That Elusive Evening Dew

A brief glimpse of a single day in the life of a sailor...on his birthday

I was in the Navy and aboard my ship somewhere in the Indian Ocean.  Our battle group had been at sea for many weeks.  While in our last port, Subic Bay, Philippines, I'd gone over to the Navy Exchange and bought an entire case of my favorite soda. 

There were two things I loved in those days, two things I loved the most anyway.  Those two things were wacky weed and Mountain Dew, and not necessarily in that order.  Both ranked number one to me. I have many years since given up both these habits.

For the next few weeks, I would go to chow at the regular time and eat my fill with my pals.  Next, I would grab a styrofoam cup and nonchalantly scoop some ice from the ice machine on the mess decks.  I would then go off and find some hidden away spot on the ship to enjoy my dessert, a single 12 ounce can of God's own sweet nectar, Mountain Dew.

This went on for many days.  There were times when I would pop the top on the can and take a big gulp just like it was, warm, but loaded with that wonderful carbonation.  As the room temperature soda hit the ice, it would become chilled, and still taste like a hundred dollar bottle of wine as it went down my throat, but it would be less than perfect.

Once slightly diluted, the Dew would have less kick. So I would treat myself with one good blast and take a warm, heavily carbonated swallow, before pouring any into the icy cup. 

I had access to a small amount of ice, but would never get away with placing my stash in the only ice machine on board.  It would be discovered.  Knowing my shipmates, a stash like that would not only be discovered, but raided, too. 

Those shipmates of mine were a great group of guys, and I trusted all of them with my life, but my hoard of Mountain Dew would bring out the worst in them.  A find like that would include cries of "YeeHAW, Every Man for Himself!". Because of this reality, my dwindling case of 24 cans was locked up tight in my locker. I held the only key.

The days wore on as we traipsed back and forth in that massive ocean.  God, the Captain and a handful of chiefs and officers could have told us where we were exactly, but I had no clue. The chain of command above me was wide. I was but a tiny cog in the monumental wheel which made up the US Navy. 

We could have been south of India, or somewhere over near the horn of Africa. I simply did not know. I most likely didn't even have the need to know. My rank was less than adequate for such things.

But I did know one thing.  It was my birthday, and I'd saved my last can of that delicious soda pop for the big celebration. I'd been looking forward to this day for some time. I couldn't have wiped the smile off my face if I'd tried.

I'm not sure how I managed to do it. I had very little self control back then.  I could barely manage rationing my remaining weed supply to myself, but that lone can of Mountain Dew had remained in my locker, untouched, for over a week. I'd been reigning myself back the whole time.

I heard the first call for chow over the ship's PA.  My heart fluttered a little.  I knew my big party would begin in less than an hour.  It didn't matter what they'd be serving tonight, it could be peanut butter sandwiches for all I cared. 

All I knew was that I'd be washing whatever it was down with my last can of that glorious beverage as I honored myself with one more trip around the sun.  It would be memorable.  Everyone would be there; me, myself and I. I considered bringing along my camera.

It was November 18th, 1981, my 21st birthday. I was giddy with excitement as I stood in the chow line with my pals. There'd be a card game later, maybe even a game of Risk in the ET shop. But I would have to make a slight detour before joining in the fun and after hours entertainment. I had an appointment to keep, and our ship's chronometer was ticking down the minutes.

I got to the chow line.  As I stood in the area just outside, I remember thinking, "wouldn't it be great if they were serving Newport Fried Chicken tonight".  It was my single biggest favorite on the mess deck's menu. I was a hound for Newport Fried Chicken.

"Naw," I thought.  "It'll be some nearly inedible concoction."  We hadn't taken on stores for a few weeks and the mess cooks were down to their last pickin's back there.  It would be something horrible. The scheduled meeting with my aluminum can later would have to suffice as my cake, presents, the party hats, all of it.

I stepped out of the passageway through the mess deck hatch.  I could smell it. I wasn't a believer back then, but I think I looked up and whispered a silent thank you to God in Heaven when the smell hit my nose. I was about to gorge on some Newport Fried Chicken.

It was going to be some birthday. My only concern was thinking up a way to finagle two thighs from the mess cook. I would do my best to break their miserable rules.

Johnson was the mess cook doling out the chicken. It was like he was handing out nuggets of gold or something. Who died and made this schmuck king? 

"You know how it works, Kerchal, you've been on this ship long enough to understand the deal.  It is a leg and a wing, a thigh and a wing or a breast and a wing.  It doesn't matter what you want, what you are going to get is one of those three.  That's it.  Leg, thigh or breast, whatever you choose, and it will be accompanied by another piece.  But I guarantee you, the other piece will be a wing."

"Put a sock in it, Johnson."  Man, I'm sick of this guy.

I looked behind the plexiglass. Huge tubs of luscious Newport Fried Chicken were back there. I wanted to sneak back and just stick my whole face in the tub with the thighs. They might let me. It was my birthday...

I wanted two of those thighs, just two. Was this Johnson guy some kind of sadist or something?  If it's all counted out to the last man on board, let the sorry sap back there at the end of the line suffer.  He'll get a wing and a wing, and he'll be happy about it. 

I slipped the fact that it was my birthday into the conversation.  Johnson was unmoved. "Pick one and move along, you're holding up the line." 

What, not even a happy birthday? Tough room. I decided to bring out the big guns.  Johnson had no idea who he was up against.

As I came to my table and took a seat by my buds, there was a little bit of jealousy brewing.

"Hey, how the heck did you get two thighs? This is BS!  I tried everything up there, Johnson wouldn't budge."

"Yeah, me too. Johnson's an a-hole."

"Don't worry about it," was my reply.  I quickly began stuffing large amounts of thigh meat into my face so I wouldn't have to answer any more questions. I felt for the stash baggie in my dungaree pocket.  It felt a little lighter.  Johnson had been a shrewd negotiator.

I let out a big, fat, wet birthday belch and stood to leave. No one was impressed. I passed by Johnson on my way to the trash bins.  He had a smug look on his face.

"Dirtbag", I thought, "maybe I can win my weed back from him in a card game later..."

I told my pals I would catch up with them in the ET shop in a while. I didn't explain why. I was on a mission though, they had no idea the exotic treat I was about to enjoy. Mountain Dew was originally called Kickapoo Joy Juice.  It was exotic, but in an eastern Kentucky kind of way. I made my way to my rack.

I took out my keys and looked both ways. I needed to be stealthy, and quick. The ice was already beginning to melt in my puny styrofoam cup. I unlocked my locker and grabbed the last can.

I placed the beautiful green can in a bag so no one would see it. I had to walk through the crews lounge on my way to my hiding spot. If even one of them spotted my Dew, it would be like a herd of hyenas on top of a rotting Wildebeest. I was tough, but I wasn't that tough.

I knew where I'd be going. As I walked through the crews lounge, there was a dominoes game going and a craps game in the corner. No one even looked up. I'd made it through checkpoint Charlie.

There were two decks between where I was and where I needed to go. I stood at the bottom of the ladder to the next level. It was a steep climb, but I'd done it so many times. I could actually run up those steps. I was fit. It felt good straining my leg muscles when ascending these necessary flights to the decks above.

I had my bag with the sweet nectar in one hand and my cup of ice in the other. The passageway was deserted. My will power was weak. I would be safe and in my hideout in mere minutes, but I needed a sample pull off that can. And I needed it now.

I stopped at the bottom of the ladder. I reached into the bag and pulled out my prize. I gently ran my hand around its seamless surface. I held it to my face and rolled it gently over my skin. I may have said "Ahh" out loud. Pretty sure I did.

My left cheek wanted a second go. I obliged and gave it another mild roll. I then brought the can to about chest level and placed my fingernail under the tab. I was going for my warm, blast of carbonation right here, right now.

Just as I was ready to make the puncture, I heard voices. I grabbed the bag, my cup and my can of liquid gold and high tailed it up to the next deck. I stopped. I looked both ways. I slid the booty under my shirt and listened. The voices were trailing off. I was safe. 

There was one more flight to go. Then a few lefts and a few rights and I would be in my sanctuary. I would dog down the hatch and settle in for my big 21st birthday celebration by myself. I was completely okay with that.

I eyeballed the shiny can. "Do it!" said the voice in my head.

I did as before and brought that last remaining can up to be opened. There wasn't another one of these for a thousand miles in any direction. What I had was rare out there on the wild blue yonder. Rare like being served Newport Fried Chicken on your birthday.

I went in for the big release. I popped her open and could hear the bubbles as they crackled inside. I held the can to my ear. The snapping bubbles were beckoning me, like beautiful Sirens from some lone Greek Isle. 

I put the soda to my lips and tipped it back. It hit my lips, my tongue, my cheeks and my throat, all at the same time. I allowed space in my mouth for half a gulp. I didn't want to be greedy. There would be time in a minute to really relish it all. This was only an appetizer.

I swished the tasty liquid around in my mouth. It was as good as good can get out there. This was the beer I'd have been tipping with my buddies had we been on shore somewhere right then. It wasn't beer, but it tasted like something even better.  I swallowed slowly. I wanted to savor it all, every second.

When it hit my gut, my eyes kind of rolled back in my head a little. I'd heard of Mt. Dew orgasms, but thought they were only some legend. I was pretty sure I'd just had one. I sort of stood there for a second and enjoyed the feeling.  The experience was something between a mid-piss shiver and an actual orgasm.

"Uh, oh. Voices again."

I had the Dew in one hand and the ice in another. I left the bag. Sweepers could catch it later. I looked up the stairway and saw the top. I had run full blast up this particular ladder many times. This would be a quick and easy get away.

I took off. Bam Bam Bam Bam.  My boondockers hammered down against each step. Only a few more to go.

On the last step, my right foot was in the lead. I merely needed to bring the left up and it would land, squarely, onto the deck above. As I brought it up, I heard the PA system click and begin to engage.  The voice belonged to Sanchez, he was quietly trying to warn us all. Sanchez had never been taught how to properly yell.

In a soft and mild tone, Sanchez called out the warning.

"Approaching heavy seas, all hands standby for heavy rolls!"

So that you, the reader knows, I put the exclamation point up there. Sanchez didn't use them.

As my body on the ladder was in motion, I couldn't seem to stop to reset my payload. My left foot caught the underside of the last stair as the ship surged upward then swayed hard to its port side.

It was 1981. We weren't at war, it was peacetime in the US Navy then, but "Standby for heavy rolls" could easily be likened to an Army distress call, "INCOMING! Everybody take cover!"

Once my brain fully deciphered Sanchez's whispered warning, my left hand instinctively grabbed for the handrail. . That was my ice cup hand. The white cup and the slippery cubes went up into the stratosphere. At the same moment, the ship dropped down, fast, and I went rear end over tea-kettle onto the deck at the top. It wasn't pretty. I didn't stick the landing.

I caught something moving to my right. It was green and all wonderful looking. It was traveling at a pretty good clip. It was my prize, my gift to myself, my 21st birthday present, from me...to me.

I reached out for it like it was a baby falling from a burning building, but alas, my reach was not that great. Over the next twenty seconds, our little warship was tossed about, like a rag doll, in the briny seas. With each bombardment from the raging waves outside, my helpless can lurched, from port to starboard and back again.

I held on for dear life as I watched it all happen. I saw my trophy, bouncing from bulkhead to bulkhead as it made its bumpy way down the passageway. Its luscious contents dribbling out along the shiny deck. A tear began to form in my eye as I watched my one and only bleed out in front of me.

I was slightly injured from the swells, but knew I couldn't think only of myself. I went into full on rescue mode; time for damage control.

I got up and sort of limp-rushed to the now disabled can. Her once perfect exterior was now scratched and dented. I reached down and gently picked her up. Her bow had been punctured and her keel was no longer straight. I held her close in my arms as I looked down. She felt light. She could no longer displace anything.

I lifted the can high above my head as I clutched my own sea-worn body. I would need a trip to sick bay, I was sure, but I may get one more drop before I go.

I slowly turned the can upside down. The exit hatch on her was mangled, but still capable of delivering her final bit of goodness. I heard footsteps.  My rescue was at hand.

"Kerchal, what the hell're you doing?"

It was my Chief, at least I thought it was.  It was his voice anyway. I only saw the khakis and heard the familiar voice. My head stayed in place. This last drop was mine. It was my birthday.

"Hey, whatt're you some kinda nutbag?  What are you doing? Get rid of that can. Come help me secure hatches, we're taking on water."

The drop was just ready to fall as the words left his lips. I turned to acknowledge him when the final bit of Dew, the last anywhere on that entire side of the globe, splashed in my ear. A part of me died inside.

My heart didn't flutter, it actually stopped beating for a couple seconds. It was my freaking birthday over here! One swallow, and a warm one at that? Correction, one HALF a warm swallow? Are ya kidding me? Mine was a first world problem, but oh man, was it ever aggravating.

I sighed and dropped my shoulders. I did get a decent helping of Newport Fried Chicken...And a sip from the only can of Mountain Dew in the eastern hemisphere. I looked at the golden mess on the deck all around me.

"Maybe if I got a straw," I thought, "maybe I could..."

I shook my head. This day is over. I'll get another birthday a year from now. I just gotta make one more trip around that sun.

I gave a sloppy salute to the sloppy deck and turned to leave.

"Right behind you Chief," I said.