Disappointment’s Gentle Gift
Yesterday, Maggie and I drove to Berkeley to listen to a YouTube sailor I follow. I'd been anticipating this event all week, eager to have one of his books signed and excited to purchase his newest release. Yet somehow, despite all the excitement and careful planning, I completely missed his talk. It was his final appearance before heading back to his boat, and I was devastated.
My disappointment quickly turned sour—I was irritable, grumpy, and admittedly rather unpleasant company. Maggie and I even found ourselves in a rare argument, though of course, she later graciously apologized.
At that moment, all I wanted was to head home, pout, and stew in my disappointment. A classic, stubborn reaction, I admit. Yet, instead, we found ourselves wandering into a charming neighborhood lined with cozy restaurants and quaint, locally-owned shops. It felt like stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting—neighbors greeted one another warmly, couples chatted leisurely at sidewalk cafes, and friends gathered to discuss life's gentle ups and downs beneath the soft warmth of a perfect Sunday afternoon. Local art graced storefront windows, and laughter echoed softly through the street, soothing away the sharp edges of my frustration.
As we approached a little burger place to order lunch and enjoy the afternoon outside, I noticed a well-dressed older gentleman sitting comfortably nearby. He wore a light jacket adorned with unmistakable submarine dolphins, the emblem proudly signaling he had served beneath the waves, just as I once had. It was a subtle connection, an invitation perhaps, from life itself, gently nudging me to discover the hidden gems awaiting in the midst of disappointment.
There's a unique and profound bond between submariners, something deep and quiet—difficult to fully grasp unless you've experienced it yourself. It’s a camaraderie forged beneath the ocean's surface, marked by respect, trust, and shared sacrifice. Younger submariners like myself look to those who've gone before us with reverence and admiration. These veterans are not simply older sailors; they're the keepers of traditions, stories, and courage we strive to uphold. In their presence, we feel a sense of duty and pride, recognizing the lineage we are honored to continue. This gentleman served aboard the USS Redfish (SS-395), one of the legendary vessels we submariners respectfully call "Steel Boats with Iron Men." Built and launched during World War II, the Redfish and her crew endured conditions unimaginable to most—confined spaces, long patrols beneath perilous waters, and the constant risk of danger. Interestingly, the Redfish gained additional fame when she appeared in the 1954 Walt Disney production of Jules Verne's classic "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," highlighting the strength and resilience inherent to her crew and their storied service.
We sat there, swapping sea stories, our tales flowing like familiar currents through time, transporting us both back to our youth beneath the waves. He listened intently to my stories from a nuclear-powered era, marveling at how much things had changed, yet remained fundamentally the same. I, in turn, was fascinated by his vivid recollections of life aboard the cramped and rugged WWII fleet boats, imagining the challenges and camaraderie he had known. In those moments, we were young submariners again, bonded by shared memories and a mutual respect that bridges generations.
Reflecting on our encounter, I realize now that although I missed the sailor I'd originally set out to see, fate had something else in mind. By sheer chance—or perhaps something deeper—I met a sailor of a different kind, someone I deeply respect and felt an instant connection with. At 90 years old to my 58, he had not only served honorably beneath the waves but had also spent decades protecting the Sierra Mountains, backpacking through the very trails and valleys I cherished. In meeting him, it felt like encountering an older version of myself. Life, in its unpredictable and beautiful wisdom, reminded me that even when plans go awry, there is often a hidden purpose waiting patiently to be discovered. Perhaps, when we feel most upset about something we missed, it’s life's gentle way of steering us toward something even more meaningful, teaching us that sometimes the best experiences are those we never planned for at all.
