The Bathhouse at Fishman’s Wharf
San Francisco, CA 94313
Summer, 1995
Dear Classmates
My naval career went to hell, or more literally, to Davy Jones' locker, as we used to say in the Navy. While I was the officer in command of the Land o Lakes Naval Research Station, I came up with an idea for a stealth aircraft carrier to base the Navy version of the stealth fighter aircraft. We had billions for research at Land o Lakes, and we pumped most of it into "Project Columbia" during my watch. (I called the project "Columbia" both out of fond memories for my high school, and also because the carrier, named "Columbia", was to be the gem of the ocean.) Four years and $55,000,000 later, the Columbia steamed out of drydock in Terhensha, Wisconsin, down the Kraft River into the Great Lakes, through the St. Lawrence River, and the Bay of Fundy into the Atlantic Ocean on a shakedown cruise with 6 pre-production versions of the F-55 Stealth Fighter (top secret successor to the F-35) aircraft aboard. It was a top-secret operation, but hardly anyone saw us go because it is so hard to notice a Stealth anything. Anyway, when we were in Canadian waters about 53 nautical miles off the coast of Newfoundland, being escorted by a Canadian Frigate, the HMS Meech Lake, out of Quebec, when we launched the 6 F-55 aircraft to test the whole weapons system out. The crew of the Meech Lake didn't know we were there, incidentally, because we were a Stealth ship, and they couldn't see us or pick us up on their radar. Anyway, we launched the aircraft, and that went o.k., but the trouble began when we tried to land them back on the deck of the Columbia. At that point, we realized the fallacy of the whole concept. The aircraft couldn't find the carrier. The pilots couldn't see it because it is so well camouflaged, and they couldn't pick it up on their radar, because anything Stealth is invisible to radar. Likewise, the carrier couldn't find the Stealth aircraft. The good news was that the F-55's giving up looking for the carrier and safely landed at the Montreal Internal Airport (where they weren't noticed because they are Stealth). The bad news was that the Columbia was accidentally rammed by the Meech Lake, which couldn't see it because it was Stealth. Both ships went down with most, but not all hands. The U.S. government never publicly said anything about the loss of the Columbia because it was so top secret, but the Canadians said plenty about Meech Lake going down. They didn't know who was at fault, and I think that they officially blamed a fishing boat from Labrador or Newfoundland. Please don't mention this to anyone, because it is still highly classified. Anyway, my boss, Admiral "Bull" Halsey, said some very unkind things to me, like that I was a F**k Up and probably couldn't get sex in a whorehouse. There was a Board of Inquiry, which concluded that the whole thing was a "hair-brained scheme", and recommended that I retire, which I did, with my rank of Captain and my pension intact. I am writing a book on my naval career, and I plan to send the manuscript to Dave McCullough at Book of the Month Club if I can come up with a catchy title.
After leaving the Navy, I moved back to San Francisco, a city that I grew to love during my college days at UCLA (Los Gatos Campus). I decided to start an entirely new career and opened a lollypop factory and store, called "Hickey's Suckers". If any of you come to San Francisco, please come by the store to see me. It is in the tourist area, in the mall at the old Fisherman's Wharf bathhouse. It is sort of a childhood dream come true; not much money, but a lot of enjoyment. (Fulfillment is probably a better word.)
On the home front, things didn't go well. My second wife, Peggy-Marge, became hooked on aerobics and physical fitness. She spent hours and hours at it every day. Soon she became lanky and flat-chested, her hooters having all but disappeared. Her hair lost its curl and her face became drawn, her complexion sallow. She was always humming the damned background music from the Jane Fonda workout tape, which half drove me crazy, and in the middle of the Columbia mess, she just left and went to open an aerobics studio in Hanoi. I loved Peggy-Marge once, but as far as I am concerned, she can stay there with the damned commies! (I apologize for this outburst. I am not antiwomen, but I just can't take broads that get too muscular and are always sweaty, and then just pick up and trot off to Asia without even a by-your-leave. I hope it never happens to you.)
On a brighter note, I want to share with you that I have come out of the closet and found (or more precisely, admitted) my true sexual orientation. I know that this will come as a startling revelation to many of you, particularly the girls I dated from the Manor, and those fellow members of the J.V. basketball team. I can understand and appreciate your disbelief. "Not Wilston Hickey!" you are probably saying to yourselves. I know that some of you girls in high school thought that I was a real stud. Actually, I tried to be, but I always had these peculiar feelings about the guys on the team. Nothing ever happened then, but I used to spend a
lot of time watching the soapy bubbles travel down the glistening bodies of my teammates during the post-game showers and thinking strange and disturbing thoughts. [Parenthetically, my psychiatrist thinks that my feelings about Peggy-Marge may be tied into this whole thing I had about the guys on the team and the coach.] I know that this news may cause some of you girls that I dated to have eerie (or is it Erie) feelings, but in looking back I know that I really did enjoy necking and groping around with some of you girls at the Auto-Vision. (Who knows, I might enjoy it again! Is the Auto-Vision still there?) With the name "Hickey", I felt a certain obligation to leave my mark on my dates. I remember bringing one of you home after a drive-in date. (I won't embarrass her by giving her name, but she was a dark-haired girl of German extraction, from the Manor). Her mother took one look at her neck and sarcastically asked if she had been attacked by the Auto Vac down at Hoffman's Car Wash. She wouldn't go out
with me anymore. Ah, we were young and tender then. Now, 35 years later, there probably isn't one of you who would get a spot that would show through your pancake makeup if you spent 30 minutes hooked up to an industrial-grade Hoover!
I wish I were able to be with you, but I definitely will come to the 40th reunion.
Enclosed is a fairly recent picture taken at a party given by my sweet friend, Clive.
Yours, always
Wilston Hickey
(Captain, USN, Ret.)
