Island of Dreams (standard:other, 2549 words)
Author: radiodenver	Added: Nov 13 2005	Views/Reads: 3356/2576	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story about the Great Pumpkin

Island of Dreams 

As if I were a balloon released from the hands of a child, flying above
an endless turquoise sea I approach a tropical island. Soaring above 
mountains, green and lush with vegetation, I follow a narrow dirt road. 
The road meanders from hill to hill, passing in silence below me as I 
glide through the warm embracing sky. My journey always ends at the 
Great Pumpkin. 

I've had this dream repeatedly over the past 20 years. I always have the
same sense of euphoria when I wake. I last had this dream in 1999, but 
I remember it as if I had it last night. 

Straddling the mouth of a beautiful bay along the southern coast of a
Caribbean island is a tiny community. The name of this island is Cuba 
and the community is Guantanamo Bay U.S. Naval Base. In the Navy, it 
was called “Gitmo.” Twenty-five years ago I lived in this community and 
many times since, in my dreams I have traveled back there. 

Pregnant with our third child, my wife was still in the United States
living with her mother, awaiting our base housing assignment. I was 
alone and out of the country for the very first time in my life. When I 
stepped off the aircraft onto the runway in Guantanamo that April day 
in 1979, I was overwhelmed by the hot and humid air clinging to my body 
like a wool blanket smelling of jet fuel. Wearing my dress uniform, 
carrying a stuffed duffle bag and knobby motorcycle tire over my 
shoulder, I checked in with base administration. The Yeoman hardly 
noticed me as he stamped my orders and directed me down the hall. 
Within two hours of arriving I was in the barracks and unpacking. 

“Welcome to Gitmo. I'm Smitty." 

Startled, I turned to find a short, chubby young black man standing
behind a row of lockers. He was wearing standard dungarees; his 
insignia indicated 3rd Class Petty Officer. 

“Hi. I'm Gary.” I extended my sweaty hand. “Is this your room too?” 

“Yeah? You hungry?” 

“Actually, I am. Where's the chow hall?” 

“Look out the window. It's across the street. I'm going there now, it's
dinner time, wanna come?” 

“Sure.” 

As we sat together in the cafeteria, Smitty began the conversation. 

"You ain't gonna be killing yourself are ya?” He asked me. 

“Don't plan on it.” I answered. “Why?” 

“People do that here.” He answered. 

With a bit of additional coaxing, I got the whole story. Smitty's
previous roommate, the fellow whose bunk I was assigned, was dead. 
Pullman was his name; an alcoholic kid, alone, away from his family and 
in a place that he couldn't deal with. Pullman hung himself from the 
water cooling pipes in the barracks about a month earlier. Smitty found 
him dangling after work one evening. It was still weighing on his mind 
upon meeting me and he was very interested in knowing my mental 
condition. After we finished the suicide talk, Smitty loosened up a 
bit. 

High on the list of every Sailor's existence is making sure that you
know about your shipmate's background. We wasted no time. We were both 
assigned to the Satellite Communications detachment. He was Radioman 
3rd Class from Louisiana, recently finishing a one year tour of duty; 
he had extended for another two. I was an Electronics Technician 2nd 
Class from Kentucky and transferred in from Norfolk for a two year 
tour. Smitty and I would be seeing a lot of each other. I also learned 
that Smitty liked to eat a lot. He went back for second and third 
portions at every meal. As a result, he was a tad overweight and a tad 
self conscious about it. I never bothered mentioning it, he was too 


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