Chapel Hill was probably good duty for them, and welcome break from other assignments. The armory was a beehive of activity. Midshipmen with neat, fresh haircuts like mine were coming and going quickly, walking with a sense of purpose, greeting each other, and carrying piles of books and uniforms. I was directed to go upstairs and report to the Marine Officer Instructor (MOI). Looking forward to my interaction with what I anticipated to be my welcoming Marine Family, I climbed up the creaking wooden stairs two at a time, set my seabag down beside a bench, and energetically popped in to the office with the familiar Eagle, Globe, and Anchor stencil on the door. The unholy hell that awaited me in that small office was unlike anything I had ever experienced to that point.

 The Major sitting behind the desk was built like a tank. His upper arms bulged under the neatly rolled up sleeves of his utility jacket, and his broad shoulders filled the uniform tightly. He had a face like a bulldog that seemed heavy with the weight of unimaginable burdens, and the same close-cropped haircut worn by the Captain I had met at my high school. I later learned it was called a “high and tight”, which was the standard haircut for any self-respecting Marine. He was reading a report and ignored my entry. I smiled and said “hello” in a cheerful voice and waited for him to respond. After an unnerving delay, his eyes slowly left the paper, and starting at my feet, scanned me all the way up, like they were measuring me for a coffin. He eyed me with a look of incredulity, not quite sure what to make of the person who had interrupted what must have been an important message from someone high in the chain of command. He turned his head to the left and barked, “Gunny!” A door opposite the door I entered from opened, and mountain of a man burst in. Charging right at me with wild eyes, he thankfully stopped before crashing into me. The tirade commenced. Before even finding out who I was, he gave me a crash course in how badly I had screwed up. While the Major returned to his document, Gunnery Sergeant Moore gave me detailed instruction on how to appropriately knock on the door (three firm knocks on the wooden doorframe, not on the door itself.) I was to announce myself, starting with “Sir”, then saying my name (now Midshipman Cavaliero) and adding “requests permission to enter.”, followed by another “Sir” for good measure. I was to stand there until acknowledged, and only when told to enter was I to step into the room. I was to center myself in front of the desk and stand there at attention (another lesson), until told to stand “at ease”. At that point, I was to spread my feet shoulder width apart, put my hands behind my back, and await further instruction or questions. While seemingly simple instructions, the shock of this unexpected introduction to military life completely threw me for a loop. With his deep voice booming and sometimes approaching menacingly close, the GySgt made me go through the drill over and over again. I bungled some aspect of the ritual every time. We stayed at this for what seemed like hours, until I finally got the hang of it, and successfully stood there in front of the Major’s desk. Then it was the Major’s turn. 

He didn’t talk fast and loud like the GySgt., but assumed a calm, forceful, and logical, but disgusted tone. He told me I was a disgrace and would be better off quitting and going home now rather than to continue to pretend I could be a Marine. He pointed out the fact that my shirt wasn’t tucked in, I wasn’t wearing a belt, my shoes were dirty, and my haircut was totally unacceptable for a Marine, or “unsat” in his words. He could clearly see the small scar on my left earlobe that had once been home to the gold lightning bolt, and he sarcastically questioned my manhood in the most vulgar language imaginable. He told me if I wanted to be a Marine, I should go get myself squared away, and then come back once I got my <stuff> together. I said, “Yes Sir!”, and turned around to leave, but before I got out the door the GySgt. called me back and continued the torment. I learned that there was a protocol for leaving the Major’s office, just as intricate and formal as the entry. This next lesson continued for an agonizingly long period and included additional colorful commentary on my ridiculous looks and lack of intelligence, but the lesson eventually completed, and I was dismissed.

 I picked up my uniforms and hurried out of the Armory. On the long walk by the bell tower and Kenan Stadium to the dorm, it occurred to me that those Marines were good at what they just did. Too good for it to have been an instant, unplanned reaction to me. They had done it before and were well practiced. I was still shaken, but I wasn’t about to give up that easy. I went back to the barbershop and explained that what I really needed was a Marine regulation haircut. He smiled knowingly and squared me away.  I went back to the Major’s office the next day, completed the choreography for successful admittance, and was called in. The Major seemed now to be casually interested in me, and with the GySgt sitting close by, invited me to have a seat, and asked me about my background and history. I was wary of triggering any new outbursts and kept my answers as inoffensively simple and to the point as possible. I didn’t mention my father’s time in the Corps, as that wasn’t a can of worms I wanted to open. I told him I wanted to be a Marine because I admired the history I knew of them and admired the qualities I observed, which was the absolute truth. Another young man about my age approached the office and was granted entry by the prescribed method, evidently, he had received the same instruction they had delivered to me a day earlier. In a freshman class of twenty something Midshipmen, we two were the only ones who were slated to become Marines. The Major explained that we were Midshipmen in training to be Marines, and even though we had signed Marine Corps enlistment papers committing us to eight years of naval service, it was far from certain that we would ever earn the title of Marine, much less become the officers who would eventually be qualified to lead Marines into battle. We would have duties over and above that of the other Midshipmen, and GySgt. Moore, upperclassmen, and other members of the staff would closely supervise our development. If we followed the program, stayed out of trouble, and put our hearts into it, the guidance provided would give us what we needed to succeed, but the result depended on us.

My education on etiquette continued over the following days. I was informed that when I was granted entry into an office, I had better know what I was going to say and spit it out promptly, so I didn’t waste time. Unnecessary detail, stories, stammering, and verbal tics were not welcome. If my host asked a question, it was to be answered directly and plainly with no equivocation or evasion. If the answer to the question wasn’t known, the answer was simple, “This midshipman doesn’t know, but will find out.”

Instruction was provided on how to respectfully interact with the staff, when to salute, and appropriate language to use. I was cautioned that the Marine officers should be approached with a mix of cautious reverence and fearful respect. If I met one in passing I was to give an appropriate standard greeting. “Good morning, Sir”, or “good afternoon, Ma’am”, and keep moving. I should not ask them how they were doing, because that was “none of your damn business.” If they wanted me to know how they were doing, or desired any conversation with me at all, they would make that fact clear. Unnecessary pleasantries or conversation were intrusions that kept them from their important work. I was also introduced to the unique language of the naval service. Walls were “bulkheads”, floors were “decks”, doors were “hatches”, and a hat was a “cover”. Running shoes were “go fasters” (because in them you could “go faster” than in boots), and bathrooms were “heads”. The Corps was a warrior culture, an exclusive club with its own language, history, and traditions unknown to outsiders.

There was a “dog tag” machine in the basement, which was used to stamp the thin metal tags worn around a service member’s neck. There were two tags on the chain. Each tag included the same information – name, blood type, branch of service, and religious preference. There were two tags, and my curiosity as to why was answered by an older Midshipman. “Before you go into combat, you take one of the tags off the chain and lace it up so it’s flat over the tongue of one of your boots. That way, if you manage to get your head shot off or your body blown in half it will be easier to identify you.” It sounded like a reasonable idea.

Classes started, and I worked to handle academics and military life. The other midshipmen became my fast friends, and together we navigated uniform inspections, close order drill, early morning drill team practices, and classes on naval history and more naval etiquette. The Navy officers who provided instruction to all the Midshipmen were full of fantastic tales from far off lands. Their colorful language was full of nautical terminology as well as words and phrases from ports of call they had visited. One of the first we learned was the concept of being in “deep kimchi”, with kimchi serving as a synonym in place of a crude term for human excrement. Evidently, kimchi was a nauseatingly foul mix of fermented cabbage and sea creatures that was loved by Koreans and hated by Americans. Among the midshipmen were other future Marines, referred to as “Marine Options” indicating their destination of the Marine Corps instead of the Navy, and they quickly assimilated me into their tight knit group. I learned that after our junior year, we would have to attend Officer Candidate School (OCS) in Quantico, VA, which sounded like journey to the deepest pit of hell. They said the welcome I got from the GySgt. and the Major were just a small taste of what was to come. The seniors who had gone to OCS the previous summer didn’t talk much about it, other than to generically report that “it sucked”. Being a part of the Marine detachment brought additional duties and requirements over and above those that the other midshipmen had. Physical fitness was a foundational requirement for Marines, and in addition to weekly formation runs, we were directed to put in mileage on daily individual runs. We were also “highly encouraged” to spend as much time in the weight room as possible.

Early on in our training came the torture known as a “hump”, or “forced march”. Since the days of the Greeks, soldiers moved to and from battles in tight formations of men moving as fast as they could go. The mobility and speed of a unit could be the key to victory, providing them the element of surprise or allowing the capture of a key piece of terrain like the Spartans did at Thermopylae. Fast paced forced marches over long distances had allowed General Stonewall Jackson to frustrate and defeat much larger Union forces in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia during the Civil War. Those lessons were not lost on Marines. From my earliest training days, we would fall into formation wearing full gear of boots, utilities, web belt with canteens, helmets, and full backpacks for these hikes. Humps starting at 3 miles in length and increased to distances of 25 miles years later. During officer training, humps were pure misery. Officers had to be able to lead their men, and you couldn’t lead from the front if you couldn’t keep up with the pace. We marched at a pace that resembled speed walking, and the only way to keep up was to lengthen out your stride, lean into it, and push mightily with your legs. To avoid gaps forming in the line, we had to stay within an arms distance of the Marine directly to our front. A rest break of 10 minutes was given for every hour of hiking. Once I eventually made it to the Fleet Marine Force (FMF, also referred to as “the fleet”), the hikes were a piece of cake compared to the agony of training humps. An early refrain from our active duty training staff was, “The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war.”

When we would run in group formations we would sing running songs known as “Jodies”.

The songs had a practical purpose, the loud singing would strengthen lungs, build confidence and camaraderie as the deep, powerful voices singing in unison reverberated throughout the campus. The foundation of the name was an ode to the famous dark humor of the military. “Jody” was the typical civilian dude who would steal the girlfriend of a Marine serving in some far-off corner of the world.  A frequent subject of the songs, as well as taunt by instructors, was the increasingly intimate physical relationship between Jody and the young woman, often referred to as “Sally”. The lyrics had a sober and tacitly understood lesson, “Do your job and forget about the past. Your life is now the Corps.” Other songs recounted Marine adventures and achievements, inculcating the young men and women to the warrior culture with every step. Songs were simple, sung in a “call and answer” format.  A leader to the side of the formation would start by singing the first line. The formation would answer, repeating the line.

Standard beginnings would often turn into hilarious improvised riffs as the side by side columns snaked through streets and pathways and the miles added up.

 

If I die in a combat zone

Box me up and send me home

Pin my ribbons upon my chest

Tell my mamma I did my best

 

It was “highly recommended” that Marine Option Midshipmen become members of the precision Drill Team, meeting most mornings at 6AM to practice drill movements with 9.5 lb M1 Garand rifles, which were the same ones used in much of WWII and Korea by the Marines. The Drill Team participated in competitions and parades, where we would spin the rifles around, throw them in the air, flip them back and forth, and other movements designed to impress anyone watching. The rifles had to be cleaned and oiled frequently, and we learned how to take them apart, cleaning, lubricating, and treating the rich wooden stocks with linseed oil. At GySgt. Moore’s suggestion, I joined the pistol team, and spent long hours at the shooting range in the basement of the armory, learning the basics of marksmanship and preparing for competitions. On weekends and even holidays, we would often travel to Camp Lejeune, Parris Island, or other campuses with NROTC units for pistol or drill competitions. I realized that Naval ROTC, and specifically the Marine Corps, had become my life, and college was being fit in to the time that the Corps didn’t own. With the increased physical activity, and specifically the running, I packed on muscle weight. We went on long runs, calling “Jodies” as we moved along, and often threw in “Indian sprints”, where our typical two abreast formation would merge into a single column, and the person at the back would sprint the length of the column and end up in front. This would continue until the requisite level of exhaustion was reached. We also occasionally ran with the M1 rifles in formation through campus, calling cadences designed to mildly offend anyone with anti-military sentiments who might be within hearing distance. The miles racked up, and I felt great, except for my feet and ankles, which were swollen and throbbing with pain by the end of the day. I talked with some of the other guys, who told me it would get better as my body adjusted. After my experience with the asthma situation, I was cautious about disclosing any medical problem. The pain and swelling didn’t get better, in fact it got worse. I also noticed my shoes were wearing out at alarming rate in an unusual pattern. As instructed, I had replaced my ratty old sneakers with a pair of running shoes shortly after arriving on campus. Only a few months into the year, the new shoes were badly worn and misshapen on the on the big toe side of each shoe. The outside edge was pristine. When classes were dismissed for Christmas break, I went back home. I told Grandmother and Damps about the situation and that I didn’t see how I could keep this up for another semester, much less four years and a career. Rightfully concerned, they took me to a podiatrist. He examined me, and said I had a condition known as “excessive pronation”. I asked if it could be fixed, and he told me that while there was nothing he could do for the fundamentally flawed foot structure causing the problem, he could fit me with a set of custom orthotics that would adjust the angle that at which my feet rested in the shoes, balancing the pressure from my weight correctly. A few weeks later, the orthotics arrived, and I eagerly bought a new pair of shoes and slipped them in. It was an immediate improvement. While my feet and ankles still hurt after a long run, it wasn’t nearly as bad as before, and I was confident I could now train as hard and long as required.