Thank God. The Debates are over. Four of them, if you count the AAA-ball version of the Battle of the Veeps, Smokin’ Joe versus Paul Ryan.

I made the mistake of clicking over from the ballgame to the debate last night once I got back from Willow. I was watching the St. Louis Cardinals unravel in Game Seven, replete with errors, and it looked like the Giants from Baghdad-By-the-Bay were going to advance to meet my Tigers of the Motor City.

I was encouraged that it would not be St. Louis to play in the World Series. We did that in 1968, when the world was new. So fifteen minutes ago. Flipping over to the all-politics, all-the-time channel to see what the candidates were up to, I did not know quite what to think, even when the yammering was done. The Governor seemed to acquit himself pretty well. I mean, who knows how to pronounce the name of that idiot President of Iran, anyway?

The President was much closer to being on his game than he has been, though he was clearly irritated at some of his challenger’s assertions about the remarkable last four years. It is a little disconcerting. I certainly don’t blame the candidates for being a little shell-shocked. This last two weeks is going to be a blur for them out there on the road. The President is going to be using Air Force One as a camper, blistering his way across the battleground states. The talking heads are saying that the sprint to the final is just beginning; it makes me tired just watching the frenetic effort.

It is debatable as to whether this means anything in particular. The polls are either razor thin, or breaking away, or settling, depending on which one you examine. There is only one that matters, and that will be in exactly two weeks.

The best line of the evening was the President’s, and since the topic was my beloved and slightly bedraggled Navy, my ears pricked up. The Governor suggested that the Fleet that has declined to a level not seen since the pre-World War One naval building program.

“Well, Governor,” responded the President, voice dripping contempt, “we also have fewer horses and bayonets, because the nature of our military’s changed.” Mr. Obama then proceeded to give a tutorial on some of the amazing capabilities in the current force. Apparently there are ships on which airplanes can land, and an astonishing capability for some ships to go all the way underwater, powered on nuclear energy or something.

It occurred to me that a cavalry charge with fixed bayonets still has an imperative all its own, and the folks who were besieged in Benghazi for seven long hours would have welcomed one with open arms. Airplanes could have flown there in less than an hour from ships at sea, or land based from bases in Italy, but of course they did not.

I thought it was interesting that the political football de jour centered on a year just two before our pal Mac was born in Iowa, which shows you how things go around in the course of a century. Three hundred, four hundred ships. I don’t know what the correct number might be. I know how the Navy counts it, though, and that is how long you have to stay out there until the mission is complete. The fewer the number of ships, the longer the kids have to steam out of sight of the shore.

Something has got to give. There is not enough money in the world to pay for everything, and despite all the arguing, no one is talking about how to adjust expectations to reality.

We were talking about it at the Willow Bar last night. It felt a little like old times: The Ensign was there, looking crisp in his khakis. Elisabeth-with-an-S was on the civilian side of the bar, looking sleek and relaxed; The Master Chief elbowed his way into the Amen Corner for refreshment, the Johns, both with and without H’s were there, in between Clean Coal receptions up the street, Senior Executive Jeff popped up, and some business got done between Jake, Melissa and a couple company guys who were new in the rotation in between tall glasses of Mac’s favorite brew, Bell’s Two Hearted Ale, and the famous Willow Happy Hour White wine.

I realized the shock of Mac’s departure is beginning to transition into a sort of grudging acceptance. Earlier, Mac’s family was working the details to mark his passing- Mary Pat at Murphy’s Funeral Home was at her efficient best, working contacts with churches and Arlington National Cemetery on the speaker phone as the Family worked through the long list of official documents, notifications and logistical details, I was impressed with the number of things that Mac had pre-arranged.

There was absolutely no debate about the fact that his preparation was thorough, and I resolved for the twentieth time or so to “get my shit together” about the paperwork required to exit this life with as much grace and efficiency as he did. Murphy’s is going to do me, too, whenever that happens, and I made a little checklist to get started.

I looked at it blankly when I got back to the office. It is debatable if I will get much done in the near term, and will probably defer things until it is too late. Good luck, kids.

It will be a busy week, culminating in the Annual Meeting of our little professional association and the Intelligence Dining In formal dinner this Friday.

Once we get beyond all that, the memorial service has been set for a week from Thursday, two in the afternoon at Faith Lutheran Church just up the road from Big Pink.

After I made a note to look up the characteristics of the astonishing warships the candidates talked about. Airplanes actually landing on ships. Who would have thunk it?

For God’s sake, let’s get this thing over with. There is life to be celebrated, life to be lived. Let’s get on with actually doing something about it, shall we?

(One of those amazing ships that can carry airplanes. Photo USN via Battlefleet.)

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com