While the USS Shasta (AE-33) was visiting San Diego,
a few of my shipmates and I
wandered into the city.

We found ourselves at a beautiful outdoor mall
at the base of West Broadway,
surrounded by shops,
restaurants,
and the kind of easy laughter
that comes when sailors are briefly off duty.

We met several young women—
also in the Navy—
and shared a few moments of camaraderie.

Then a group of sailors passed by,
and one of them made a crude remark
to one of the women in our company.
I considered myself a chivalrous young man,
so I spoke up.
Told him his comment was uncalled for.

He stopped.
Turned.
Walked up to the bench where I sat
and asked if I wanted to “teach him a lesson.”

He was lean and muscular.
Not a brawler,
but enough to flatten me in half a minute.
I sheepishly apologized.

He puffed his chest and walked away,
leaving me embarrassed—
not just in front of my shipmates,
but in front of the women.

I felt like a coward.
Losing a fight would have been preferable to that shame.
But I knew something he didn’t:
we were both sailors.
Any scuffle would draw attention,
and the consequences would follow me home.

A reduction in rank.
A fine.
A mark on my record.
My wife and young daughter wouldn’t understand.

So I backed down.
Let him believe he’d won.
My true fear wasn’t the fight—
it was the cost of bravado.

I knew the song Coward of the County
by Kenny Rogers before that day.
“You don’t have to fight to be a man.”
Maybe it was already shaping me.
Maybe it whispered louder than my pride.

I didn’t win the moment—
but I kept my honor.
And that,
I’ve learned,
is the kind of man I want to be.

The Ordinary Path
is lit
for those who seek mercy,
memory,
and meaning.

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