I’ve always had a thing for men in uniform. So when my mother announced that we were being evacuated from Lebanon on a Navy warship, I was filled with silent, guilty delight. My 12-year old brother unabashedly voiced my thoughts: “A war boat? Like the ones in Battleship? Cool!” My mother scolded him: this was nothing to be excited about, and we were lucky to get out in the first place. I dutifully packed my suitcase with the bare necessities and went to sleep.
When we arrived at the port gates at six the next morning, a mob of 500 people had already formed. As I groggily looked around, I could see that my family and I were drowning in a sea of designer jeans, aviators, Coach bags and up-to-date ipods. Everyone had dressed to impress, and most people were carrying a gigantic suitcase stuffed with belongings. I looked at my minuscule carry-on and sighed. I understood that this would not be your ordinary evacuation.
I wasn’t the only one confused by this peculiar picture. The Marines standing on the other side of the gates observed the scene with a mix of uncertainty and amusement. They probably expected ragged, trembling citizens—this scene would have never crossed their minds.
Waiting to get on the ship involved a day of standing in the baking July heat, bodies compressed against each other, with the Marines screaming at the Lebanese army in frustration and pleading with the crowd to act like civilized human beings. Finally, exactly 24 hours after I expressed gratitude at getting my meningitis shot earlier in the summer, my mother, brother and I stepped onto 7,696 tons of American territory: the U.S.S. Trenton.
Orderly and efficient, the warship was a more than welcome change from the chaos of the mainland —it was downright luxurious. A gigantic American flag hanging from the ceiling greeted around 1,200 women and children. My family and I were escorted to our “berthing area” which, to our great surprise and pleasure, was fully equipped with beds, television and refreshments. We were told that if we ever needed anything, we were to ask the crew; they were there to serve us. My mother and I looked at each other, stunned and grateful for such kindness.
The next hours are a blur in my mind. Too tired to sleep, I climbed my way up the three maze-like levels of the U.S.S. Trenton to the upper deck. Stretchers and mattresses had been spread across the deck, and people were using them strictly for tanning purposes. Some had even stripped down to bathing suits and sunglasses, and were in the process of applying sunscreen. Other groups of people were busy chatting it up with the officers, taking pictures and trading jokes. As I reached the mess hall, I spotted my brother sitting at a table with some new Navy friends. They were playing poker. He caught my eye, smiled and gave me the thumbs-up. I simply shook my head in disbelief.
By nighttime, the ship had become everyone’s second home. My mother was starting to feel at ease. My brother never stopped running around, occasionally popping by to get some food. Even I had managed to make some new friends in the process. We camped out on the deck, playing Catchphrase and gazing at the stars. At one point, someone with iPod speakers started blasting Nelly Furtado and it turned into a dance party.
We arrived in Limasol, Cyprus, at around two in the morning, exhausted, dirty and completely worn out. After two more hours of waiting, we finally got off the boat. An officer carried my suitcase to the dock. We shook hands. I thanked him, and he bid me farewell with a “thank-you-come-again.” I turned to give him one last incredulous look. But he was already gone.
Editor’s Note (c. 2015): The author of this piece has retroactively requested anonymity. Please contact Editor@GeorgetownVoice.com with any questions.
