It was the summer of '73 and I just graduated from high school. Not even a week later, I was asked by my neighbor, Jake, if I wanted help paint Power Plant III, the Nuke! Paint? I hate painting. He must have been eye balling me all along saying, just wait boy and I'll make a man out of you. But you will get paid well for it. $5.64 and hour. Minimum wage was 1.75. That pretty much wrapped it up. I could stay plastered all weekend and still have money left to last the week.
Before, I was not sure about my future. Maybe joining the Navy as my Dad did. After all, I could easily become a quartermaster and drive a PT boat or something small. Free rent, boat, gas, clothes and food. I loved being on the water.
Dad was in WW II as a 50 cal. gunner's mate. They saw a lot of action in the Pacific theater. Fighter planes on suicide missions. If the big guns missed, he and his buddies were the last resort to blow them out of the sky before crashing into the aircraft carrier.
It was decades later that I learned those experiences had haunted him. He could still function, but the bad thoughts would come back at times. And when he met up with a friend who was there, a few tears would roll down their face.
One thing for sure is, I was damn sure the Army was not for me. I could have been drafted for the Army until 1975, at least for registration. The draft process began in 1940 and ended in 1973. I had a choice so I heard, that I could join any other Service besides the Army when drafted. If I did not choose one, they would choose for you; you're going into the Army, boy.
My first day was not an eye opener. It was because Jake wanted me standing in front of my house at 5am. to pick me up. I thought, didn't you say we started at 7:30? Well, Jake liked to make double sure he was on time. He would sit there inside these gang shacks with these hard on the rump wooden benches.
I had seen the first two plants hundreds of times from the gulf as they were landmarks by which to dead reckon off of. But seeing them in the dark up close with all the light and tall smoke stacks, I thought this might be all right.
Jake was the number 2 boss in our trade. Painting. I never painted before and I already knew, I would hate it. Great attitude to take, I know. Jake had power or seniority and could sit down on the job and bird dog you while he smoked his cigarettes.
I was a natural at tearing shit up. So Jake put me on this heavy duty bullet-proof sand blaster. It had so much power, I could just lean my body forward against the hose and it would hold me up. I had to wear an enclosed helmet and chest protection. Fresh air was pumped in. The little plastic eye shield was replaceable in case you sprayed yourself with the sand. Man, this thing would burn your hide off you. I mean this sandblaster would flake off rust from metal I- beams at a pretty good rate. The good thing was, I did not have to paint them. How did Jake know, I hated painting.
There was this one guy who liked to play around with sand blasters. There were smaller ones that were shaped liked pistols. They were for smaller parts. I working away and I instantly knew he opened fire on me. Of course, I returned fire with the sand piercing our face and shirts. It stung. Both of us thought it was funny. Beat's working.
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