Once I arrived at the brig, I was introduced to the harsh reality of this new chapter in my life. The initiation was as degrading as you’d expect—common showers, mandatory strip searches, and the humiliating order to spread my cheeks to ensure I wasn’t sneaking anything in. My bunk was in a crowded barracks with hundreds of other washouts, all waiting for their discharge papers to signal the end of their time in the Navy. Motherfuckers got me, I thought bitterly. All the fighting I’d done to stay in, and now, here I was, branded for life.
An old salty dog with a weathered face and a cocky grin offered me a cigarette. I took it without thinking, inhaling deeply, only to nearly cough up a lung when I realized it was an unfiltered Camel. The old man laughed, clapping me on the back. “Welcome to your new home, prisoner 017,” he said, his voice dripping with irony.
Life in the brig quickly settled into a monotonous routine. Mornings began with the blare of a whistle and a rushed breakfast. After that, we were herded into public work details, picking up trash in parks, parking lots, and other public spaces where the sight of us—dressed in uniforms that screamed “convict”—made it clear we were disgraced sailors. People stared, some with pity, others with disdain.
One assignment stood out: repairing pallets. We’d pull out old, splintered boards and replace them with new ones, a menial task that kept our hands busy but left our minds free to wander. Lunch came in the form of a sack meal, eaten under the hot San Diego sun before we were sent back to Camp Snoopy for dinner. Evenings offered a small reprieve: volleyball in the courtyard, under the open sky, the faint scent of the ocean reminding us of a world that seemed impossibly distant.
On my second day, I made the mistake of engaging with a guy who had “trouble” written all over him. He was cocky, with a thick neck and a swagger that screamed Southern bravado. Indoors, he wore Ray-Bans like he was too cool for reality. Flanked by his cronies, he struck up a conversation while we were working out. At first, it seemed innocent—just a guy talking about bench presses and chest workouts. But I quickly realized he was more interested in showing off than helping.
I noticed his gang picking on a chubby kid who barely had the courage to look up, let alone stand up for himself. Later, in the showers, they targeted someone else, their laughter echoing like nails on a chalkboard. These guys were predators, feeding off weaker inmates to boost their egos. I stayed quiet, still grappling with the shock of being here, but I watched, absorbing everything.
Volleyball became my escape. The game was a brief oasis, a place to burn off steam and pretend life wasn’t crumbling around me. One weekend, during an especially heated match, the ball came sailing my way. Someone set it perfectly for me, right at the net. I jumped and slammed it as hard as I could. The ball smacked straight into the bully’s face, shattering his Ray-Bans and sending him sprawling backward. The courtyard fell silent as everyone turned to see what would happen next.
He stood up, blood trickling from his nose, murder in his eyes. Instinctively, I lunged at him before he could make a move, landing punch after punch. Adrenaline surged as I grabbed the back of his neck, holding him steady while I pummeled him. By the time the guards arrived, my knuckles were raw, and his face was a mess. They tackled me to the ground, shoving my face into the cement, and dragged me off to solitary confinement.
Solitary was a world of its own—a small, sterile cell with a steel bunk, a toilet-sink combo, and a metal school desk. The Bible was the only reading material allowed. My days were a loop of silence, broken only by mealtime and the guard’s hourly checks to ensure I was sitting at the desk, reading scripture. For 12 hours a day, I stared at that Bible, the words blurring as my mind wandered.
The boredom was soul-crushing, but it paled in comparison to the horror of one night when I heard another inmate, a senior chief convicted of killing his wife, trying to take his life. At 2 a.m., the sound of his skull smashing into steel bars echoed through the brig. Over and over, he ran full speed into the bars, splitting his head open, blood splattering everywhere. By the time the guards intervened, his face was a mangled mess. I saw him weeks later in the library, his head stapled together, his skull grotesquely misshapen. It was a chilling reminder of how far despair could push someone.
When I was finally released from solitary, I learned the bully had been shipped back to Michigan. Good riddance. With him gone, the atmosphere in the brig shifted slightly. I threw myself into working out, using the gym as both a physical and emotional outlet. My body grew stronger, but my mind was still grappling with the reality of what lay ahead.
The future was terrifying. The Navy had provided structure, purpose, and a paycheck. Now, all of that was slipping away. I’d fought so hard to stay in, clinging to the belief that this was my path, only to end up here, branded as a disgrace.
Despite everything, life in the brig wasn’t as unbearable as I’d imagined. The routine offered a strange sense of stability, and moments like volleyball games and communal meals brought a sliver of humanity to an otherwise dehumanizing experience. Still, the uncertainty of what came next loomed large.
I had no plan, no idea how to explain this chapter to anyone—family, friends, or future employers. All I knew was that I had survived this far. The present was all I had, and for now, that would have to be enough.
I was prisoner 017, a fallen sailor, a bruised and battered young man trying to find his footing in a world that felt rigged against him. But somehow, through the chaos, a small part of me held onto hope that I could still turn it all around.
