Raised by the Fox

by J Walker Bell

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Of Cactus, Castles, and Queens

  It was early morning on Thursday in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. The tiny, isolated Naval Base, positioned between the Caribbean Ocean on one side and the soldiers of Castro's Communist Cuba on the other, is a temporary stopover point for US Navy ships undergoing combat training. The training is grueling, and ship reputation, personal careers, and even lives depend on getting it right. The base is all brown dirt, brown shrubs, brown trees, and the driest climate north of the Sahara. The huge iguanas are about the only green things on the base, aside from the acres of cactus. It was about to become my home for the next twelve hours. At least it's dry land, which is something I looked forward to after three weeks of making circles in the ocean.

  I leaped from the ship's gig to the pier with a briefcase full of work. I watched the gig swing away and head back to the ship, which would soon be back at drills. The Captain didn't put me ashore to admire the sparse scenery. Better get to work. The last thing on my mind was romance.

  Released from the stifling pressure of a ship training for war, I wasted no time, and was able to finish up most of the ship's business in just a few hours. The thought of being able to relax away from the tense shipboard atmosphere had helped fuel my productivity, and I suddenly found myself with nothing left to do.

  I headed for the Bachelor Officer's Quarters (BOQ), the Navy's version of a hotel, to take advantage of the welcome, if temporary, freedom. I had brought along my bathing suit primarily as a good natured jab at my shipmates remaining on board, not expecting to get a chance to use it. But, since I had it I decided not to let the last couple of hours of sun go to waste. Bringing along a book and a BOQ towel, I sauntered down to the mostly deserted pool. There were four people scattered about the pool's edges, all women, plus several children splashing about in the pool. The women surprised me at first, since the BOQ houses almost exclusively male guests. Seeing the children, I decided they were officer's wives. I was forced to revise that opinion almost immediately. Two of the women, which I passed on the way to the recliner I'd picked out for myself, did not have the look of Navy wives. There was none of the expected paraphernalia: children's towels, toys, Navy T-shirts and beach wear, nor the usual steady flow of conversation about husbands and jobs and the Navy. Even more significantly, my bachelor eye noted the absence of wedding bands or engagement rings. I figured the two women to be in their mid-twenties with figures that would have attracted attention at beaches in Malibu and Waikiki.

  One girl, in a flaming pink bikini, appeared to be asleep. The other, deeply tanned and wearing a green and black bikini that looked more comfortable than showy, regarded me behind light colored shades. She offered me a lazy smile. Suddenly I realized I had paused at the edge of the pool directly in front of this girl. Embarrassed, I nodded hello and moved less than gracefully out of her sunlight. My two year Hawaiian tan from my previous tour of duty had long since faded into the whiteness of an east coast winter, and my thirty year old body, while still slender, had certainly seen better days. Piqued at my own vanity, I made myself comfortable on the recliner, fighting with the periodic gusts of wind for my towel. I cracked open my sci-fi thriller and eyed the pretty green bikini over the top of the book. An hour later the wind had risen to the point of being uncomfortable, and clouds now obstructed the sun too often for successful tanning. Many of those around the pool were preparing to leave, including she of the smiles and the green bikini. As she collected her things, one of the children playing in the pool came to the edge nearest her. The little girl was about six. The wind carried her words to me in pieces.

  "Are you a queen?" I distinctly heard. Puzzled, I listened harder, but could not make out the reply. The little girl swam away for a moment, then returned with more questions.

  "What place were you in?" The girl bounced up and down in the pool, excited, shy, and curious all at once. She received a gentle smile, and the thoroughly mysterious woman stopped gathering up her things to talk to the little girl in the pool.

  "I finished sixth," the wind rewarded my straining ears. The answer seemed to be drawn reluctantly from her, as if the memory somehow saddened, but that nothing less than honesty was due the child in the pool. How interested she seems in this little girl's conversation! She gave the child her complete attention, and when the next question floated across to me, the

  responsive grin did not mock, but warmed the heart.

  "Do you live in a castle?" I grinned myself, behind my book, totally taken in by the scenario before me, wondering what answer the wind would bring me. She took her time, considering the question seriously.

  "I once visited a castle," she told the girl, now held in rapt attention, "but no, I never lived in one. It might be nice to live in one someday. What do you think?" Her voice was very pleasant, neither high nor husky, and I think the words would have carried without the wind. It was a voice trained to be heard, soft to the ears but with easy carrying force. Satisfied after a few more simple questions, the child went back to her games and the young woman finished her packing and departed.

  I joined what was becoming a general exodus a few minutes later. I wondered about the woman at the pool, fascinated by what I'd overheard. I wished I'd spoken to her. A woman like that probably got a lot of uninvited invitations, I consoled myself. I'll be back on the ship in less than twenty four hours, with enough work on the ship waiting to keep me busy through the weekend. I chided myself for being so foolish as to let a total stranger affect me so.

  I changed from bathing suit back to uniform in the pool locker room and headed to the Fleet Training Group control room to confirm my ship's arrival time. Things were going better than expected on the ship, I quickly learned, and the arrival time had been extended to first light on Friday morning so that the ship could finish up the last of the drills. I was happy the ship was doing so well. I was also very happy I was going to get a night ashore, although I knew I would never hear the end of the barbs from my shipmates. I made reservations at the BOQ and got into the room in time for the six o'clock news, hoping for a sports update. I also discovered I had a roommate for the evening. The BOQ had no more single rooms available, so they had begun doubling up. He would only be here the night, he explained after we'd introduced ourselves. The twice weekly flight to the States left tomorrow, when he finished his two weeks active duty. In the middle of our conversation the local news program caught my attention. Gitmo has a local TV station that does news and local events. Tonight they had a special guest- Miss Mississippi was doing the weather. What was Miss Mississippi doing in Cuba? I must have asked the question aloud, for Bill answered me.

  "There's a bunch of beauty queens on the Base to do a Department of Defense sponsored show this weekend. The first show is tomorrow night, as a matter of fact." Something clicked in my head.

  "Where are they staying?" I asked, which I knew was a stupid question the minute it left my lips. Where else could they be staying but here?

  "Right here in the 'Q'," he said, confirming my suspicions.

  "There are a couple of them living in the room next to this one," he added. "Saw 'em when I was moving my stuff in." He grinned broadly and gave a soft whistle.

  That explained a lot of things. So many of the little girl's questions now made sense, as did the presence of a beautiful, apparently unattached young woman at the BOQ pool. Lost in my musing, I almost missed hearing that my struggling Detroit Tigers had finally won a game.

  Friday started as a busy day. The good news from the ship had turned to bad, and ship arrival had been delayed for twelve hours. I would continue to confirm my ship's schedule throughout the day. I began following up on the things I set in motion the day before, as well as adding some addition tasks I anticipated the Skipper would need given the changes in schedule. I stopped by the room a little before lunch to see if new friend Bill needed a ride to the airport, but he had worked that out and was on his way as I came in
. He had more bags than he could carry in one trip, so I helped him carry them up to the front of the BOQ where he was meeting his ride. I was anticipating a short nap, a Navy Nooner, as I headed back to the room, when I saw a guy knocking on the door next to mine. My purposeful stride faltered and settled into a casual saunter, my eyes on the opening door. A very sleepy faced young woman poked her head out the door, hands worrying with her tangled hair. A white robe had replaced the green bikini, but I did not have any trouble recognizing the girl from the pool.

  I paused in my doorway. Just enjoying the day, I told myself, and lounged against the door frame. She glanced at me briefly, obviously recognizing me, and I decided to believe the short glance included a pleased expression. I gave her my best sympathetic grin and then made myself busy opening the door. Her male caller quickly finished his business, and she thanked him for coming by after he wished her luck with the show. He was apparently leaving on the same plane with Bill, and had wanted to say goodbye before leaving.

  Goodbye, I though to myself. I had my door open now, and with no further reason to hang around, I went inside. Absurdly elated, I forgot about the anticipated nap and instead grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge and headed back to work, humming the Steve Winwood tune on the radio, "Higher Love."

  I was back at the "Q" with two hours to spare before the ship's arrival. Lots of sun left, so I decided to hit the pool again. It was too much to hope she'd be there again, but I was pleasantly surprised. Two other girls were also catching some sun, not to mention a group of guys that surrounded them like Indians around circled wagons. My pretty neighbor looked like she already had more company than she probably wanted. Shrugging, I looked for a spot to settle. The pool was downright crowded, probably because it was Friday and people were getting into the weekend. The only recliner available was already half in shadow from an overhanging tree. I maneuvered it as far into the sun as possible and cracked my book.

  I had been reading for about twenty minutes when there was some kind of commotion from the corner where the girls were. Glancing up, I saw the blonde with the neon pink bikini getting ready to leave. The guys were talking and laughing, but I could not hear what they were saying. The blonde passed me on the way out of the pool area, and I heard my neighbor ask her to wait, but the blonde didn't even look back. Then she also began gathering up her things and followed after the blonde. One of the guys called after her. I didn't catch all of it, but it was definitely rude.

  Angry that my fellow officers were so lacking in class they could upset a girl who was obviously making a supreme effort to be courteous and friendly... well, I momentarily forgot that I also one of them. As she passed I said "Hi!" in my cheeriest tone. After all, we were at least on smiling terms by now. She didn't even break stride. A very perfunctory smile was launched in my general direction, and a "Hi, how are you" drifted back like the sonic boom from a passing jet. As I began getting ready to leave I kept thinking about the phrase myself and the rest of the ship's crew hated to hear during General Quarters. Missile amidships! All hands abandon ship!

  My earlier elated state had suffered serious deflation. Back in my room, I showered and started packing up. In less than an hour I'd be back onboard the ship, my moment of freedom gone. But that was not the reason I was so depressed. I finally admitted that the lovely girl in the room next to mine had elicited a reaction from me out of proportion to the situation. Three weeks at sea can do that to a man - witness the louts at the pool - but I was used to being alone. It also wasn't the fantastic looks, or the celebrity status, or the beauty queen label. When I thought of her, I thought of her listening intently to a little girl's questions. I thought of a sleepy smile, and of freely given and unappreciated time and attention to all who asked it. These girls- and I was beginning to feel generous enough to include them all- were giving not only a great deal of their time, which could be considered a part of the job, but also of themselves, asking nothing but simple courtesy in return. Well, I felt they deserved something more for their efforts.

  I had no idea what would be appropriate, or even how many people were involved; plus, at this hour the few stores on the Base would surely be closed by now. From a quick rise in my state of mind, I began to feel defeated before I'd had a chance to get started. Other obstacles presented themselves immediately: I had to meet the ship in thirty-five minutes; the girls themselves had a show to do in less than two hours and might not even be around the BOQ much longer. Even if the nearby Navy Exchange was open, I still could be doing a lot of running around for nothing.

  So, what would it be? I had learned the best way to overcome such moments of indecision is to ask someone who'll make the right decision every time. I prayed for guidance, asking only that He give me a way to show my appreciation, and admitting my own selfish interest in one particular generous hearted beauty queen.

  The answer started as flowers. Maybe not the most original of gifts, but I knew the Exchange had a small florist shop, and the clerk at the front desk thought the Exchange was still when I burst in on her with the question. I made it to the Exchange five minutes after it had closed.

  Entering anyway, I pleaded with the manager, even explaining who it was for. Unimpressed, he flatly turned me down and saw me to the door. Dejected but not deterred, I was rolling ideas around in my head when I nearly knocked over a woman and her fully loaded grocery cart. The apology was a bit absent minded, for I had been struck by the IDEA as I stared purposefully at the still open Commissary store.

  It was miraculous how quickly the IDEA was pieced into reality from that point. There was a surprisingly good selection of fresh, unpicked over fruit available, and I wasted no time stuffing a carry basket full. The Commissary offered nothing even remotely usable to put it in, but I decided to worry about one thing at a time. I paid for the fruit, placed it carefully in the passenger seat of the ship's sedan, and rushed over to the Mini-Mart, which also remained open and carried a limited variety of odds and ends that was at least worth a shot. I nearly gave up at the Mini-Mart, after having scrutinized every shelf, and began wondering if I'd have to present the fruit in the paper bag from the Commissary. On the shelf I happened to be standing in front of, which contained a few miscellaneous toys, a box had been knocked over that I hadn't seen before. Thinking that a box might be better than a paper bag, I picked it up. Inside was a large, round container in bright blue plastic with distinctive Crayola Crayon markings. It included a tall, cone shaped lid with a grapefruit sized hole cut into it: A child's wastebasket. Or perhaps a unique, interesting fruit basket.

  One counter held all of the Mini-Mart cards, ribbons, and wrapping paper. Of the three types of wrapping paper available, one was bright blue with the words "Best Wishes" sprinkled across it. It took only a moment to find a card that said, "Hello from out of the blue."

  I was back in my room with tem minutes to spare. The wrapping paper went into the improvised fruit basket to accent and cushion the fruit. Using a pineapple as the center piece, I added bananas, apples, pears, and peaches, then topped it off with both red and green grapes.

  Now that it was done, sudden doubts assailed me. Was this such a good idea? Maybe they were already gone, rehearsing for the evening performance? Worse, maybe the gift would be received in the same polite, meaningless way I'd been dismissed at the pool? Even as these thoughts paraded across my mind, I was heading for her door, fruit basket in hand. I knocked.

  No answer. I didn't know if I could knock again. Then, "Yes?"

  Swallowing past a dry throat, I managed a hoarse, "Delivery."

  "Delivery?" The voice sounded nearer the door now, and there was no hesitation. The voice was puzzled.

  "Yes," I managed a little louder, "delivery."

  Murmured discussion went on behind the door. "Just a minute, please." Though it was actually much less than a minute, it was plenty long enough for me to live through every horrid and unlikely possible response.


  She was wearing the white terry cloth robe again. This time there was no intervening wall to block the view. As the door opened fully, I was met by a slightly quizzical look and a pair of long, lovely legs that were all the more striking in that heart-stoppingly short robe. I must have looked pretty comical, standing there bugeyed and holding the world's largest blue

  crayon, for when I was finally able to drag my eyes back to her face, the quizzical look had been replaced by one delightfully amused, head tilted to one side, eyebrows raised, laughter flickering behind mischievous eyes.

  "Yes?" The corners of her lips twitched upward in conspiracy with her eyes.

  "Gaa," I said, or at least some facsimile thereof. Like Charlie Brown and the little Red-headed girl, the moment of truth had arrived, and I was going to cause myself devastating embarrassment. I must have said something, maybe even the prepared speech I'd been muttering to myself while I'd put

  together the fruit basket, because she motioned as if to take the basket.

  "Is this for all of us?" She asked, taking the basket I instinctively handed to her. "OOOF!" she added, feeling the unexpected weight.

  "Yes." I said, magnificent conversationalist that I was.

  "Well, thank you very much," she said sincerely, shifting the heavy basket smoothly to her left arm where she hugged it against her. Then, sweet lady that she was, she saved me further embarrassment by extending her right hand to be shaken.

  "I'm Pamela Finley," she told me in a warmly welcoming voice as I took her hand. The gesture broke the frozen hold I had on myself, and I was able to present a reasonable picture of sanity as I gave her my name and told her how much I hoped to be able to make the show that night. The gift was a present from the entire ship to all those in the show, I continued, sticking magnanimously with the original plan.

  Seeing me back on my mental feet, so to speak, and listening to me mouth such estimable words, Pamela could not resist playfully trying to set me off balance again. Lifting up one edge of the robe that I swore could hide not another millimeter of curvy leg, she apologized for the way she was dressed, her expressive eyes almost self-mockingly coy. It was a delightfully blatant put on, and dismissed the last of my nervousness. The remaining conversation was unforced and genuine, but quickly over. I had begun to worry about a Captain who might now be wondering where his officer was, and Pamela was beginning to struggle with the heavy basket.

  I made it back to the ship with bare seconds to spare. The ship had passed every drill, and our reward was a weekend at the pier to enjoy a few hours of time ashore.

  I made it to the show that night. I discovered that my fruit basket gift was a smashing success. Pamela immediately pointed me out to the other girls when I arrived. I was inundated with "Thank Yous" and given a front row seat. The show was top notch, and in my prejudiced opinion Pamela was the best of the best. We talked again after the show and I told her that the Captain had extended an invitation to visit the ship. The following day she brought all the girls to the ship for lunch and the grand tour. Her schedule and mine then took us our separate ways, though I did get a chance to see the show once more before they were whisked off to Honduras. Pamela Finley, Miss Massachusetts, a Miss America top ten finalist and winner of the special talent category, was gone. What she left me were priceless memories. And, oh yes, one more thing: Her address.

  Postscript: I discovered a hand written note I had sent the CO detailing the costs I had incurred for the official business I was on while at Gitmo. The last item on that list read:

  "Fruit basket - I'll pay for this one with pleasure. Best $15 I ever spent!" Which the skipper returned with two words added: "I bet!"

  THE END

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