Write a Love story without using the word “love.”

Have you ever looked into someone’s eyes only to find your entire being lighting up? Or, held someone’s hand while on a romantic walk, and the electricity shoots through you as though you’d been hit with a lightning bolt? Have you ever connected with someone so powerfully that that bond will forever be unbroken? I had such an encounter in March 1975.

I was born into a military family. My dad had been a radioman on board ship during the Korean War. My uncle had been in submarines. And I had a cousin who had just gotten out of the service. It wasn’t my first choice for career fields; however, after meeting a photographer in the military, listening to her stories, and looking at her photographs, I knew this was for me. I was 16 when I met her. I never told anyone, not even my folks, about this decision until I was 19. My mom went into shock. My dad thought the idea was grand. My uncle cautioned me, "Make sure, before you swear in, that this is what you want to do. Once you make that decision, stick with it no matter what.” He made me promise. I did. And I kept that promise. I was in for four years, plus two years in inactive reserves. One of the best times of my young life. I got out in December 1977 with an Honorable Discharge.

I arrived in Orlando, FL, for boot camp on my 20th birthday in December 1973. After bootcamp I took a bit of leave, then went to Photographic “A” School in Pensacola, FL. That summer, 1974, I was given my first duty station: Hawaii! This was it. I was going to get to do what I had long wanted to do since the age of 16. In Hawaii, no less.

When I arrived at my first duty station, I learned that everyone in the command center had to perform security rounds due to circumstances beyond our control. Mind you, this was not my MOS, but we all had to step up. I had been there a few months shy of a year when we met. It’s now March 1975. I had to get prepared to pull duty rounds. All five foot, 105 lbs. of me walk up to the quarterdeck to request a weapon. Mind you, the top of the quarterdeck was so tall I could barely see over it. Two officers were on duty that day.

The one on the left asked me, “Ma’am, do you even know how to use this weapon?” His eyes penetrated right through me. They were the deepest blue I’d ever seen. Uh ohh… what was my heart doing?

“Yes sir, I do. I am qualified on a .38. I’d like to check out a .38, please.” He started to hand me a .45 caliber. I was not qualified on a .45. Gulp.

“Do you know how to take it apart and put it back together again?” the first officer asked, this time leaning over the desk so he could see me.

“I do not,” I confessed. I was beside myself. Now what do I do? I sheepishly looked down at my spit-shined shoes.

"We don’t have any .38s. We only have .45s” The two men behind the desk were having a conversation, trying to decide what to give me.

“I am not qualified to shoot a .45.” I handed it back. What they didn’t know is that when I shot a .45, it shot me backwards about 10 feet. The .38 also jolted me, but not nearly as bad as a .45.

“Well, what to do. What do you think?” They were conversing with each other, considering other types of weapons. They finally found a way for me to do my security rounds. And that’s all I’m going to say on that note.

Just as I started to leave the room, I heard the descriptive words – something to the effect of, “There goes Annie Oakley.” They were teasing me about my petite size. Had Clint Eastwood's movie Sudden Impact been out then, I would have teased back with Go ahead, MAKE my DAY. It hadn't. But you get the sentiment. I gave them a look that begged the question, "You really want to test me?" Grins all around. We all pitched in with security rounds, but we were all very happy when more Marines showed up.

It wasn’t until about a week later that I saw him again. I had been cleaning a large piece of technical equipment, so I had my head and hands buried in my work. I had been doing rust prevention when I noticed someone had come into my section. My hands were dirty from cleaning. Parts are spread out on the floor. In walks this officer. Was this a spot inspection? He stood about 5’ 8", but his physique was not unlike that of the actor Rhet Butler from Gone with the Wind – Clark Gable. My heart did this butterfly thing - again. I stood up and nearly saluted him, but I was a mess with all kinds of gunk in my hands. I looked up and simply smiled. What else could I do? I welcomed him to my part of the department and asked what brought him to this part of the lab. Ignoring my question, he asked me what I was doing. I explained. He said, “Well, I do know a thing or two about rust prevention, after all, I am a pilot.” I had no words. I couldn’t speak. I knew he was a pilot from the wings on his uniform, but confirming it just gave it validation. I was completely enamored by this man. But there was a spark in his eyes that felt unbelievably like we were connecting on an entirely new, and for me, unstable level. I had no words. I let him do most of the talking.

We conversed about rust prevention for a few minutes. The closeness of this man to me sent shock waves through me from head to toe. And then he asked, “I’ll be in the baseball game this Friday, will you be there?”

I didn’t even know there was a baseball game. Baseball was not high on my list of events to go to. I went mute, but you can bet I got interested in this game!

“Yes. I will be there.” And that’s all I could say. I know I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. As was he.

“Great, I’ll see you there.” And with that, he turned and left my section. But before doing so, he turned back and looked directly at me with those penetrating blue eyes and added, “By the way, smile. It will make others wonder what you’re up to.” I beamed a smile as much as my tiny figure could make. What to do with these butterflies I’m feeling in my stomach? The man could melt a chocolate bar at 50 paces – he was that good-looking. But it was more than his good looks. There was something else about him that shook my world. My life was never quite the same after that.

I did see him at the baseball game, but he was surrounded by his teammates, so we could not find a way to connect.

Several weeks went by before I saw him again. I was staying in a very old barracks. This was LONG before cell phones. But we had a rotary phone in our room. How he got the phone number is beyond me. I remember that first call.

“Would you like to go for a drive with me this evening?” Could there be any other answer but “Yes”? I wanted to shout it from the rooftop. But I was trying to act cool. Did he know how much he rocked me? We talked briefly. And then the romance began.

From that moment on, we could not wait to see each other. We were like pups at play. We did a bit of hiking, took in the sights, and ate at lovely restaurants. However, the beach we found was ours and ours alone. From sunsets to moonrises over the ocean, this is where we most wanted to be. We lived in the moment as much as we could. We knew regulations were not in our favor. Enlisted personnel were not allowed to fraternize with officers. For a time, we kept it low-key. As much as possible, anyway.

Somehow, we managed to get involved in a bowling league – though he was on a different team than mine. Still, we could see each other from across the alley. He was only a few lanes down. When we thought no one was looking, we would share a glance or two here and there. Always with a smile. Those eyes.

In late summer, a recruiter came to our department asking if anyone was interested in changing rates. Our rate was overmanned. It had not been on my radar. But I did find that I wanted to do something different. They gave us this giant book and told us that if we wanted, we could go through this book to see if anything popped out to us. If we had the right skills to bring to the rate, then he would gladly put us on the path toward cross-rating.

I thumbed through the pages without much expectation. And then there it was: Radioman. My dad had been a radioman. One of the qualifications caught my attention. Before graduation from radio school, you had to be able to read paper tape. WHAT? I could do that. I had spent a few years on a newspaper right out of high school and KNEW beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could do that. I had this. I could not wait to tell my Captain.

I walked into our Captain’s office. Mind you, our Captain stood well over 6 feet. All five feet of me walk in, and he stands up – a towering presence. I announce, “I can do this.” I handed him the book. He read the qualifications.

“What, of any of this, can you do?” I could hear doubt in his words.

“I can read paper tape.”

“Really, where did you learn to do that?” Surprise written all over his face.

“I worked on a city newspaper for two years after high school. We had to learn to read paper tape.” I went on to explain that this was a form of varitype. And that I got quite good at it. I knew I could do this. My Captain heard me. Within a few months, he had set up a time for me to attend Radioman school in San Diego. In addition, he set up a time where I could train with the radiomen just around the corner and up the hill from our command. I was to leave that fall. My career was about to change drastically.

Sensing that our time would be short, my pilot made the best of it and rented a cabin for us near our favorite beach. Our final days were spent in this cabin. Well, one exception. One day, he took me up in my first two-seater, a T-28. I had to put on a flight suit. None were available in my size. He let me borrow a pair of his. The crotch hung down nearly to my knees, but it wasn’t half bad. We did a touch-and-go off Kauai. It was exhilarating until he banked. I thought for sure I would throw up. Somehow, I held it in.

He managed to get more flight time while on our time off. This time with me on the ground. He made sure to dip his wings for me. What an honor.

Neither one of us could cook very well at that time. But we made the best of it. Before we left, on one of our moonlit walks, I remember him throwing an arm around my shoulder, announcing, “Now, when you get to San Diego, look up (he gave me a name of a fellow pilot), and he will introduce you to jets.” It was all I could do to keep myself from getting sick on a T-28, and he wanted me to fly jets. Was this man nuts? He wanted so very much for me to be a part of his world. But it was not meant to be.

That summer, we did a bit of hiking, ran along the water’s edge, swam, danced, and watched the moon and stars come out over our beach. It seemed like we were in a world all our own. Leaving, for me, was heart-wrenching. But we made the most of that summer, and it is one I will never forget. When he took me to the airport for my flight out to San Diego in the fall of 1975, we had to say what I thought would be our final goodbye. I requested to return to Hawaii, but even a formal request doesn’t mean you will get it. It was the hardest moment of my young life. There would be harder moments, of course, but this was my first.

No other man before or since could measure up to him. He believed in me in a way no one has before or since. He knew how to nurture me when I got sick. He was supportive, but it was more than that. He had my best interest, always, in mind. When I was in his arms, I felt safe. Treasured. But I knew I could not be an officer’s wife. He knew it would not work as well. The subject of marriage did come up, though only in passing. It was not in the stars for us.

I married in 1983 for the first, last, and only time in my life. Shortly after I had gotten married, he contacted me. I’ve no idea how he found me. But he did. I jumped out of my skin. He had a nickname for me that, when he said it, could melt me into a pile of butter. And no, not Annie Oakley. But it was an endearing one. We talked briefly, and then it was another decade before we caught up with one another again.

In 1996, I happened to be marketing a book for a publisher that had caught my personal attention. It was called Footsteps in the Sky by Helen McLaughlin, an aviation historian. It was on the history of flight attendants from the 1920s up to the present day. I found it easy to market due to my interest in it.

One day, while reading through it, I spotted a particular airline and remembered that my pilot told me he had worked with them. I wondered if he was still with the same airline. He had long since left military life and was now flying with a civilian airline. Should I find out? I called the airline to see if they were interested in this book. The flight attendants were very much interested in it and ordered a box of them. While on the phone, I asked about him. Was it possible that they could get in touch with him if he was indeed flying for them? They said they would find out for me. Indeed, he was with them. They dispatched him. In just an hour or so, while at work, I heard my nickname on the other end of his dispatch line. I melted.

We caught up. He wasn’t married, but he was about to be. Our timing was never right. But he was marrying someone who could fly with him and was getting her pilot’s license. I could no longer fly due to an ear injury. This was discouraging for both of us.

He visited me once. Around 2000, if memory serves. I was no longer married. But he was. He went with me to a doctor's appointment. He understood my injury well and easily conversed with my doctor. Another characteristic about him that drew me to him. Yet, while the chemistry was still there, we both intuitively knew our relationship would never be able to work. We weren’t in the military anymore. So that aspect was not an obstacle, but his world and mine simply did not mix.

He was above board with his wife. He introduced me to her. She was an excellent match for him, and oddly, I had no issues meeting her. I was happy for him.

Another twenty years go by. The pandemic hits. The death tolls mount. I wrote a letter to him, not knowing if it would reach him because I didn’t have an address. Yet somehow, I managed to find him. The idea of death looming over our nation during the pandemic found me in a state of awareness that these could be our final days on this side of the veil. I needed to connect with him one last time before it was too late. He calls. I hear my nickname again. There is something about nicknames that connects us to a special time. Those bonds are never broken. Our conversation could not have been more joyous. He had divorced and was married again. To someone new. And yes, she was a pilot. Our timing and my injury took marriage for us out of the question.

We don’t communicate much anymore. And that’s okay. We both have lives that went in very different directions. And now he is a grandfather. Still, those magical moments, our toes gripping the soft sand, the warmth of the summer sun, moonlight walks, trade winds, and the sound and beauty of the ocean have never left my memory. In my heart, I know I will always be in his heart. And he is in mine. And that’s enough. 💕