They don't tell you about this part when you walk into your recruiter's office and tell the Marine sitting behind the desk that you want to be a Marine Officer. I spent a good portion of my time this weekend sitting on an Administrative Separation (AdSep ["ad sep"]) board. An AdSep board is a panel of officers that recommends to the Commanding General whether a Marine be separated from the Marine Corps for administrative reasons. Also, if the board recommends separation, they recommend a characterization of service--whether the Marine should receive an honorable, general, or other than honorable discharge.
An administrative separation does not always imply wrong-doing on the part of the Marine--for example, a Marine that is injured is administratively separated. However, many times Marines don't uphold the standards they are expected to uphold. These Marines might have minor punishment administered--loss of rank, loss of pay, loss of liberty privileges, etc. There might be no punishment--an overweight Marine will certainly not enjoy the PT and the weigh-ins and the inability to be promoted, but that Marine is never formally punished.
Under certain circumstances, Marines are also be separated from the Marine Corps. If an overweight Marine refuses to lose weight for a long period of time, they will be AdSepped. Until recently, Marines that were homosexual were AdSepped. And Marines that are caught using drugs on a urinalysis are AdSepped.
I have sat on two AdSep boards so far. They followed some amount of legal proceedings--there is a prosecutor called the recorder, the Marine typically has a Navy lawyer representing them, and three officers outside the Marine's chain of command serve as the judge and jury. The first one I did several months ago was not too difficult. The Marine admitted to using marijuana, and the focus of the board was to determine his characterization of service. However, in the board I sat on this past weekend, the Marine insisted that the marijuana in his system was innocently ingested. He brought in a friend with a medical marijuana card that claims the drug was his, his fiance came to explain that she would never allow drugs in their home, and another Marine testified as a character witness.
I have many thoughts about the process and this board that I would love to explain in detail, but I don't have time. The one thing I do want to discuss: at one point during the board, while listening to the Marines' fiance testify, I realized that I was the bad guy. A situation that had happened inside their home had been brought up on a public website, and she was explaining to the board that it was slander. As she talked, discussion broke out between the other board members, the recorder, and the Navy lawyer over the general topic. Since no one else was listening to her, and I was sitting closest to her, she turned to me, looked me in the eye, and continued with her explanation. She looked almost desperate, and I realized: in her eyes I was the judgmental, unfeeling authority that wouldn't care about what had actually happened, wouldn't care about the fact that they had two small children to support, and would have no mercy. Of course, that wasn't true, but sitting there in my uniform and refusing to show any empathy, that is more than likely how I appeared to her.
It was a difficult case to hear. The board doesn't actually make the final decision to separate the Marine--we just make a recommendation to the Commanding General, and those recommendations are not infrequently overturned. However, when it came down to deliberations, there was one board member who decided that the Marine was guilty fairly quickly, one board member who was very reluctant to do so, and then there was me. I was the swing vote. And I made the recommendation, based on the evidence and testimony that was presented and in accordance with the appropriate orders, that the Marine should be separated from the Marine Corps.
It wasn't an easy decision to make. Was the Marine telling the truth, or was he lying? Was it a single mistake he'd made, or had he finally been caught at something he'd been doing for a long time? Did a single mistake after 10 years of service to the Marine Corps or the possibility that he was telling the truth mean that we should give him an extra few months in the Marine Corps (his contract was finished in several months regardless) to figure out what he would do afterwards? Did his misconduct warrant an other than honorable discharge or only a general discharge? What would happen to his family if he was separated from the Marine Corps with little time to prepare? The decisions I made could potentially have a huge impact on his life.
They don't tell you about this when you're an officer candidate. We expect to be responsible for lives in a war zone. They don't tell you that you'll end up sitting on a board, looking a woman in the eyes and realizing that you're about to destroy her livelihood.
One of the Marine Corps' leadership principles is "Seek responsibility and take responsibility for your actions." I will take responsibility for my decision--I believe it was the right decision. However, I hope that the General who will read our recommendation will decide that there is room for mercy, too.
09 January 2012
02 January 2012
Stubbe Springs
Adventures are rarely fun while you are having them. Actually, you don't typically think of an adventure as an "adventure" while you're having one. You're more likely to think of it as--"it's pouring rain and my tent is flooded," or "the road is mostly washed out and I don't know if I will be able to get my car down the mountain and back onto pavement," or "uhh...where did the trail go?" It's not until later that you realize it was a real adventure.
Adventures of the tamer kind--"yay, we just followed the trail to the top of the mountain," or "that was a nice 70-mile bike ride" pale in comparison to the real adventures, the ones that produce some amount of adrenaline and make you question why you wanted to hike/camp/bike/snowboard/be anywhere but warm and dry at home that day. The real adventures are much more fun the next day, or the next week, or the next month, when you're safely at home, warm and dry, and recounting the story to friends. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday when I realized that I was in the middle of an adventure--a real one.
New Year's Eve was a beautiful day for a hike in Joshua Tree, and I was far from the only person who thought so. The park was swarming with people, and I saw four sets of hikers on a trail where I have hiked previously (twice) and never seen anyone. My first mistake was starting a little too late, and over-estimating the amount of daylight I had left. My second mistake was forgetting my flashlight. (Also, I neglected to see how much moonlight I would have once the sun went down.) My back was a little sore as I started hiking, so I didn't hike quite as fast as I typically hike, which even further decreased the amount of daylight I had. I hit the overlook before sunset, took a short break, and then as I headed back up the trail realized that the shadows were starting to get long.
It wasn't an issue until I realized that the wash I was following had fewer footprints in it than it had previously. Since I was a little pressed for time, I decided not to turn around and try to find where the trail had left the wash, but instead keep pushing and hope I could find another place where the trail passed by the wash. Needless to say, hope is not a course of action, and I soon realized it was unlikely that I would find the trail again by following the wash. I thought I saw what might be the trail, checked it out--nope. By this time, back-tracking would have taken too much time. And so the adventure began--no trail, and daylight quickly fading.
I first took a few seconds to put the detachable legs back on my hiking pants. If I was going to be hiking cross-country in search of the trail, I didn't want my legs to get needlessly scratched up in the process. The trail was supposed to head northwest to a pass in a major ridge, and then back northeast into the valley I'd come in on and then link up with the main trail. If I headed north, I would be heading towards higher ground, where I would be more likely to be able to see the trail again. As very last resort there was a high point on the ridge to the northeast, where I would be able to see everything, including what I thought of as "home valley" where the loop met up with the main trail. The cross-country travel would be slow, and it was questionable whether I would be able to find the trail from that hill once the sun set, but sooner or later I would be able to find my way out.
I hiked up a small ridge off to my right, hoping to see the trail, but all I saw was another ridge. I hiked up that one, too. At this point, I still hadn't found the trail, so I figured the trail must have cut south or west from the wash (I was headed northeast), and that it was unlikely I would find it again in that valley. At this point, that wasn't a big deal, since I'd abandoned the idea of finding the trail in that valley anyway. Fortunately, from this second small ridge I could see the main ridge I needed to cross before I reached "home valley".
I looked at my map again and realized the trail likely cut through a pass off to the west. I decided that heading down to that pass and try to find the trail was probably not going to be as fruitful as heading up to a saddle in the ridge, where I could see everything. Also, if I ended up fighting northwest and then back northeast without a trail, it would probably be a lot slower than simply heading north without a trail. I identified the saddle on my map and started heading towards it as fast as I could--I needed to have some light left once I got up there in order to find the trail again. The adrenaline was pumping full volume at this point. If it got dark before I found the trail again, I would have to decide between sitting in one spot and waiting for daylight or risk actually getting lost while stumbling around in the dark. I wasn't lost at this point--I knew exactly where I was and exactly where I needed to be. If I stumbled around in the dark and couldn't recognize where I was once it got light again--then I would have real problems.
Fortunately, less than 60 seconds after I started hiking towards the ridge, I stumbled across the trail again. I breathed a huge sigh of relief--there would be no cross-country navigation. No trying to find the trail in the dark, or deciding between waiting it out or risking getting lost. However, I didn't know what lay ahead of me on the trail, or how easy it would be to lose the trail again (a problem compounded by fading light and no flashlight). I started walking as quickly as I possibly could, following the trail through the wash I had identified earlier. I was almost grateful for the adrenaline, because it meant that I couldn't feel any nagging pain in my back, and it didn't hurt to hike as quickly as I could.
As I hiked, I paid close attention to the trail in front of me, double-checking places where I thought it might branch. The other danger I identified was tripping or twisting/spraining my ankle. I've hiked/walked on twisted ankles before, so I knew I could do it, but it would slow me down significantly and cost me precious daylight. I didn't have a back-up plan should I happen to lose the trail again once it got dark, except that I figured it would involve a lot of sitting and thinking and straining my eyes to try to identify peaks. I could feel the temperature drop, and my hands started to get stiff. I tried to ignore it--thinking about the cold wouldn't make it go away, and if I stayed moving I would probably be fine. Chilly, but fine.
The trail emptied into a large well-defined wash, which I was grateful for. It would be difficult to lose the wash, and there were copious footprints to tell me I was still on the trail. Also, there was a sign at the location I'd entered the wash, so if I paid attention there would more than likely be a sign telling me where to exit the wash as well. Unfortunately, even with my elevated pace the wash stretched on for what seemed like forever (but was probably only half an hour), and the stars started to come out as the last of the daylight faded. Now I paid close attention to the footprints in the wash, which indicated that the trail had indeed not left the wash yet. Finally, I saw the sign with a single arrow pointing left. The map had indicated that once I left the wash, it wasn't far until I joined up with the main trail again. And sure enough--after a couple minutes I saw the sign marking the junction of the loop and the main trail.
The adrenaline started to subside; I had hiked the main trail in, and it was easy to follow in daylight. I hoped it would be as easy to follow during the night. I relaxed slightly, but I was on my last slivers of daylight. I didn't realize it at that point, but the light from the moon and stars had already become a factor--a few minutes later I realized that I could see my shadow. YAY!!!!!! I had moonlight! It wasn't going to get any darker, and if I was careful, I wouldn't lose the trail on my way out.
I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief, then forced myself to relax. I looked up at the moon and stars--something I enjoy anyway--and saw that Orion was easily identifiable. I took a picture of my last sliver of daylight and the moon, and then a picture of the moon. My day hike had turned into a night hike, and although I was chilly, I wouldn't be spending the night, so I could deal with a little bit of cold until I got back to my care.
I don't know if you've seen the movie 127 Hours, in which the protagonist gets trapped in a canyon and cuts his own arm off in order to get out. I read the book several years ago so I didn't see the movie, but it was obvious in the book that the author had been almost seeking a life-or-death situation like the one he found himself in--going off on his own for days, not telling anyone where he was going or how long he would be gone (one thing I always do when I hike on my own), taking risks, etc. I've never thought of myself that way, but I realized on that hike that I might be more like him than I think.
I have a lot of training and skills, and they've never really been tested. I'll test myself physically all the time, but I've never put my skills to a real test--this was the closest I've come. As an outdoorsman/woman there's a certain pride that comes from knowing that yes, indeed, I have the abilities to work myself out of a sticky situation, and I proved it when X happened. I could have prepared better and reduced my chances of getting lost in the first place with a flashlight. Instead, I found myself testing my skills and my ability to assess situations and make decisions under pressure. Although I believe I made the right decisions, I got lucky when I found the trail again, because I really did think it was behind me, and I was fortunate that I had a half-moon to provide some light even though I hadn't verified the moon would be out that night before I left. When things go wrong, it's usually the result of multiple failures. I made several mistakes, but they weren't enough to put me in my worst case scenario of spending the night in Joshua Tree.
Anyway, I made it to my car safe and sound and actually did manage to enjoy the night portion of my hike. I have added flashlight and compass to the things I will always bring with me on a hike from now on, and will be more careful with rationing daylight. But you can bet I will not stop hiking. :-)
I apologize that I have not been writing as many blog entries as of late. The work I do now is actually slightly more sensitive than what I did in Afghanistan (crazy, right? but true), so I have shied away from writing about that. And although I do have some fun stories from the weekends I go to drill, I usually get back late and launch right into the work week, so I never have time to write about them until several days later. I will try to do better, as I do enjoy writing, and I know that you all enjoy reading.
Semper Fi! And please, if you take one thing away from this story, let it be this: if you are going to go hiking around outdoors, then please tell someone where you are going and how long you will be gone! It will give you a fighting chance when you make every mistake in the book and don't manage to stumble across the trail.
Adventures of the tamer kind--"yay, we just followed the trail to the top of the mountain," or "that was a nice 70-mile bike ride" pale in comparison to the real adventures, the ones that produce some amount of adrenaline and make you question why you wanted to hike/camp/bike/snowboard/be anywhere but warm and dry at home that day. The real adventures are much more fun the next day, or the next week, or the next month, when you're safely at home, warm and dry, and recounting the story to friends. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday when I realized that I was in the middle of an adventure--a real one.
New Year's Eve was a beautiful day for a hike in Joshua Tree, and I was far from the only person who thought so. The park was swarming with people, and I saw four sets of hikers on a trail where I have hiked previously (twice) and never seen anyone. My first mistake was starting a little too late, and over-estimating the amount of daylight I had left. My second mistake was forgetting my flashlight. (Also, I neglected to see how much moonlight I would have once the sun went down.) My back was a little sore as I started hiking, so I didn't hike quite as fast as I typically hike, which even further decreased the amount of daylight I had. I hit the overlook before sunset, took a short break, and then as I headed back up the trail realized that the shadows were starting to get long.
It wasn't an issue until I realized that the wash I was following had fewer footprints in it than it had previously. Since I was a little pressed for time, I decided not to turn around and try to find where the trail had left the wash, but instead keep pushing and hope I could find another place where the trail passed by the wash. Needless to say, hope is not a course of action, and I soon realized it was unlikely that I would find the trail again by following the wash. I thought I saw what might be the trail, checked it out--nope. By this time, back-tracking would have taken too much time. And so the adventure began--no trail, and daylight quickly fading.
I first took a few seconds to put the detachable legs back on my hiking pants. If I was going to be hiking cross-country in search of the trail, I didn't want my legs to get needlessly scratched up in the process. The trail was supposed to head northwest to a pass in a major ridge, and then back northeast into the valley I'd come in on and then link up with the main trail. If I headed north, I would be heading towards higher ground, where I would be more likely to be able to see the trail again. As very last resort there was a high point on the ridge to the northeast, where I would be able to see everything, including what I thought of as "home valley" where the loop met up with the main trail. The cross-country travel would be slow, and it was questionable whether I would be able to find the trail from that hill once the sun set, but sooner or later I would be able to find my way out.
I hiked up a small ridge off to my right, hoping to see the trail, but all I saw was another ridge. I hiked up that one, too. At this point, I still hadn't found the trail, so I figured the trail must have cut south or west from the wash (I was headed northeast), and that it was unlikely I would find it again in that valley. At this point, that wasn't a big deal, since I'd abandoned the idea of finding the trail in that valley anyway. Fortunately, from this second small ridge I could see the main ridge I needed to cross before I reached "home valley".
I looked at my map again and realized the trail likely cut through a pass off to the west. I decided that heading down to that pass and try to find the trail was probably not going to be as fruitful as heading up to a saddle in the ridge, where I could see everything. Also, if I ended up fighting northwest and then back northeast without a trail, it would probably be a lot slower than simply heading north without a trail. I identified the saddle on my map and started heading towards it as fast as I could--I needed to have some light left once I got up there in order to find the trail again. The adrenaline was pumping full volume at this point. If it got dark before I found the trail again, I would have to decide between sitting in one spot and waiting for daylight or risk actually getting lost while stumbling around in the dark. I wasn't lost at this point--I knew exactly where I was and exactly where I needed to be. If I stumbled around in the dark and couldn't recognize where I was once it got light again--then I would have real problems.
Fortunately, less than 60 seconds after I started hiking towards the ridge, I stumbled across the trail again. I breathed a huge sigh of relief--there would be no cross-country navigation. No trying to find the trail in the dark, or deciding between waiting it out or risking getting lost. However, I didn't know what lay ahead of me on the trail, or how easy it would be to lose the trail again (a problem compounded by fading light and no flashlight). I started walking as quickly as I possibly could, following the trail through the wash I had identified earlier. I was almost grateful for the adrenaline, because it meant that I couldn't feel any nagging pain in my back, and it didn't hurt to hike as quickly as I could.
As I hiked, I paid close attention to the trail in front of me, double-checking places where I thought it might branch. The other danger I identified was tripping or twisting/spraining my ankle. I've hiked/walked on twisted ankles before, so I knew I could do it, but it would slow me down significantly and cost me precious daylight. I didn't have a back-up plan should I happen to lose the trail again once it got dark, except that I figured it would involve a lot of sitting and thinking and straining my eyes to try to identify peaks. I could feel the temperature drop, and my hands started to get stiff. I tried to ignore it--thinking about the cold wouldn't make it go away, and if I stayed moving I would probably be fine. Chilly, but fine.
The trail emptied into a large well-defined wash, which I was grateful for. It would be difficult to lose the wash, and there were copious footprints to tell me I was still on the trail. Also, there was a sign at the location I'd entered the wash, so if I paid attention there would more than likely be a sign telling me where to exit the wash as well. Unfortunately, even with my elevated pace the wash stretched on for what seemed like forever (but was probably only half an hour), and the stars started to come out as the last of the daylight faded. Now I paid close attention to the footprints in the wash, which indicated that the trail had indeed not left the wash yet. Finally, I saw the sign with a single arrow pointing left. The map had indicated that once I left the wash, it wasn't far until I joined up with the main trail again. And sure enough--after a couple minutes I saw the sign marking the junction of the loop and the main trail.
The adrenaline started to subside; I had hiked the main trail in, and it was easy to follow in daylight. I hoped it would be as easy to follow during the night. I relaxed slightly, but I was on my last slivers of daylight. I didn't realize it at that point, but the light from the moon and stars had already become a factor--a few minutes later I realized that I could see my shadow. YAY!!!!!! I had moonlight! It wasn't going to get any darker, and if I was careful, I wouldn't lose the trail on my way out.
I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief, then forced myself to relax. I looked up at the moon and stars--something I enjoy anyway--and saw that Orion was easily identifiable. I took a picture of my last sliver of daylight and the moon, and then a picture of the moon. My day hike had turned into a night hike, and although I was chilly, I wouldn't be spending the night, so I could deal with a little bit of cold until I got back to my care.
I don't know if you've seen the movie 127 Hours, in which the protagonist gets trapped in a canyon and cuts his own arm off in order to get out. I read the book several years ago so I didn't see the movie, but it was obvious in the book that the author had been almost seeking a life-or-death situation like the one he found himself in--going off on his own for days, not telling anyone where he was going or how long he would be gone (one thing I always do when I hike on my own), taking risks, etc. I've never thought of myself that way, but I realized on that hike that I might be more like him than I think.
I have a lot of training and skills, and they've never really been tested. I'll test myself physically all the time, but I've never put my skills to a real test--this was the closest I've come. As an outdoorsman/woman there's a certain pride that comes from knowing that yes, indeed, I have the abilities to work myself out of a sticky situation, and I proved it when X happened. I could have prepared better and reduced my chances of getting lost in the first place with a flashlight. Instead, I found myself testing my skills and my ability to assess situations and make decisions under pressure. Although I believe I made the right decisions, I got lucky when I found the trail again, because I really did think it was behind me, and I was fortunate that I had a half-moon to provide some light even though I hadn't verified the moon would be out that night before I left. When things go wrong, it's usually the result of multiple failures. I made several mistakes, but they weren't enough to put me in my worst case scenario of spending the night in Joshua Tree.
Anyway, I made it to my car safe and sound and actually did manage to enjoy the night portion of my hike. I have added flashlight and compass to the things I will always bring with me on a hike from now on, and will be more careful with rationing daylight. But you can bet I will not stop hiking. :-)
I apologize that I have not been writing as many blog entries as of late. The work I do now is actually slightly more sensitive than what I did in Afghanistan (crazy, right? but true), so I have shied away from writing about that. And although I do have some fun stories from the weekends I go to drill, I usually get back late and launch right into the work week, so I never have time to write about them until several days later. I will try to do better, as I do enjoy writing, and I know that you all enjoy reading.
Semper Fi! And please, if you take one thing away from this story, let it be this: if you are going to go hiking around outdoors, then please tell someone where you are going and how long you will be gone! It will give you a fighting chance when you make every mistake in the book and don't manage to stumble across the trail.
10 September 2011
Ten Years
I'm sure all of you who are old enough to remember do remember what you were doing on September 11th, where you were when you found out, the horror of the rest of the day as we watched endless loops on cable news of towers burning and falling, people jumping, people running. The clean-up effort afterward, the way our nation pulled together, the beginning of the war, airport security tightened, the Department of Homeland Security was created, Americans joined the military in droves.
I spent last September 11th in Afghanistan, fighting the war that continues to this today. This year I'll also have the pleasure of wearing the uniform on September 11th, as my unit holds their monthly Inactive Duty Training (IDT), or what most reservists just call "drill". It's part of the "one weekend a month, two weeks a year" that I signed up for. I doubt I'll have a chance to return to Afghanistan, but I'm proud to continue to wear the uniform and make a contribution towards the safety and security of our country.
I stopped in the PX after drill today and was walking through the aisles when a gentlemen pointed at me. As I stopped, he said, "thank you". Since I was the only person in uniform in that section of the store, I assumed he was thanking me for serving, so I said, "you're welcome". "I slept safely last night," he explained. "Someone had to stand watch." You're welcome, sir, and thanks for your appreciation. I am truly grateful that the VFW throws parties for us and random people stop me and that I don't have to go through what the Vietnam-era veterans experienced.
Security on the base is tight, as it should be, and it will likely remain that way for a while. That's fine. The war is not over, and our fight against extremists who will go to any measure to hurt us is not done. Be vigilant. Look up "Operation Gratitude" or "Operation Shoebox" and send a care package to service members who are currently overseas. (Or, if you wait a week and send me an e-mail, I'll send you the address of a friend of mine who just left--he can easily distribute things to his unit.) Things that are good to send: baby wipes, chap stick, trial-size toiletries, individually packaged snacks/candy, gum, a deck of cards, cheap paperback novels, and those Starbucks "via" instant coffee packets (yes, they're expensive, but they're like gold over there).
For all those who died that day, and for all the Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, and Airmen who have given their lives to provide justice: we will not forget.
I spent last September 11th in Afghanistan, fighting the war that continues to this today. This year I'll also have the pleasure of wearing the uniform on September 11th, as my unit holds their monthly Inactive Duty Training (IDT), or what most reservists just call "drill". It's part of the "one weekend a month, two weeks a year" that I signed up for. I doubt I'll have a chance to return to Afghanistan, but I'm proud to continue to wear the uniform and make a contribution towards the safety and security of our country.
I stopped in the PX after drill today and was walking through the aisles when a gentlemen pointed at me. As I stopped, he said, "thank you". Since I was the only person in uniform in that section of the store, I assumed he was thanking me for serving, so I said, "you're welcome". "I slept safely last night," he explained. "Someone had to stand watch." You're welcome, sir, and thanks for your appreciation. I am truly grateful that the VFW throws parties for us and random people stop me and that I don't have to go through what the Vietnam-era veterans experienced.
Security on the base is tight, as it should be, and it will likely remain that way for a while. That's fine. The war is not over, and our fight against extremists who will go to any measure to hurt us is not done. Be vigilant. Look up "Operation Gratitude" or "Operation Shoebox" and send a care package to service members who are currently overseas. (Or, if you wait a week and send me an e-mail, I'll send you the address of a friend of mine who just left--he can easily distribute things to his unit.) Things that are good to send: baby wipes, chap stick, trial-size toiletries, individually packaged snacks/candy, gum, a deck of cards, cheap paperback novels, and those Starbucks "via" instant coffee packets (yes, they're expensive, but they're like gold over there).
For all those who died that day, and for all the Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, and Airmen who have given their lives to provide justice: we will not forget.
19 August 2011
Thank You
I know this post is about a month late in coming, but I owe you all a huge thank you for the support you gave me when I announced my impending separation from active duty and unemployment, and then again when I announced this exciting new opportunity I have at TRAX. Many of you e-mailed me privately to express your sympathy and understanding with the disappointment I expressed a month ago, and I very much appreciated every single one of those e-mails, something I should have but did not express by replying to your e-mails. So if I disappointed you by failing to respond, I sincerely apologize, and do know that your e-mails did not go unfelt.
I started my blog almost two years ago now as an easy way to let everyone know how I was doing while deployed. It has clearly out-lived that purpose, and yet because I enjoy writing so much and believe that I will have additional adventures that are worth telling, either in the Marine Corps or in my new job, I do not plan on ending my blogging any time soon.
So, again, thank you, and I look forward the new exciting stories I'll have to share with you all.
I started my blog almost two years ago now as an easy way to let everyone know how I was doing while deployed. It has clearly out-lived that purpose, and yet because I enjoy writing so much and believe that I will have additional adventures that are worth telling, either in the Marine Corps or in my new job, I do not plan on ending my blogging any time soon.
So, again, thank you, and I look forward the new exciting stories I'll have to share with you all.
11 August 2011
Left at the Cannons, Right at the Cobra
It was definitely not the interview question I was expecting. "So what do you look for when you look for a place to live?" the hiring manager asked me to kick off my first interview of the day. I did what I normally do when I have no clue how to answer a question: I said nothing. I know she could tell from my facial expressions that I was trying to think of an answer to the question, but as normal, it took a while to assemble my thoughts. She beat me to the punch, and started talking before I could answer the question, but fortunately it was probably my worst answer of the day.
Two weeks prior, I had learned that the orders I had been hoping for were unlikely. This was, in fact, my last blog post, and I appreciated the support I received from you all. My second-to-last day at TTECG, I had walked over to another building to discuss the situation with Maj B, who had been responsible for trying to my orders worked out. I am quite grateful for his help, even though it hadn't worked out in the end, and as I told him about what I was interested in doing next, he suddenly pushed his chair back from his desk. "I have the perfect job for you. Let me talk to someone..."
The company was TRAX International, and the job was a test engineer for military equipment. It sounded like a neat opportunity--a chance to use my technical background, something I have really missed since joining the Marine Corps, while still having the opportunity to make a difference for the Marine on the ground. Most of my friends from school are involved in the tech world, developing all the cool products and technologies that Americans consume at an ever-increasing rate. I very much enjoy the fruits of their efforts, but it's not for me. But tell me you've got something that'll help a squad leader see around the next corner, and you want to make sure it works right? I'm all over it.
The next morning I had an e-mail from Maj B asking for my resume. (Fortunately, someone else had prompted me to re-do my resume nearly two months before, so it was ready, even though I wasn't off orders yet.) Later that morning, as I was trying to wrap up everything I was doing and get my turn-over materials put together, I received a call from him. He had spoken with his contact, and had said so many nice things about me that they were already more or less convinced that they wanted to interview me. They wanted to talk to me for a few minutes that afternoon. "It'll probably be one-sided, but I mean that in a good way. They're probably going to want to talk to you about living in Yuma."
Sure enough, when I spoke with the HR rep a couple hours later, her two main questions for me were: "What do you know about Yuma?" and, "What is it about Yuma that would make you not want to live there?" Most of what I knew about Yuma I had learned at OCS. We were getting ready for family day, and our platoon commander was warning us not to be surprised when we saw her marksmanship badges on her service uniform, because she hadn't qualified as an expert rifleman the last time she'd shot. She had been stationed in Yuma, she told us, then said, "It was 110 that day...no, that's an excuse." I learned two things from her comment that day: first, that Marine officers expected themselves to qualify as experts on the range, and second, that it was hot in Yuma.
So when the HR rep called, I didn't know much about Yuma, but given that it was a small town in the desert (I had googled it the night before), I had some concerns that we discussed. When we were done talking about Yuma she asked me if I had any questions for her. Since Maj B's warning a couple hours before, I had taken five minutes to do a quick google search on "questions to ask during an interview" and had come up with a couple intelligent questions. I asked away, and when I was done, the HR rep told me that I had probably asked more questions than anyone else she had recruited, and that she had been at her job for a while. I assumed this was a good thing. Before we hung up, she had one more question for me: based on our discussion, did I think I might be able to live in Yuma? I told her that I wasn't totally sold, but I hadn't ruled out the possibility. Unsurprisingly, a couple hours later I received an e-mail from her telling me that they wanted to bring me out to the Yuma Proving Grounds for an on-site interview. Among other coordinating instructions, she gave me directions to the test facilities. I was to drive out of town; after about 20 minutes out I would left at the big cannons, and then a mile later turn right at the Cobra helicopter that marked the entrance to the test facilities. The gate guards would probably search my car. (I showed them my military ID. They didn't.)
A couple weeks later I drove down the night before the interview and had dinner with a former TRAX employee and a couple of his friends that are very active in the Yuma community. They, more than anyone else, convinced me that Yuma might actually be a fun place to live. Yes, it's hot during the summer, about like 29 Palms. The winters are very mild (average high 70, anyone?), and I'm told that most (>90%; I heard a couple different numbers) of the lettuce sold in the US during the winter is grown in Yuma. It's surprisingly green from all the agriculture, and it's definitely a small-town feel. There will not be enough rain or snow for me, but it will not have SoCal traffic, which is essential.
So when the hiring manager kicked off my interview the next morning by asking what I was looking for in a place to live, I wasn't sure whether to talk about the traffic, rain, housing prices, or the presence of coffee shops that did not bear the Starbucks logo. We actually hit it off pretty well. She is a Mudd grad as well and retired Army officer, so our backgrounds are very similar. I spoke with other test engineers, visited test facilities, saw a giant parachute hanging from their silo (the department tests air delivery systems), saw an MRAP with training wheels and was told it was undergoing rollover testing, told them about the time my MRAP decided it would be most comfortable lying in a ditch without consulting me.
I think the question I got most often that day was, "what questions do you have?" and it was a constant struggle throughout the day to think of something intelligent to ask, but I'll take that over grilling about the details of what I worked on five years ago. The hiring manager made it a point throughout the day to ask the people I met about the outdoors and athletic activities in Yuma, which I appreciated. After lunch I met with a group that asked me about my experience doing data analysis and used the magic word "matlab" (shiny!). By the end of the day, I was convinced that Maj B hadn't known how right he had been two weeks prior when he'd said he had the perfect job for me.
I knew when I walked out the door late in the afternoon that they were going to offer me the job, and I was reasonably sure I was going to take it. The one hitch? When I got back to my car after the interview I checked my phone for messages before I drove back into town. Two e-mails, one voice message, one text message. TTECG had finally figured out a way to get funding for me to stay there for a year--two weeks after I had checked out of the unit. I took a minute to beat my head against the dashboard of my car in frustration.
I spent the next day hanging out in the city, went to the historic quartermaster's depot and learned about the 10 miles of wooden road that used to cross the dunes east of Yuma, visited a local coffee shop, and had dinner at a really yummy hibachi restaurant. (Yes, they have a Cold Stone's, and yes, I tested it. It passed inspection.) When I received the offer letter a week later, the terms were quite agreeable.
So tonight I am excited to announce that I have accepted a position as a test officer with TRAX International at the Yuma Proving Grounds in Arizona. This was definitely not where I saw myself when I joined the Marine Corps, and it's definitely not the long-term goal I've been working towards during my last few months at TTECG. But over the past couple months, I've come realize and accept that what I have wanted to do has just not been practical under the contract I signed. I've come to terms with the fact that even if I do eventually make it on to active duty, I'm going to have to return to civilian life before that happens. Like it or not, that's how it works. And if that's the case, then I'm really just doing myself a disservice by postponing the inevitable, continuing to try to remain on active duty, wasting my time and others' time fighting the system.
That's the Marine Corps. So now I'm a civilian.
That's not entirely true. I'm still a member of the Selected Marine Corps Reserve, and as I write this I have just returned from a weekend of my first paid drill as a Reservist. Friday we qualified on the pistol, and I spent the rest of the weekend figuring out how I fit into the unit. My position is the Headquarters & Service Company Executive Officer and Training Officer, something that I think will be fun and that I will be good at. I suspect it will take a couple months to figure out how to split duties with the Company Commanding Officer and take things off his plate, but I enjoyed meeting the Marines this weekend and figuring out where everything was.
At this point I don't know what's going to happen with my Marine Corps career. I may drill out my obligation and then get out. I could drill out my contract and apply for an active commission. I could stay in the Reserves for 20 years--the retirement benefits are still pretty nice. But at this point...? I really don't know.
Two weeks prior, I had learned that the orders I had been hoping for were unlikely. This was, in fact, my last blog post, and I appreciated the support I received from you all. My second-to-last day at TTECG, I had walked over to another building to discuss the situation with Maj B, who had been responsible for trying to my orders worked out. I am quite grateful for his help, even though it hadn't worked out in the end, and as I told him about what I was interested in doing next, he suddenly pushed his chair back from his desk. "I have the perfect job for you. Let me talk to someone..."
The company was TRAX International, and the job was a test engineer for military equipment. It sounded like a neat opportunity--a chance to use my technical background, something I have really missed since joining the Marine Corps, while still having the opportunity to make a difference for the Marine on the ground. Most of my friends from school are involved in the tech world, developing all the cool products and technologies that Americans consume at an ever-increasing rate. I very much enjoy the fruits of their efforts, but it's not for me. But tell me you've got something that'll help a squad leader see around the next corner, and you want to make sure it works right? I'm all over it.
The next morning I had an e-mail from Maj B asking for my resume. (Fortunately, someone else had prompted me to re-do my resume nearly two months before, so it was ready, even though I wasn't off orders yet.) Later that morning, as I was trying to wrap up everything I was doing and get my turn-over materials put together, I received a call from him. He had spoken with his contact, and had said so many nice things about me that they were already more or less convinced that they wanted to interview me. They wanted to talk to me for a few minutes that afternoon. "It'll probably be one-sided, but I mean that in a good way. They're probably going to want to talk to you about living in Yuma."
Sure enough, when I spoke with the HR rep a couple hours later, her two main questions for me were: "What do you know about Yuma?" and, "What is it about Yuma that would make you not want to live there?" Most of what I knew about Yuma I had learned at OCS. We were getting ready for family day, and our platoon commander was warning us not to be surprised when we saw her marksmanship badges on her service uniform, because she hadn't qualified as an expert rifleman the last time she'd shot. She had been stationed in Yuma, she told us, then said, "It was 110 that day...no, that's an excuse." I learned two things from her comment that day: first, that Marine officers expected themselves to qualify as experts on the range, and second, that it was hot in Yuma.
So when the HR rep called, I didn't know much about Yuma, but given that it was a small town in the desert (I had googled it the night before), I had some concerns that we discussed. When we were done talking about Yuma she asked me if I had any questions for her. Since Maj B's warning a couple hours before, I had taken five minutes to do a quick google search on "questions to ask during an interview" and had come up with a couple intelligent questions. I asked away, and when I was done, the HR rep told me that I had probably asked more questions than anyone else she had recruited, and that she had been at her job for a while. I assumed this was a good thing. Before we hung up, she had one more question for me: based on our discussion, did I think I might be able to live in Yuma? I told her that I wasn't totally sold, but I hadn't ruled out the possibility. Unsurprisingly, a couple hours later I received an e-mail from her telling me that they wanted to bring me out to the Yuma Proving Grounds for an on-site interview. Among other coordinating instructions, she gave me directions to the test facilities. I was to drive out of town; after about 20 minutes out I would left at the big cannons, and then a mile later turn right at the Cobra helicopter that marked the entrance to the test facilities. The gate guards would probably search my car. (I showed them my military ID. They didn't.)
A couple weeks later I drove down the night before the interview and had dinner with a former TRAX employee and a couple of his friends that are very active in the Yuma community. They, more than anyone else, convinced me that Yuma might actually be a fun place to live. Yes, it's hot during the summer, about like 29 Palms. The winters are very mild (average high 70, anyone?), and I'm told that most (>90%; I heard a couple different numbers) of the lettuce sold in the US during the winter is grown in Yuma. It's surprisingly green from all the agriculture, and it's definitely a small-town feel. There will not be enough rain or snow for me, but it will not have SoCal traffic, which is essential.
So when the hiring manager kicked off my interview the next morning by asking what I was looking for in a place to live, I wasn't sure whether to talk about the traffic, rain, housing prices, or the presence of coffee shops that did not bear the Starbucks logo. We actually hit it off pretty well. She is a Mudd grad as well and retired Army officer, so our backgrounds are very similar. I spoke with other test engineers, visited test facilities, saw a giant parachute hanging from their silo (the department tests air delivery systems), saw an MRAP with training wheels and was told it was undergoing rollover testing, told them about the time my MRAP decided it would be most comfortable lying in a ditch without consulting me.
I think the question I got most often that day was, "what questions do you have?" and it was a constant struggle throughout the day to think of something intelligent to ask, but I'll take that over grilling about the details of what I worked on five years ago. The hiring manager made it a point throughout the day to ask the people I met about the outdoors and athletic activities in Yuma, which I appreciated. After lunch I met with a group that asked me about my experience doing data analysis and used the magic word "matlab" (shiny!). By the end of the day, I was convinced that Maj B hadn't known how right he had been two weeks prior when he'd said he had the perfect job for me.
I knew when I walked out the door late in the afternoon that they were going to offer me the job, and I was reasonably sure I was going to take it. The one hitch? When I got back to my car after the interview I checked my phone for messages before I drove back into town. Two e-mails, one voice message, one text message. TTECG had finally figured out a way to get funding for me to stay there for a year--two weeks after I had checked out of the unit. I took a minute to beat my head against the dashboard of my car in frustration.
I spent the next day hanging out in the city, went to the historic quartermaster's depot and learned about the 10 miles of wooden road that used to cross the dunes east of Yuma, visited a local coffee shop, and had dinner at a really yummy hibachi restaurant. (Yes, they have a Cold Stone's, and yes, I tested it. It passed inspection.) When I received the offer letter a week later, the terms were quite agreeable.
So tonight I am excited to announce that I have accepted a position as a test officer with TRAX International at the Yuma Proving Grounds in Arizona. This was definitely not where I saw myself when I joined the Marine Corps, and it's definitely not the long-term goal I've been working towards during my last few months at TTECG. But over the past couple months, I've come realize and accept that what I have wanted to do has just not been practical under the contract I signed. I've come to terms with the fact that even if I do eventually make it on to active duty, I'm going to have to return to civilian life before that happens. Like it or not, that's how it works. And if that's the case, then I'm really just doing myself a disservice by postponing the inevitable, continuing to try to remain on active duty, wasting my time and others' time fighting the system.
That's the Marine Corps. So now I'm a civilian.
That's not entirely true. I'm still a member of the Selected Marine Corps Reserve, and as I write this I have just returned from a weekend of my first paid drill as a Reservist. Friday we qualified on the pistol, and I spent the rest of the weekend figuring out how I fit into the unit. My position is the Headquarters & Service Company Executive Officer and Training Officer, something that I think will be fun and that I will be good at. I suspect it will take a couple months to figure out how to split duties with the Company Commanding Officer and take things off his plate, but I enjoyed meeting the Marines this weekend and figuring out where everything was.
At this point I don't know what's going to happen with my Marine Corps career. I may drill out my obligation and then get out. I could drill out my contract and apply for an active commission. I could stay in the Reserves for 20 years--the retirement benefits are still pretty nice. But at this point...? I really don't know.
13 July 2011
And the Experiment Comes to a Close
Since I returned from Afghanistan last year, I have been running an experiment with my life, trying to see if I could stay on active duty long enough to get on another deployment. I have no desire to bounce back and forth between the engineering world and the Marine Corps world. The engineering world is tough enough to keep up with without unnecessary year-long breaks in the middle. So the solution to deploy again was stay on active duty in the Marine Corps long enough to get some down time, then get my second deployment in.
That was my motivation for coming down to 29 Palms. They had a place for me, said they had everything worked out. I would have a year to figure out where my next deployment was coming from, or if I needed to revert to civilian life. Shortly after I arrived, we discovered it would be a significant battle to keep me on. And we've fought that battle for the past four going on five months now. But the battle appears to be over, and we've lost.
This Friday is my last day in my current position with the Tactical Training and Exercise Control Group, the crazy Marines I've been hanging out with that refer to each other with numbers and letters rather than names. The Marines who motivated me throw myself back into the job when I was more than burnt out after my deployment. The Marines who made 14-hour days in 90-degree temperatures wearing a flak jacket and kevlar helmet bearable. The Marines who've taken care of me, who've fought to keep me, who've welcomed me into their lives and homes, who've modeled leadership for me.
It's a matter of money. The people who want to keep me are not the people who control the purse strings. My job is not important enough to pay me to do it. Once the money runs out at the end of the week, that's it. As of Sunday, I am looking for a new job.
I'm not about to starve or go homeless any time soon. A different unit has mentioned the possibility of bringing me on for a month of two--that would give me a little breathing room to get a job search going. I'm going to approach this very carefully; consider my options; try to figure out a long-term career path. One that involves me staying in one place for more than a few months.
At this point, I'm really not sure if I'll ever return to regular active duty with the Marine Corps. I love being a Marine, but after doing this for almost three years now, I easily see the problems in the system that make young officers and young Marines decide to seek a life elsewhere.
What's next for me? No clue.
That was my motivation for coming down to 29 Palms. They had a place for me, said they had everything worked out. I would have a year to figure out where my next deployment was coming from, or if I needed to revert to civilian life. Shortly after I arrived, we discovered it would be a significant battle to keep me on. And we've fought that battle for the past four going on five months now. But the battle appears to be over, and we've lost.
This Friday is my last day in my current position with the Tactical Training and Exercise Control Group, the crazy Marines I've been hanging out with that refer to each other with numbers and letters rather than names. The Marines who motivated me throw myself back into the job when I was more than burnt out after my deployment. The Marines who made 14-hour days in 90-degree temperatures wearing a flak jacket and kevlar helmet bearable. The Marines who've taken care of me, who've fought to keep me, who've welcomed me into their lives and homes, who've modeled leadership for me.
It's a matter of money. The people who want to keep me are not the people who control the purse strings. My job is not important enough to pay me to do it. Once the money runs out at the end of the week, that's it. As of Sunday, I am looking for a new job.
I'm not about to starve or go homeless any time soon. A different unit has mentioned the possibility of bringing me on for a month of two--that would give me a little breathing room to get a job search going. I'm going to approach this very carefully; consider my options; try to figure out a long-term career path. One that involves me staying in one place for more than a few months.
At this point, I'm really not sure if I'll ever return to regular active duty with the Marine Corps. I love being a Marine, but after doing this for almost three years now, I easily see the problems in the system that make young officers and young Marines decide to seek a life elsewhere.
What's next for me? No clue.
06 July 2011
Desert Rain
We've been having some pretty crazy weather here for the past couple of days. Yesterday, a thunderstorm rolled through Yucca Valley and 29 Palms, but managed to miss the main portion of the base entirely. Yes, there was lightening! As I drove home, I encountered highway construction signs that said "flooded" and water running across the road 2"-3" deep. To top it off, I awoke this morning at 0430 to the sound of rain. Yes, for the first time since I arrived in late February, it has rained here in Yucca Valley! I drove to work dodging sand on the road, puddles spanning two lanes, and a dog who decided my car was a deer and jumped into my front passenger door as I drove by. Fortunately, he was standing tall and healthy after his encounter with what was decidedly not a deer.
One of the reasons I hated living in LA was the concrete covering everything. Here, everything is covered with sand. When it rains, or even when the wind blows too hard, the sand covers the road, creating a hazard for motorists. This photo was taken from my driveway and shows sand blocking a nearby road.
What this means is that the day after a rain, all the city's heavy equipment comes out.
I have NO CLUE where the sand dump is, but there's a lot of it. I don't even want to think about how much money the city spends on road maintenance. It's not just the rains, too. At least once every couple of weeks I come home to find water running down the street (taking sand with it, of course) and a utilities truck putting out signs on the road so they can repair the latest damage. The quickest way to get down to Palm Springs is not infrequently closed off because high winds blow sand across the road.The desert is an inhospitable place. I was marveling over this National Geographic special a few days ago, showing animals battling it out over the last few drops of water in a pond:
We're not quite that bad here in southeastern California, but it takes a lot of work to live in the desert.
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