The Day I Became a Midshipman
by Midshipman Second Class Philip Hamon
Nobody really knew what to expect. We all had heard
stories, seen pictures, and had dreams, but the day had finally come.
"I-Day." It has that ring to it, ranking up there with the
earth-shattering events of D-Day and VE-Day. We took our place in that
line; that line which on one end was a gaggle of nervous civilians and
on the other was a formation of even more nervous Plebes. That is what
we became, a Plebe. Coming from the ancient Roman word "plebeian," we
became classified as something ranked lower than the slime which grows
on whale's droppings at the bottom of the sea. Yet before demoted to
this state, we had to go through what was probably the longest day of
our lives.
My parents drove me down and dropped me off early in the
morning, leaving me at the end of the already endless line forming
outside of Alumni Hall. I looked into my neighbor's eyes, only to see
that they were almost as blank and confused as my own. My mind raced
with thoughts which seemed to bombard me from all directions. Was I
making the right decision? Am I going to be able to go through with
this? Is there anyone else who is as afraid as I am? Ahead of and behind
me stood a line of people who were all about to go through the same
summer as I. Some of us would pass the test. Some of us would fail. We
were about to take our first step to an end that was nowhere in sight. 
Like the Cretan labyrinth, Alumni Hall became a
never-ending maze of passages and tunnels so intricately woven that
keeping any sense of bearing within its walls was futile. The line moved
deeper inside the fortress, and every step of the way I was handed one
more thing to carry with me on my journey. Bags, packs and boxes were
upon our backs; we were nomads carrying our homes across a seemingly
never-ending desert. This was all of the personal property I would call
my own for the next year of my life. 
Next came the medical screening. I had imagined what a
military medical screening would be like, and this fit the classic
description. As I stepped up to the corpsman, I thought of how
meticulous my doctor had been at home the last time I got my
vaccinations. Comparatively, this corpsman dealt the shots with the
speed and sympathy one would have shown while branding cattle. Many
hours had now gone by, and I was about to enter the final phase of the
Alumni Hall I-Day experience.
I could hear the buzzing of what sounded like a fleet of
angry hornets as I rounded the bend. The noise was exactly what I feared
it was, the roaring of electric clippers mowing the hair off its
victims. One of the more infamous moments of I-Day was about to unfold.
I was about to lose all of my hair. Strangely, I, as well as all of the
others who sat in the barbers' chairs around me, found this funny. For
many of us this was the first time we had seen ourselves bald since we
left the womb. 
We all began to look alike. We lost our individuality.
We joined a team. The bond we would all forge over the next few weeks
was already beginning to form. 
Hastily, we dressed in our newly issued white works
uniforms and lined in rank and file on the cement floor. All of our
clothes and issued equipment were thrown onto a flatbed truck, and we
were loaded into an awaiting bus. 
The bus ride succeeded in getting us once again
completely disoriented, and we ended our roundabout journey somewhere
behind Bancroft Hall. There, once again, we were unloaded into lines and
placed into order by company. I now knew what the giant "K" on my name
tag stood for. I was to become a member of the Kilo Company. 
That afternoon we were hastily taught the basics: how to
salute, how to stand at attention and how to march in a straight line.
Apparently, this is all we needed to know for the upcoming ceremony. We
were about to swear-in and officially become members of the United
States Navy.
I can remember walking in a single-file line into
Tecumseh Court that late afternoon. I tried to maintain my military
bearing and look forward, but I caught the curious eyes of my little
brother. Turning my head slightly, I gave him a nervous smile. In return
he gave me a look of pride that I will never forget. His big brother was
going to be an officer in the military. I took my seat in the center of
the court along with the other 1,200 or so of my Classmates. I think
that was the first time I had a chance to sit down in over 12 hours. We
sat in complete silence as we received an address by the Superintendent
and the Commandant. Seconds after the speech's conclusion, two F-14
Tomcats flew directly over Bancroft Hall and down Stribling Walk. The
silver eagles seemed to nearly touch the tree tops, and they screamed, a
noise that could have awoken Titans. 
As a slight breeze cooled our sweating faces, we arose
and stood at rigid attention, preparing for that final moment. This was
it. I was now about to make a decision that would change my life for the
next decade. I was about to be sworn-in as an active member of the
military. All of sudden, my childhood seemed to fall like sand between
my fingers. I repeated those famous words with my right hand held high
and my mind racing like a runaway train. Then it was over. Yet in
reality, it had just begun. 
We were given one last chance to meet with our families
and bid them farewell. I would not see them for another five weeks.
Wiping my mother's tears from beneath her eyes, I gave her one last hug.
I didn't want to let go. I turned away and walked back toward the giant
gray building I would soon call home. I had only made it about 20 feet
when I had to look back and give one last wave to my parents. Once more
I turned and continued my trek back to the hall. A single tear rolled
down my cheek.
Words cannot describe the world I entered that day.
Never before had my body, mind and soul been tested to the levels that
they soon would be. Plebe summer was the most difficult, yet most
amazing experience of my life. 
I underwent hardships and triumphs that many in this
world will never experience. I reached inside myself and found strength
where I hadn't known it existed. I learned what I could do, as well as
what I could not do. At the same time, I became part of something real.
I joined a true team. Induction Day marked the end of my known life, and
the beginning of life anew. 
*Midshipman Philip Hamon, son of Philip and Christina
Hamon, hails from Redding, CT and is an honors history major at the
Naval Academy.