I was chatting with the cashier at the gas station near my house as he rang up my coffee.
Turns out that he is also a former Coast Guardsman himself, which of course led perfectly into the next 10-minute conversation, where we shared some stories and compared experiences.
I told him about the time we hosted a Dependents Cruise.
It was a beautiful, warm and sunny, blue-sky day when we cast off lines and our 280-foot, red Polar Icebreaker Northwind, with its compliment of 180 crew, set sail for the 28-mile transit down the Cape Fear River, loaded down with fathers and mothers, wives and children, brothers and sisters, and no shortage of girlfriends, all destined for a sumptuous lunch of steaks, corn on the cob, baked potatoes, salad and refreshments, all to be served and enjoyed just a few miles off the coast of Southport, NC.
We were all excited to proudly show our loved ones what it meant to be a Coast Guardsman.
The buffet line had been set up on the helo deck with literally hundreds of steaks, ears of corn and of course, the baked potatoes and salads and everybody went through, helping themselves to what to me seemed to me to be a five-star meal prepared by none other than our very own Culinary Specialists.
I sat down with my Mom and Dad at one of the dozens of tables that had been set up on the helo deck and began ripping into my steak with unbridled gusto.
My Mom and Dad seemed to be enjoying their meal as well, especially my Dad, because his plate was absolutely clean when he was done, not so much as a shred of lettuce left.
Me? I would have licked my own plate clean if I thought I could have gotten away with it -- that's how good it was.
It was only years later (after the Statute of Limitations had long since expired) that my Mom and Dad came clean one gloomy and rainy autumn afternoon, while we relaxed at home, next to a crackling fireplace and reminisced about the good old days.
"That was a big deal for us, because we didn't normally eat like that", I said, when the topic turned to the buffet on the helo deck.
"Well...", my mother began, somewhat hesitantly, "We didn't want to say anything at the time, because we knew how excited and happy you were to have us there with you, but I turned to your father after a just few bites and I whispered to him, 'Is it me, or does this steak taste like Diesel fuel?'
"Yeah...", he agreed, "...but don't say anything -- we don't want to hurt his feelings."
So that was it -- the truth came out years afterwards that we were all eating Diesel Steaks that day.
None of us guys noticed it, because we were so accustomed to it by then that we didn't even taste it anymore, but anybody with a working set of taste buds sure as hell did, and in the twin spirits of Politeness and Supportiveness, they kept their fucking mouths shut.
I told that story to the guy at the gas station while we were talking and a woman who was waiting in line behind me couldn't help herself and spontaneously burst out laughing.
I turned to her with a grin and chuckled along with her so that she could thoroughly enjoy the moment with my new friend and I without feeling like an interloper.
Diesel Steaks.
They're a thing!
¯\_(ツ)_/¯