When I was in the Navy on the guided missile test ship, the USS Norton Sound, we spent a lot of time in the Pacific slowly cruising at night, just barely making steerage way. The ship was a converted seaplane tender and still had the tall crane on the port side formerly used for servicing those planes.

Sometimes at night, when the temperatures were warm and the sea wasn’t too rough, I would climb to the top and watch the stars and water. As the ship rolled, I could look down to see the bow and stern wake alive with light. Flying fish made a distinct trail as they left the water, dripping silvery drops before re-entry with another small fountain of light. At 100 feet up, I was about as far as I could get from the too close quarters of the other sailors. I was truly alone and glad of it, especially being surrounded with nothing but air and stars and bioluminescent light. I’ve always had a liking for heights, enjoying the unique vantage point that scares too many people. I couldn’t share these experiences with anyone since this activity would have then been forbidden. As it was, there were no rules against it that I knew about since obviously no one would have been crazy enough to climb the crane at night. This was my special place in a crowded mini-world.