Reporting in day

I am perched on a lifeguard tower at Second Beach in Middletown, Rhode Island, staring out at the ocean. My skin is dark, and my hair and lifeguard sweats are bleached from the sun. As I watch beachgoers enjoy the cool Atlantic waters on a beautiful New England summer day, I hear a call on the radio asking me to report to the main lifeguard office. I climb down the tower and rush through the hot sand. My boss is in the office and hands me the phone. I couldn't think of anyone who even had the number of the lifeguard office or why it would be important enough for me to leave the tower. Nervous and confused, I answered,

"Hello?"

"This is Lieutenant Commander (John Doe?) from the Coast Guard Academy. Is this George Matthews?"

"Yes Sir"

"I am calling to let you know that someone cannot report to the Coast Guard Academy as part of the class of 2007. Are you still interested in a last-minute appointment?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Are you able to report on June 30th?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Outstanding. Be there at 0800 on June 30th in business casual. I will send the rest of the details in an email. Congratulations, and welcome to the class of 2007".

Spending the afternoon at Castle Hill the day before reporting in to the Coast Guard Academy.

My boss is smiling. I tell him I need to quit and have someone cover the rest of my shifts because I am reporting to Coast Guard Academy in two days. He congratulates me, and I run out the door to tell all my friends. Everyone is happy for me. I have spent the past three years sitting with them on the tower and sharing my dream of being a Coast Guard pilot.

I am excited but terrified. Two days is not much time to prepare for the rest of my life. Fortunately, when you attend military school, the packing list is short: toiletries, socks, underwear, and white V-neck undershirts. The next few days are a blur as I enjoy the last of my summer break, living at home, and being a child.

You would think that I was excited as I pulled through the gate at the Coast Guard Academy, eager to start my military career and live my dream. I was not. I wasn't ready. Deep down, I knew it, but there was no turning back. We pulled up to the quad at the Chase Hall barracks. I said goodbye to my family and girlfriend and put on my bravest face as I walked up to intake. I was wearing a long-sleeved blue dress shirt, a nice pair of khaki pants, and brown dress shoes as I approached one of the uniformed cadre.

She asked me for my blue folder, and at that moment, I realized I was in trouble. I told her I didn't have one, and as I looked around, I noticed something terrifying. Every single person that was reporting in that day was wearing gym gear and running shoes and carrying a blue folder. I tried to explain to the cadre that I was given a last-minute appointment and found out two days before that I would be reporting in. I had no folder, and I didn't know what the contents of this folder were, but it seemed important. She went to get another cadre, and I explained my situation several times. Eventually, the cadre sorted it out. I was told to roll up the sleeves of my freshly pressed blue dress shirt, and she wrote numbers on each of my forearms in permanent marker.

The cadre lined us up in a formation, and we waited a few minutes for everyone to check-in. Our families stood around, watching proudly as their sons and daughters enjoyed their last moments as civilians. We stood nervously in silence before a cadre with lots of flair on his uniform began yelling and welcomed the class of 2007. After that, all hell broke loose, and the cadre surrounded us while screaming instructions. It was chaos. I quickly learned that the worst thing you can do in the military is stand out. Since I showed up dressed like a Chick-fil-A manager, I immediately attracted plenty of unwanted attention.

They herded us into Chase Hall, and the first stop was gear issue. I was asked several more times for my blue folder. Everyone had neatly stacked, perfectly sized, uniform items that they stuffed into their sea bags. Blue t-shirts and gray t-shirts all with the academy seal, "class of 2007", and their names printed on them. I couldn't wait to get mine to fit in with the rest of the group, but I had no class shirt since nobody knew I was coming. After more confusion, I was given some other generic Coast Guard Academy shirts. The gray was a few shades off, and none of my shirts had my name or "class of 2007." I was given several other uniform items, shoes, a lock box, and everything else I would need for "swab summer." I hoisted the heavy bag on my back.

At some point during the mayhem, the cadre taught us several important things—the position of attention, which was the only way we were allowed to stand. How to march and "square corners," walking right at the wall as if you don't see it, and doing a 90-degree spin at the last minute. "Eyes in the boat" always looking straight ahead. We were no longer allowed to look anywhere else. We also learned a new way of communication. We screamed at maximum volume, had to refer to ourselves in the third person, and only had five swab responses. "Yes sir/ma'am," "No sir/ma'am," "No excuse sir/ma'am," "This swab will find out, sir/ma'am," "Aye aye sir/ma'am." Any infractions were met with a swarm of cadre screaming incoherently at you.

Once everyone had their gear, we were herded in a single-file line deeper into the barracks. Chase Hall routinely tops the Princeton Review's "Dorms like Dungeons" category, and it didn't take long to see why. There is no air conditioning, no carpet, bare walls, and every room looks like a prison cell. With everything I own on my back, drenched in sweat, and blisters forming in my dress shoes, we "moved with a purpose" up several flights of stairs. Afraid to look anywhere but straight ahead, I tripped at least fifteen times. When we got to our floor, we were told: "The number on your right arm is your room number. You have two minutes to go into your room, drop off your seabag, and return to the bulkhead outside your room in your gray gym shirt, blue shorts, and running shoes." More chaos. Within a few seconds, everyone is in their rooms with closed doors. I am in a panic, running back and forth down the length of the barracks. Since everyone else has found their room, I get the full attention of all the cadre who run beside me in a screaming cacophony. I am berated whenever I attempt to move my eyes left and right to read room numbers. I have sweat entirely through my Chick-fil-A manager outfit and feel like I could have a heart attack at any second. My feet are now covered in blisters, and I curse the Officer who told me to wear business casual. I am constantly made aware of the rapidly approaching time limit and make no progress as I start my third trip down the long hallway. Most people are already on the bulkhead in their uniforms, enjoying a break from the screaming while all the cadre are focused on me. Eventually, a cadre tells me to stop. She looks at my arm, while the other cadre critique my position of attention, and she realizes the number on my arm does not correlate to any room in Chase Hall.

"Where is your blue folder?"

"No excuse Ma'am."

"Okay, but really, where is it? We need to figure out your room number."

"Swab Matthews was never given one. Swab Matthews found out he was coming to the Coast Guard Academy two days ago."

She told me to go to some random room and change while they figured it out. Several minutes after the time expired, I emerged with my off-color gray shirt, already soaked in sweat.

Over the next couple of hours, I got my head shaved, we learned how to march in formation and how to prep our uniforms, and we mostly ran around and got screamed at.

In the afternoon, we were given another unrealistic timeline and told to shower, dress in our working blue pants, tropical blue shirt with our name tags, running shoes, and "Class of 2007" ball cap. Of course, everyone had a blue plastic name tag with their last name and "U.S. Coast Guard" engraved on it, everyone but me…at least I had a room at this point.

I showered, changed into my uniform, and stood on the bulkhead. Then, there was another barrage of questions about why I wanted to be different and not wear a name tag.

"No excuse, Sir."

"Go in your room and get it."

"Swab Matthews doesn't have one."

"Why not?"

"Swab Matthews was never given one. Swab Matthews found out he was coming to the Coast Guard Academy two days ago."

We ran out of time to discuss this as we marched onto the parade field. During the short transit, several more cadre stopped me to point out my uniform discrepancy.

We all marched onto the parade field, having recently learned how to march in formation and formed up in front of our parents. We stood proudly on the historic parade field to be sworn in. At this moment, we raised our right hands and took the oath of office, leaving our lives as civilians and becoming members of the United States Coast Guard. I had always dreamed of this moment when I would become part of the world's most impressive military and earn the title of a service member, but sadly, I hardly remember it. I was just happy to have a couple of seconds where I wasn't getting screamed at or explaining my various uniform discrepancies. The significance of the moment was completely lost on me. After swearing in, we climbed up on some bleachers and took our official class of 2007 photo before being released for a few minutes to say goodbye to our families one last time.

Sister, Me, Mother, Father - Wearing my father’s name tag.

In a strange coincidence, June 30th was my father's last official day in the Coast Guard, and he attended my swearing-in ceremony wearing his uniform for the last time in his career. Although I barely remember my actual swearing-in, I will never forget the next moment. My father immediately noticed I didn't have a name tag, took his off, and gave it to me. I had watched him come home in that uniform my whole life and admired him for his service to our country; now, as he gave me his name tag, I knew it was my turn, and I swelled with pride, trying to hold back tears. My girlfriend and family all said their goodbyes, and a few moments later, we marched back into the barracks.

Despite my legacy name tag and a renewed sense of pride, I wouldn't last long.

Post Flight Debrief:

Always double-check before wearing business casual.