1980 Special Edition at Lunch After the Super Bowl Daily

Pyongyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK)

Editor’s Note: In 1980, United States Forces Korea (USFK) operated amidst intense political turmoil in South Korea, marked by the May 17 Coup d’état and the subsequent Kwangju Uprising. USFK maintained security as the ROK students rioted. We worked in a bunker constructed from an Imperial Japanese hotsi bath built during their occupation of the nation. In addition to watching the north and moving magnetic markers on chart boards, we supported major exercises like “Team Spirit,” while navigating the transition of our host government to a military dictatorship under Chon Tu Hwan. 1980 also marked Socotra House Publications first visit to North Korea. I did it by walking around the conference table on the North side of the treaty center in Panmunjom, a village just north of the de facto border (DMZ) between North Korea and South Korea, where the 1953 Korean Armistice Agreement that ended the Korean War was signed. The second visit there was a lot better, but that is another letter.

16 September 1980
The Snake Ranch

Avenue de la President Chon

Dear Teens,

I am wearing the shirt you sent, listening to Tim Buckley, and getting sentimental over not being on the far north shore of Boston. You have really got something there—and as much as I like Asia, I confess that it really doesn’t hold a candle to drinking and driving on the byways of the good old United Snakes.

Let me casually outline some of the idiocy to which I have subjected myself over the last month or so. But before doing that I want to express my admiration for your Boat. Impressive achievement, but that has been the hallmark of your projects thus far, right along the line.

I heard of Abbey Hoffman’s surrender from the winds of Wellesley Island, when I lost in a quiver of some minutes’ duration. If I had to go underground, that would be a superb spot. Perhaps like the notorious Buddy Slocum spending nickels at the Anchor Lounge, or the lost pleasures of Ina Island—or as a fugitive from Fascist justice, persecuted unjustly for the trifling offense of selling a mere three pounds of coke to some pig narc Nazi.

I confess I have been thinking a lot about Beantown recently. About the spectacular autumn of—was it really that short a time ago?—1975, sunning through the golden fall right into December, chipping paint on that magnificent hulk of a Herreshoff yacht, drinking Labatt’s at my own pace, each day a golden haze after the ritual of the Boston Globe and some red-tinged illegal smoke. I would like to come back, maybe own a small piece of it up the coast near or north of the New Hampshire border.

Naturally, that is why I performed an act of lunacy over the weekend, which may preclude my getting to the States for the next three years. Allow me to elucidate.

There I was. I started sinking heavily about a month ago. It was that kind of Korea month. The swimming pool was the only place on base where you could buy a cocktail during the day. I started hanging around with the pool crowd, sunning in the post-monsoon blazing sun, plunging into the cool water, and having some drinks. Due to the unusual schedule I keep, there was always some time to pound down a couple.

Things began to get out of control. You may know the feeling. Each time a little more berserk than the last. One guy’s change-of-station, clean-out-the-liquor-cabinet party turns nasty. Nearly winds up in violence with a character who never succeeded in getting totally out of the Cambodian border zone. Dodging the MPs out in town after curfew—certainly enough to scotch a promising young Intel type (who, if not expected to be totally exemplary, is at least expected to be discreet enough to keep the TS Codeword clearance for the job).

Near brain damage on another occasion; thankfully no prisoners were taken. A near-fatal run-in with adultery: she was so good-looking, her accent so Dublin, her breasts so enormous. A near-constant hangover, or working one off on the mid-shift, coming to sobriety somewhere around two-thirty in the morning.

It was like being on liberty the entire time. Whew. It was getting irrational out.

I was possessed of the desire to go to Thailand and fight the Viets—from a distance, albeit, but still well outside the norms. Filled with despondency over the distance between myself and Jane, which had never been completely resolved in itself, and the prospect that in order to get out of Korea I had either to take a job back in Japan for years, or get out of the Navy altogether—meaning an involuntary extension right here in that stupid bunker under that odious military dictatorship (so symmetrical: serving in a military dictatorship within a military dictatorship) for months and months.

So, the kid partied harder, having some fun with a vengeance unprecedented since my early days on the aircraft carrier.

Ready to go back to sea by way of contrast. It is enough to make a strong man weep. I brushed the tears from my cheeks and ordered another round.

Thankfully, things finally came to a head. My finances had been in shambles since I took some advance pay to make the down payment on those lots I bought up at Martin Lake in Michigan near my folks cabin. The payments were steep for unimproved land, the price of a short-term note. Paying off the Dead Horse advance made a cruel joke of my paychecks, but the light was drawing nearer at the end of the tunnel.

On October 15th, I would not only go back to the lordly sum of my full check, but my friends in Washington were going to kick in an additional 11.5 percent, which would bring me all the way up to the median poverty level. The Navy had finally got around to adjudicating my claim against the thieves we employ here in Korea, and informed me to stand by for nearly ¥1800 smackeroos straight from the Treasury.

The Book had finally seen the light of day. Oh sure, the typos are horrendous, but what can you expect from a publisher who doesn’t speak English? I began to quake with the thought of having more than one solitary twenty-spot to rub together in my jeans.

Thankfully again, just as solvency was staring me in the face, I got a call from Bro Spike. I had mentioned in one of these recurring fantasies that I might actually be in possession of some venture capital by the end of the year. I thought a couple of lots out near Salmon, Idaho, on the middle fork of the river might be just what the doctor ordered—part of my three-corner program to have some real estate in the areas of the country I like best.

Spike had taken me at my word.

“Dear J.R.,” went his letter. “If you act now, for a limited time, you too can be a part of the great American Dream. For as little as $1500 down and pennies and nickels a month, you can buy fifty percent of a place you have never seen, which will enable me to live virtually rent-free for all the time I want, throwing wild parties and breaking windows.”

How could I pass it up? I examined the shaky finances. If I tipped everything up on one side and all the loose change ran down to the corners, it was just barely conceivable that I could come up with the $1.5K. I shook my head. This was going to restrict me to under a single bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey every five days, with no trips uptown to Sam’s Country Bar, and white bread and bean sandwiches to live on.

I wrote the check, knowing that Spike had actually stumbled onto a great semi-illicit deal that he needed front money for, and this would get him the in he needed for the Big Score. I mailed it anyway.

I took another bite of the white bread and bean sandwich. I wondered how I was going to support all this frivolity. Would I be forced to work for a living, or was there a way to pay off at least one of the properties before hitting the silk and relying on the vagaries of the civilian world—and perhaps eke out a good time?

What I needed was a trip to the beaches. A deep tropical tan. Someplace where English was at least the official language. Would the Navy actually send me to Hawaii for my twilight tour?

A job offer suddenly materialized. My ex-boss called from CINCPACFLT and said he needed a few good men to hang around on the beach and drink Primo Lager. I could be just the boy for the job.

Anyhow, I have now got a period of enforced moderation coming up, which should be good for long-range decision making. You raise some very good points about the military life, but I confess there are times when being in the costumed services isn’t all that bad. Maybe that’s just because I’ve been out here so long.

Let me know what the job market is like around Beantown, and I’ll continue to update the situation from the very ramparts of what passes for democracy in this neck of the woods. I could always use my generous GI bennies and go back to school, lose my land, and be flat broke. After all, that’s where I am now.

I took the liberty of posting a copy of my Nick Danger book to Jim’s folks Bud and Eleanor, as El once had the courage to ask for a copy of my first book. I hope she has recovered.

Wish I could have seen Bonds in his unisuit, casually checking out the bottom life—and Wheels, astonishing. Haven’t seen him since we helped his folks move out of the old house in Grosse Pointe. Give my best to Bob, and tell the Callahans that I’ll be angling to keep a place open on the Big Island if things ever calm down enough for Edgar to move on to his next fantasy.

Thumbs up & bums away!

Vic

Copyright 1980 Vic Socotra