I spent the early part of this week in familiar territory, the beautiful city of San Diego. I was there to watch the final moments of service the USS Elliot (DD-967) would provide to our country, as it was being decomissioned. I’d been on a recent kick to revisit my old haunts, so naturally I could not miss the opportunity to say goodbye to a home which stirred more emotion in me than probably any other.

This mass of steel was where I lived and worked for three long years. For three years, it sheperded me around the world, always bringing me safely back to this great country. Walking its decks, I learned what I was made of. Standing at its rails, I watched some of the planet’s most breathtaking scenery. Many nights I spent captivated beneath the nighttime skies, billions of stars above me. My soul leapt the surf with visiting dolphins, their skin glistening in the sun as they raced the bow, and glowing eerily as they weaved through the nighttime wake. I toiled with zen-like serenity through countless hours spent buffing decks and shining brass.

The crewmembers came and went, each with their role to play onboard. Though each officially went by rank and last name, I prided myself on knowing almost everyone’s first name, though there were often close to 400 crewmembers.

It was also where I learned a lot about leadership. Once the gangway is removed and the colors are shifted it quickly becomes apparent who is deserving of respect and who is not. At sea, there is no place to hide. There is no faking; no doubts about who you are. When bounded by miles of ocean, your real self rises to the surface.

For some I had looked up to, the initial aura of respect unraveled. For others, it began to shine. Regardless of who you worked with, though, you had to get along. Because if you couldn’t, there could never be more than 563 feet of separation.

The shipmate I visited Tuesday was one of the guys I looked up to. Paul Wilkes was a second-class petty officer when I knew him. Now he is a “mustang”: an enlisted sailor who has climbed the ranks to officer. Mustangs are the strength of the fleet. They rightfully command respect from every level of the chain of command. Paul wears the mustang label quite comfortably. Knowing him from my time onboard, I am not surprised he got where he is.

Paul has always been a straight-shooter, often a rare thing in a military where the CYA (“cover your ass”) rule runs rampant. He is honest to a fault, which is why his commanders always trusted him. And his watch teams. It wasn’t always easy, though. Paul didn’t care if it was easy, he cared that it was right. I learned early on that when Paul decided on some decision or fact, it was usually the correct decision.

Another influence was my first captain, Timothy LaFleur. I knew then he was destined for greatness and my hunch has proved correct. He now wears stars and commands the entire Pacific surface fleet: hundreds of ships. LaFleur was “squared-away.” He commands respect and is a natural leader. If you didn’t have your shit together, you got the dressing down you deserved. Conversely, he rewarded achievement generously.

One early morning, I neared the end of a midwatch with a senior petty officer as the watch supervisor. The watch sup was supposed to deliver the captain’s morning intelligence report after revilie. This particular morning, the watch sup refused to go, deciding his current activity was more important.

Foolish choice. You don’t keep the captain waiting, especially before he’s had his coffee.

As requests for the report from the bridge became more insistent, I pleaded with the watch sup to deliver the report. It was no use: he wouldn’t budge.

Taking matters into my own hand, I grabbed the tardy report and headed to the bridge, knowing full well I’d be walking into the firestorm of a furious commanding officer. Sure enough, as I arrived at the captain’s chair he let loose with tirade about his missing report. I stood there respectfully, my hair being blown back from the force of his anger.

“Why is an E-3 bringing me my report?!” he roared.

I gulped, scared as hell. “Because, sir, no one else would,” I replied.

With that, he looked me over for a moment, turned around, and quietly read his report.

From that point on, the captain respected me. I’ll never forget it.

It was good to see my shipmates Paul, Matt, and Joey; LaFleur, my old “old man;” and the officers who also had an impact on me: Dan Haggarty and Frank Slattery. Seeing how high those leaders had risen who were so influential in my development gave me pause to think “what if?” My thoughts drifted back to the same ones I had when I first arrived: that one day I would wear khakis. In some time shift out there, I do today. I savored that thought for a moment, and then let it go.

I smiled as the image faded. How things change.

It was then time to say goodbye to the place where I became a leader: the ship I alternately cursed and loved. The one I couldn’t wait to see disappear when I walked away almost twelve years ago but has never left my thoughts since.

I watched in silence as the band played, the colors were struck, and the last crewmembers filed onto the pier. Soon I found myself alone: an empty ship in front of me, and a world of memories behind me.

The USS Elliot has been decomissioned. It will sail my memories forever.