Crimson Tide

“The three most powerful men in the world: the President of the United States of America; the President of the Russian Republic; and the Captain of a United States ballistic missile submarine.” – Crimson Tide

Ten years ago, I was the Captain of the USS OHIO, the lead ship of our country’s fleet of ballistic missile submarines. Commanding a nuclear powered submarine, armed with 24 intercontinental ballistic missiles, has a tendency to inflate one’s ego, but my wife, Kellie, was usually there, pin in hand, to burst my bubble.

As I was unpacking my sea bag aboard the ship one morning, I discovered that I had overlooked one important item: I didn’t bring any underwear. This was going to be somewhat of a problem since we were getting underway in an hour for a two-month deployment. Within minutes, I was on the phone with Kellie, explaining my predicament. We didn’t live far from the base, and there was more than enough time for her to make it down to the pier with my skivvies. 

If Kellie didn’t arrive in time, I’d be forced to hand wash my sole pair of under shorts or go commando. The inconvenience would be tolerable, but it wouldn’t take long before the sailor who did my wash noticed that one particular clothing item was conspicuously absent from the Captain’s laundry. I was fairly certain that that little tidbit of knowledge would quickly spread throughout the ship. It was the sort of scuttlebutt that I would have preferred to do without.

I went to the bridge to oversee the final preparations for getting underway. It was close to our departure time and there was still no sight of Kellie. The Commodore (my boss) and his staff arrived on the pier to see us off – just what I needed.  Twenty or so crew members were topside to take in the lines that held the ship in place. When the appointed hour arrived, I gave the order to get the ship underway. As the last line was cast off and we were slowing slipping away from our mooring, I spotted Kellie running down the pier, waving a white shopping bag and screaming at the ship to wait. Horrified, I tried to wave her off. I held my index finger across my lips, signaling to her to keep quiet, but Kellie was blowing off third most powerful man in the world. “I can make it,” she screamed. She picked out a receiver aboard the ship. I had a vision of the bag coming open and scattering my tighty-whities across the pier, ship, and water. 

The Chief of the Boat, the ship’s senior enlisted crew member, was supervising the line handlers topside. He recognized Kellie and shouted to her. “What is it?” 

Kellie looked up towards the bridge, we locked eyes, my gaze clearly pleading for her to cease and desist. She smiled and looked back towards the Chief of the Boat.

“Joe forgot his underwear,” she yelled.  All military decorum topside and on the pier immediately melted away as everyone within earshot started laughing uncontrollably. I cringed. Kellie hesitated. The ship was now almost 10 feet from the pier and the odds of a successful toss were quickly diminishing. A chorus of crew members were shouting encouragement. Kellie hurled the bag. She made a typical girly throw, but the Chief of the Boat managed to snag my skivvies without falling in the water himself. Everyone cheered.

I learned an important lesson that day. The most powerful people on Earth are not the men who control the nuclear weapons, it’s the women who control their underwear.

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Crimson Tide was entered in the Yeah Write #60 weekly writing challenge. 

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