From Baghdad To America by Lt. Col. USMC (ret.) Jay Kopelman Page A

came over, sitting next to me on the wall while the dogs played. We mostly just watched them, but after several minutes of not talking—though the tension was palpable—I said, “Uh, I was just wondering, maybe you’d like to get a drink or something sometime.”
    â€œThat would be nice,” she said. “I’d like that.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. (Was this the dialogue of an Academy Award- winning film or what? I was ready for my close-up.)
    â€œI can get a babysitter for tonight,” she added.
    I nearly leapt to my feet and screamed to the blue sky—and anyone else within earshot. I couldn’t believe it was really going to happen. I’d been willing to go to any length to have this woman to myself and there she was, offering to go out with me right away. In any event, I’d managed to at least close the first deal and was well on my way to becoming the proverbial salesman of the year.
    It was all Mexican, all night that first date. We went to a great Mexican restaurant for dinner and followed it up with margaritas at another fantastic Mexican restaurant just down the street. Of course I took her to the one where I knew the owner and the bartenders all treated me like a local celebrity. I wanted her to know that she wasn’t out with just any jarhead, but a real important jarhead. I think I was drinking mostly to calm my nerves. That first date ended on the front steps of her house, but it was the kiss—the kiss of rebirth for me—at the end of the night that provided all the promise of things to come. It was intense; it was urgent; it was magic.
    Those were good days, easy days. I had a cushy job at I Marine Expeditionary Force as one of the night senior watch officers (SWO), which meant I only worked three to four nights a week from 2000 hours to 0800 hours (that’s 8:00 PM to 8:00 AM for the uninitiated). The rest of the time was mine to pursue any number of my favorite activities, including getting to know Pam better. I’d often get off work at eight, change into bicycling clothes, and join a large group of cyclists for an intense training ride through Camp Pendleton north toward the town of San Clemente and back. Or I’d head home, take a catnap, grab my board, and head to the ocean for some surfing while the rest of San Diego worked.
    September is the best time of the year in San Diego. The sun shines daily, making it ideal for any outdoor activity; the water temperature is still in the upper sixties so you don’t yet need a wet suit when you surf; and the Zonies—the yearly influx of Hummerdriving, beach-crowding hordes escaping the heat of the Arizona summer who act like they own the town—have departed. I took full advantage of this as Lava and I settled into a routine of sorts.
    Pam loved to surf and water-ski, too, as I found out. We shared the details of our lives: books we liked to read, the various things our dogs did to impress us, how we earned a living, and so on. I don’t think Pam had ever met a Marine before, and I’m pretty sure she was the first anthropologist completing a doctoral program I’d ever run across. I was thankful she wasn’t a paleontologist—she’d have used me as a subject for her dissertation.
    The month of October we spent surfing every opportunity we had, then dining on one or the other surfer’s culinary favorites—fish tacos or egg, potato, bacon, and cheese burritos. Ultimately, what got me additional dates with Pam and thus allowed me to continue wooing her was the occasion when, coming out of the water after a surf session, she straggled slightly behind me to “check me out” and see if I—or my back half—met with her approval (hey, her words, not mine).
    Having Pam in my life altered my relationship with Lava, but it also showed me how much he’d given me and everyone over there in the anus of the world—aka Iraq. Just being able to pet