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I turn off my computer as the call for liberty comes through the 1MC, the ship's intercom system, and I suspect it looks like a dam breaking on the quarterdeck as sailors flee the ship.

“Finally!” Emily squeals, bursting through the door.

She rips off her uniform and flings open the doors to her closet, searching for something to wear. My mouth drops as I watch her slip into a spaghetti-strapped fuchsia-colored top, a denim mini-skirt, and sandals. Never in a million years could I imagine walking off the ship in something like this. She sees it in my expression, too.

“There is absolutely no commentary allowed for how I dress to leave the ship,” she says.

I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something.

“Man, what did they do to you at the Academy, anyway? How is this so disturbing to you?”

What did they do…? Expect excellence? Demand professionalism? Require the utmost in dedication to duty? Of course. But there was always that extra bit for me. Don't let them see a woman, only a naval officer.

“It's just not professional, that's all.”

“Did I not just say to leave the commentary at the door? You know, Sara, I love you, but fuck you. I say that endearingly, of course.”

She pulls clothes out of her metal drawers and shoves them in her backpack.

“But it's like you're no longer Lieutenant Wyatt, a respected officer and pilot. Instead, you're Emily, the hot chick.”

“You think the guys would call me hot? I would actually find that flattering.”

I sink my head in my hands.

“And Sara, think about it. Does it really matter? They're going to think what they're going to think no matter what we're wearing.”

“I hope not.”

“Oh, please. You cannot be that na
ï
ve. I mean, look at you. You can try to hide all you want in your baggy flight suit and crumpled khakis, but the fact you're tall, thin, and blond sorta stands out, know what I mean?”

“I don't stand out.”

“Uh … right.”

“But you will,” I say, pointing to her outfit.

“Your senses are so skewed about civilian clothes. Surely they let you wear them at the Academy?”

“Well, no, not really.”

“Excuse me? That was a joke.”

“We wore uniforms pretty much all the time.”

“Well, at Lehigh, we wore regular clothes, these kinds of clothes,” she says, moving her arms up and down her body. “Then for NROTC, we threw on our uniforms once a week and called it good. And guess what? Everyone was okay with that. No one was any less respected for what they were wearing.”

“But how do you want these guys to see you? I mean, spaghetti straps?”

“Sara, if you can't even fathom wearing a sleeveless shirt, you've got issues.”

“I've got plenty. I know.”

“I'll say it again. You need lace underwear.”

She ignores my roll of the eyes.

“So are you getting dressed or what?” Em says. “I want to get outta here!”

*   *   *

We stand in a long and unusually slow-moving line of sailors waiting to cross the quarterdeck—access point to the narrow gangplank that runs diagonally down the hull, leading to the liberty launch that waits below in Victoria Harbour.

“Can you believe this?” Emily says, looking across the harbor-scape. “Just look at this place!”

“I know,” I say. “It's so busy. You can read about Hong Kong all you want, but man.”

Hong Kong is one of the busiest container ports in the world—the amount of goods that move through the shipping channels, staggering. Cargo ships, container ships, Chinese sailing junks, yachts—you name the seagoing vessel and it's here. The shipping lanes are crammed with traffic, even where we're located, a full hour out of port. I'm sure it's even busier closer in.

“If we could just get off this fucking ship!” Em says.

Many minutes later, as we approach the head of the line, we see the reason for our slow progress.

Are those…?

Sailors are busily unloading thousands of tiny packages from a pallet-sized crate.

“Ma'ams, you have to take three of these in order to leave the ship,” the petty officer of the watch says, holding out a handful of packaged condoms.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“XO's orders, ma'am.”

“But we don't need these,” I say.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but no one is allowed to leave the ship without them.”

“Hey, hey, Miss Equality,” Em says. “We should take them like everybody else.”

“But this is ridiculous.”

“Look, Sara, I want to get off this fuckin' ship and so do all these other guys.” She motions to the increasingly long line behind us. “They're going to get pissed if you delay them any longer, just like I'm getting pissed.”

“But—”

“Sara, just take the goddamn condoms and let's go!”

I can't believe this.

I put out my hand and the petty officer drops three Trojan six-packs into my waiting palm.

“There are eighteen condoms here, Em.”

“Well, we're scheduled to be in port for four days, so yeah … I guess I could see that.”

My eyes widen.

“Go,” she says, giving me a push.

As she receives her requisite eighteen layers of protection, I slip my backpack off my shoulder and stuff mine inside.

One hour later, we've made it through the chop of Victoria Harbour and onto Fenwick Pier. It's only one o'clock in the afternoon, and Em is ecstatic about our impending shopping excursion.

The conversation we had last night went something like this:

“Think about it, Sara. It's an
all-officer
Hail and Farewell. Eric might be there. And if he's there, you need to dress … well, not like you dress.”

“Listen, the only reason I'm going to this affair is that it's mandatory. I plan to find Captain Magruder, ensure he sees me, and then I'm leaving. And my clothes are fine.”

“They are not fine. There is no way you can wear your frumpy clothes to a liaison like this!”

“A liaison? Who said anything about a liaison?”

She barreled on. “You're going to screw this up if you don't get help. So wardrobe, yes, wardrobe!”

So here I am in Hong Kong, foregoing sightseeing opportunities galore to go shopping with Emily for clothes I don't need for a
liaison
that is not going to happen.

“Come on,” she says. “First stop, the MTR so we can get subway tickets. We need to get over to the Kowloon side.”

Hong Kong is divided into several parts due to the number of islands that make up the Hong Kong territory. All are divided by waterways, crossable only by ferry or underground train. We have landed on Hong Kong Island, but Em's shopping plans, and also the Hyatt Regency where we'll be staying tonight, reside on the Kowloon side.

Em quickly figures out the transportation logistics, and within thirty minutes, we're strolling down Nathan Road's famous Golden Mile. The concentration of signage here alone gives pause—like Times Square on steroids. I crane my neck upward, to neon signs stacked one above the other twenty stories high. This is repeated down the length of the boulevard for as far as the eye can see, layers upon layers of light and color.

The streets and sidewalks underneath share this congestion, choked with cars and pedestrians. Old World meets New World, the traffic stopping—barely—for the man pulling a hand cart, a full pig carcass strapped across the top. The modern grocery store, nestled among other high-end shops, sits catty-corner to the farmer's market where squid and seaweed hang from tattered awnings.

And the shops … hundreds of them. Em is in her glory. She pulls me into the first boutique she sees.

A pattern develops quickly. She picks out clothes, I try them on, I say no to everything, she pouts, we move on. And it continues like this for the next three hours. Fleetingly, I remember myself in high school, the girl who used to shop for new clothing as a matter of course. But now, I can't for the life of me remember why I thought it was so important.

My mom was never one for shopping, dressing up, or participating in any other such “frippery.” Ironically, I found my mother's manner horrifying in high school. While the other girls' moms dressed to the latest season's fashion, mine stubbornly refused to participate, content to arrive at any school function in her favorite well-worn jeans and vintage tees. So at the time, I made it a point to remain well-heeled and scrupulously up to date, but whether due to my true nature or teenage rebellion, I don't know.

After graduation—after Ian—fashion forwardness plummeted on my list of priorities. But more importantly, I started to understand my mother—a woman who stood on her own, not fazed by the trivial, the trends, or the gossip. She is the woman I most admire, a woman who knows what's important and stays true to herself, and I love her all the more for it.

We're now working our way back to the hotel, and I'm sort of feeling sorry for Em. She actually looks depressed, like she's failed in her mission to buy me clothes.

But at least she's acting more normally and the tension between us has subsided. Because of the SEAL flights and the Sara-has-to-be-at-the-controls thing, it's just been a little weird, lately. So the bantering we're enjoying now is really great—just like normal. I think we just needed some time away from the ship.

Emily gives me a pitiful look as we walk into a store crammed with women's casual wear. As she's done all afternoon, she selects several tops and skirts and pushes me into the fitting room.

“Please, Sara, for me. Just please, have an open mind here.” She hands me a short-sleeved, royal blue wrap shirt—something I never would have picked for myself. She helps me into it and pulls the wrap at the waist to tie it on the side. It's instantly flattering. The resulting V-shaped neckline sits flat on my chest and, while nice-looking, is still quite conservative, which is good for me.

I stare in the mirror and then shift my gaze to Em's pleading expression. I look back to my reflection. I'm wearing jeans and running shoes now, but if I replaced the running shoes with sandals, this might actually work. I know Em will scoff if I stay in jeans, but at this point, if I concede to wear anything new at all, she'll jump for joy.

“Okay, Em, I'll do it.”

Before I have a chance to change my mind, the blouse is off my body and in Em's hands at the cash register.

After paying, I put my foot down. “Okay, Em, that's it. I'm done. I've
got
to get off my feet.”

All I want is to be horizontal in our hotel room.

“You're kidding!
You're
tired?”

“I could run a marathon and it would be easier than this. Aren't your feet killing you?”

“I never thought I'd live to see the day when I outlasted you physically.”

“Well, the day has come. Can we please go check in now?”

Em adjusts the shopping bags on her arms, distributing the weight equally, as she considers this. “Okay, we can check in—”

She stops when she sees the smile on my face. “That does
not
mean you're lying in bed all afternoon.”

I pretend I have no idea what she's talking about.

“I know exactly what you're thinking, Denning, and the answer is no. If we check in, you're hanging with me.”

“Hanging … where?”

 

17

My legs
hang
stiffly at the end of the Hyatt's twenty-five-meter pool, located on the eighth-floor terrace. Lined with mother-of-pearl tiles across the bottom, the pool shimmers in topaz blues and emerald greens. Emily dragged me here, and as always, it's a struggle. On several levels.

The liberty spirit is alive and well poolside, battle group officers strutting and peacocking while ogling the bikini-clad guests. Like Em and me, many of these men are staying here because of the Hail and Farewell tonight, and I suspect they're drinking the place dry based on the nonstop comings and goings of the waitstaff. The last time alcohol touched their lips was in Pearl Harbor over three weeks ago, so apparently, they're making up for lost time.

“You do realize you're the only one here not wearing a suit,” Em says, surfacing in front of me after having swum the length of the pool underwater.

I look down at my rolled-up jeans. “But I don't intend on swimming.”

“You don't have to swim, knucklehead. Besides, suits are for lounge chairs anyway.”

“An even greater reason for not wearing one! I mean, here? With this group? Look how these guys are acting! No way.”

She rolls her eyes before ducking underwater to wet her hair again, smoothing it with her hands after standing.

“Besides, just the
thought
of swimming makes me queasy,” I say.

She moves to the side and crosses her arms over the deck, floating her legs behind her. “You know, it is totally beyond me how someone so deathly afraid of water would think it's a great idea to join the navy.”

“I'm not afraid of water.”

“Yeah … right.”

“
Under
water. I'm not particularly fond of being
under
water.”

“Whatever. But even so, what in god's name were you thinking? I mean, the navy? Really?”

“You know … Ian…”

“Surely you could have found another way to honor his memory.”

“Hey, I'm working on it, all right?”

Em closes her eyes with a happy sigh, resting her head on her arms. I used to do this, too, once upon a time. When my dad was stationed in Virginia Beach, flying jets out of Naval Air Station Oceana, our family vacationed at the beautifully secluded Lake Anna in Northern Virginia, just outside of Fredericksburg. I could while away an entire afternoon floating on the edge of a raft, head resting on my arms, just like Em's, legs rising and falling with the waves as Ian paddled me around. When he got bored, he would jump off, dunking me in the process. We'd chase each other underwater, beneath and around the raft, giggling as we shot through the surface for air, and then we'd dive right back under again—for hours, day after day, and it never got old.