Wellington and Family

US Marines in Wellington

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I'm not sure if I've ever been closer to my grandfather. I'm standing here looking at a memorial recognizing the US Marine's landing in this harbor before their invasion of the Japanese controlled islands in the Pacific. The first time I read the bronze letters and saw the globe and anchor design it didn't register at all. I thought about Victor and then about the Marine Hymn. Then I read it again and realized that it wasn't abstract it was personal. History. Right here, right in front of me, on a pier built half way around the world I had connected deeply with one of my ancestors for the first time. Had he stood here? Are he and I the only Bibbys to visit New Zealand?

I thought later that I would visit the United States Embassy that is located a few kilometers away from the plaque. Maybe my friendly local ambassador would walk me into a dusty room and find, from memory, a leather bound book that had my name in it. "Ah yes here it is... Joe Bibby, USMC Pt. 1st Class, May 1942". And with that I would have an intimate connection with that name that had never been possible. Instead I was told that it wasn't that kind of place and that I couldn't even get in the gates. A nice woman came down to tell me that I wanted the consulate (which my book says they are as well) but that I would be disappointed there too. I was in a good mood, so I grinned and said "Well, at least I can tell my friends that I tried to buy a United States Ambassador lunch." The guards (NOT U.S. Marines, but local Maori dudes) couldn't keep from laughing. I guess it was pretty funny. But alas, I never got to read from a 50 year old book the name of my grandfather and see physically the proof that he too was here in Wellington with nothing but time on his hands.

Was he bored? I've been bored in this city. Was he drunk? I've been drunk in this city. Was he given time to walk around? I feel like I know even the smallest streets here. Was he even allowed off of the ship he came in? Was he briefed in tropical jungle fighting tactics? On beach landings under fire? Was he told that he could not have a mohawk? (If he was, he ignored it!! Grandaddy FTW!!) Was it the first place he had landed since the States? Had he been out of the country before? Did he know where he was going? Was he quiet, did he keep to himself, afraid that the end was near? Was he happy with the equipment he had at hand? Did he have great friendships that were able to anchor reality in what must have been unreal times?

I feel a lot like him, and I think that some of the above questions resonate feelings that I have. I don't know where I'm going. I'm bored sometimes. Sometimes I feel that the world is so big that the few places I've been are inconsequential. To be clear, I'm not trying to compare my mental state to someone who is at war.

I'm not afraid. Just a little lonely sometimes. Other times I can't get alone enough. The last hostel I was in sucked. I said I was leaving town so they would give me my next night's money back. I'm going to sleep in my car (that's why I bought it anyway) tonight in a car park that I heard about from some other travelers. My car is there now as a matter of fact.

But here I am. The people are walking by. There are other plaques on this sea wall as well, but none of them as big as this one. This wall seems to be a monument to the men (and women?) who came here to resupply and then move on to either death of life. For my lineage it was life. And that's why I'm here.