Carnett: The only time I saw my dad cry

I recall seeing my father cry only once.

We were one of those 1950s families that had an unwritten rule: No male tears in our household … ever. It was about behaving like a man.

I remember taking a thrown rock to the forehead when I was about 9. Blood gushed into my face. My friends screamed. I staggered home for assistance but didn’t cry.

Dad would tan our hides on those rare occasions that warranted it. I’d bend over the bed and he’d swing the belt. It wasn’t abuse to my mind. That’s how parents of dad’s generation disciplined their sons. When I had my own kids, I never once spanked them. But spanking wasn’t my style, nor was it the custom of my generation.

I’m not sure which strategy is more effective.

When dad spanked me I usually let out a loud “ow” with each blow — which ended up sounding like, “ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!”

But I wouldn’t cry. My brother, Bill, was more disciplined than I. He remained totally silent with every lashing.

Here’s how I witnessed my Old Man cry:

It was June of 1965, and he and mom drove me to Oakland to board a troop ship bound for Korea. At the time, I’d been a member of the U.S. Army for 15 months.

We left Costa Mesa at dawn on the appointed morning and checked into a Berkeley motel that afternoon. My parents planned to drop me off that evening at the terminal. They’d return to the motel and leave for home the next morning.

We had several hours to kill before I reported in. The three of us sat on the king-size bed in our motel room and watched a Doris Day movie on the color TV.

I put on my uniform and we went to dinner. Afterward, Dad drove us to Oakland Army Terminal just south of the Bay Bridge. It was quiet in the car as he shut off the engine.

What little conversation we had was forced. Then it was time for me to make my way — with duffle bag slung over my shoulder — to the check-in area. Four thousand of us would be boarding Uncle Sam’s cruise liner.

I dropped my bag to the pavement and gave mom a huge hug and kiss. She, of course, was sobbing but I was used to that. I squeezed her and said, “Bye, mom. Love you.”

I didn’t cry.

Next, I reached over to shake dad’s hand. The World War II veteran wasn’t comfortable with sloppy hugs or mushy kisses. But, surprise, surprise! He pulled me to him and I felt his torso shudder. It was accompanied by a barely audible … sob.

Wait! What?

I turned quickly, grabbed my bag and double-timed it to the reception center.

Already I missed them, but I wouldn’t see them again for 18 months. Dad’s sob so unhinged me that I almost lost it among my fellow GIs. I had to throttle my emotions.

Late the next morning, 4,000 of us boarded the USNS Gordon, an ungainly World War II-era troop ship.

Just before sunset, the engines groaned to life and we headed across the bay toward the Golden Gate Bridge. We were bound for Inchon Harbor, South Korea. The journey would take 23 days.

Dozens –- maybe even hundreds — waved at us from atop the Golden Gate as we passed beneath. Every GI onboard was topside, waving back. For an incandescent moment, we represented the flower of American youth.

As we passed the Farallon Islands, 30 miles west of the Golden Gate, we ran into a storm. The ship rolled without respite for three days. We began puking (no other term adequately describes it) on deck, in the latrines, in the mess hall, even in our bunks. It was disgusting, and it validated the wisdom of our individual decisions to join the Army rather than the Navy.

Should we survive this crossing, we vowed to kiss the soil upon which we landed.

And we did.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.