Sea Story: Looking for an Engineer in All the Wrong Places

One of the people who I have enjoyed most in the Millionaire Money Mentors forums is Doug Nordman.

He is a FIRE old-timer who retired many years ago from the Navy. In the forums he offers a unique perspective on multiple money topics (angel investing, transitioning assets to children, work/life balance, etc.) Plus he has the rare combined background of a military officer and avid surfer (I know, it sounds like the beginning of a joke) which makes for some amazing perspectives on many subjects.

If you want to learn more about him, you can read his short biography, but here is a quick overview:

Retired at age 41 after 20 years with the U.S. Navy’s submarine force, today Doug Nordman is an enthusiastic surfer, an omnivorous reader, a martial arts student, and a veteran of many chaotic home-improvement projects.

With his retired Navy Reserve spouse, they raised their daughter in Hawaii. Life is really good and busier than ever as he and his family continue to discover the joys of financial independence and early retirement.

In addition, Doug writes at Military Financial Independence.

Time after time Doug has shared some great wisdom with a forum member or mentor that has been timely, insightful, and just what was needed at the moment.

Along the way, he often mixes in some very funny and interesting stories about military life that keep us all in stitches while teaching us something about money. I find the stories fascinating as they give us insights into a world that is so foreign to most of us. Combine that with the respect that I have for those who serve our country and that makes the stories even better!

That’s why today (and especially today since it’s Memorial Day) I wanted to share one of those great stories with ESI Money readers. It’s not only entertaining, but the story addresses an issue many of us either deal with now or had to in our careers — how to balance the high demands of work and career (and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that could make our career for a decade or two) with the needs of our family and the desire for a great life outside of work.

As I read this story the first time, I’m not so sure I would have had the courage to make the decision Doug made, but we’ll never know.

Anyway, I think many of you will be able to appreciate this tale of a great opportunity with terrible costs. What would you have done? Or maybe you’ve had to face this yourself. If so, please share in the comments what you did and what happened.

With that said, let me turn it over to Doug…

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This sea story has morals about financial independence, quality of life, and knowing your values. It has a happy ending, too!

Looking back on my years in the Navy, I made a major choice in my mid-20s that favored my personal life over my career. Over the following decade it cost me several professional goals and at least one promotion, yet I’ve never regretted it.

No Work-Life Balance

The 1980s Cold War was especially brutal on military families. You were expected to be ready to go anywhere and do anything for as long as it took to complete the mission against the Evil Empire. Navy retention was awful and submarine warfare was hot, so short shore tours were routine and even back-to-back sea-duty tours were not unheard of. There was a little flexibility in duty preference, but if you managed to luck into a “cushy job” then the personnel assignment officer would hold it against you for the rest of your career.

Waaaay back in 1986, I was four years into my service obligation and approaching the end of my tour on my first submarine. I’d finished my two years in the Engineering Department of USS JAMES MONROE (SSBN 622 BLUE) with fascinating division officer duties like “Chemistry and Radiological Controls Assistant”, “Damage Control Assistant”, and “Quality Assurance Officer”. They were incredibly complex (and paperwork-intensive) jobs with long hours and (very) short liberty.

If any of our gear broke in either of those first two billets, our division was immediately highly visible at all levels of the command. If the young CRA clumsily spills some radioactive coolant in a passageway, or the inexperienced DCA accidentally breaks all the crew’s toilets at the same time, there’s absolutely no sympathy. The fatigue and the stress was unbelievable. 35 years later I still have occasional nightmares.

In the prior 12 months I’d (finally!) qualified at all of my officer watchstations and earned my submariner’s gold dolphin insignia. In June I had just promoted to lieutenant (with a big pay raise). In August I’d finished many weeks of 14-hour days studying for the rigorous Engineer’s exam, followed by two days at Naval Reactors for five hours of essay questions plus three oral interviews. I was now considered capable qualified to be an Engineer Officer on any U.S. Navy submarine’s nuclear reactor system.

On the other hand, during the last four years my formerly gung-ho attitude had gunged beyond “burnout” to “crispy critter.”

Married in the Navy

Because life wasn’t already busy enough with the Engineer’s exam, my wife and I had married a few days afterward. She was a Navy officer too, and we’d spent the last four years separated by thousands of miles at our different duty stations. (My submarine was in Scotland and her anti-submarine warfare command was in the Azores.)

Our wedding logistics are a whole different sea story, but let’s just say that it was one of the most intense weeks of our lives. I’d passed the NR exam on Tuesday, and we spent the next three days scrambling with wedding logistics and rehearsals. We married on Saturday, I deployed on Sunday, and we would celebrate our honeymoon next year. Now I was back on the submarine, staring at my wedding band, and wondering what our married lives would be like when we actually started living together.

Our future was bright. After this final three-month deterrent patrol on my ballistic missile submarine, I had orders to the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, CA. I was one of a handful of submariners in the entire fleet that year to get those orders.

I’d paid a price for that privilege. I’d fought the Bureau of Personnel’s submarine assignment officer tooth and nail to escape our community’s traditional “black hole” of instructor duty at Nuclear Power School. I felt that I’d earned the good deal at Monterey, and I had threatened to resign from active duty. My spouse and I had even pushed up our marriage to ensure that we’d be stationed together. The BUPERS assignment officer grumbled about “needs of the Navy” but he agreed to follow the co-location rules if I agreed to stay on active duty for a few more years.

After my master’s degree, I’d have to go back to sea as a department head with a 1-in-3 chance to be the Engineer Officer on any of over a hundred submarines. It was considered the most prestigious department-head job above Navigator or Weapons Officer. It was also the highest-paying one: the Naval Reactors admiral had convinced the BUPERS admiral that submarine Engs were worthy of a rare “spot promotion.”

If I got that job then I’d exchange my lieutenant’s train-track insignia for lieutenant commander’s gold oak leaves with another 25% pay raise. I’d also pin on those oak leaves a good two years ahead of my year group. It would be a(nother) brutal tour, but a few years later I’d be assured of a permanent promotion to lieutenant commander. I’d almost certainly be selected for the next career step of Executive Officer.

There was no time to daydream, though, because we still had to get our JimmyFish ready for sea and my final patrol. Since I’d just qualified for an Engineer billet, I had to step aside in our Engineering Department to let other eager junior officers get their own beatings experience. As my reward, I had just become the ship’s Communicator and Radio Division Officer. I was handling stacks of highly classified material, but the job was slightly less intense (and less treacherous) than Engineering.

I was barely hanging on after burning through the last few months, but I was at the highest rung of the junior-officer ladder and the top nuke among seven JOs. I might even be able to sleep six hours without jerking awake for engineering problems. Life was good!

An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse

A few days before we got our boat underway, we learned that the Engineer Officer of another submarine in our squadron had broken his leg. He’d slipped and fallen down a ladder, but the cynical joke was that he’d thrown himself down it out of desperation to get off his boat. It was the oldest sub of our class and it was overdue for its nuclear refueling overhaul in shipyard. It was worn out, broken down, and filthy from all the resulting leaky systems. It was a horrible job to keep it running and I was happy that I’d managed to avoid the same issues with our boat.

Or so I thought.

The next morning my Commanding Officer invited me up to his stateroom to “have a talk.” (Ruh-roh.) The squadron Commodore had told his COs to find a volunteer to take over for that old submarine’s Eng. They’d gone through the squadron’s list of newly qualified lieutenants, and my name was at the top.

My CO said that the job was mine if I wanted it. I’d start that weekend. He was sorry to lose me, but MONROE would survive the gap that my departure would leave in Radio Division. He knew that he had to help the other boat with their even bigger Engineering Department problems.

It was an incredible opportunity. This once-in-a-career chance would never be repeated. I had just received the unrefusable offer.

If (or rather, when) I accepted, I’d finish my MONROE division officer tour nearly four months early with a fantastic performance report and a medal. I’d be the other submarine’s Engineer Officer three years ahead of my peers. Not only that, but I’d have a spot promotion and wear the gold oak leaves nearly five years early. After I left the Eng billet I might have to revert to lieutenant for a few years, but I’d be at the top of the next promotion list. The extra pay with the spot promotion was a thicker layer of icing on the career cake.

And wait, there’s more! Because the job had come up with no notice, the BUPERS assignment officer was willing to sweeten the offer by letting the me stay in the billet for 24 months. That was long enough to get full credit for a department-head tour. I’d be so far ahead of the career track that I’d probably be fully promoted to lieutenant commander a year early.

“Better yet”, as a newb Engineer, no one would expect much of me for the first six months and I could hardly do wrong. I hadn’t even been to Submarine Department Head School and I was taking over an engineroom in terrible condition. My lack of experience meant I could jump right in without worrying too much about making mistakes. With hard work (and a little luck) I’d be winning more “top nuke” awards.

As much as my CO hated to lose me after investing two years of training me, he could only wish that he’d had this chance in his career. He had no reason to keep me on board, especially for this unprecedented opportunity. Besides, the older submarine’s CO was his friend and a good guy. They’d take care of me.

The situation was straight out of the recruiting posters: “Mission first, people always.” “Accelerate your life.” “See the world.” “Pride runs deep.”

All I had to do was salute smartly, pack my seabag, and pick up my new orders at the squadron personnel office.

An Offer I Could Refuse

But. I had a lot of “buts.”

I had just married and I already had a great set of orders! I’d survived the toughest months of my life to enjoy a victory lap on this final patrol. I was really looking forward to shore duty, and eager to actually live with my spouse after four years of doing distance. I couldn’t imagine how I’d break the news to her. I could probably put through a transatlantic phone call, and I’d certainly send telegrams and write letters, but we wouldn’t have time to discuss it face-to-face.

Even worse, our “getting back together for good” would be delayed for another two years. How in the world would I explain that my career (and at least $100K) had a higher priority over our new married lives?

Well, that question had a simple answer: there was no way to explain it. I was a rookie spouse, but I already knew that my career didn’t have (and never would have) priority over our marriage.

Today, 35 years older (and possibly wiser), I know that I should have asked my CO’s advice and then requested a few hours’ personal time before delivering a bright-eyed “Yes, sir!!” Needs of the Navy.

However, a crisis will immediately and involuntarily force you to reveal your true values, and they were written all over my face. My CO could already tell that I wasn’t the volunteer they were seeking, and he couldn’t hide his disappointment. I mumbled some platitudes about being very happy where I was, but the damage was done. He nodded his head, dismissed me, and I slunk out of his stateroom — and walked away from my career’s brightly glowing future.

The next day I heard that another lieutenant had stepped up. I heaved a private sigh of relief.

The Fallout and Rewards

Work (and life) went on. I had a great patrol as Communicator, finished my tour, and earned another medal. My spouse and I reunited and drove to California. Monterey’s lifestyle (and liberty!!) was better than we’d ever fantasized. I might have spent more time on the liberty than the academics, yet I still managed to finish my thesis and get my degree.

There was karma payback. After I’d finessed the assignment officer out of teaching at Nuclear Power School, and then after I declined the incredible Engineer career opportunity, I’m pretty sure that BUPERS put a little note in my personnel file. I didn’t care. I’d shed a little of my crispy burnout coating and I was ready for my next sea duty.

My spouse and I were (mostly) stationed together for the rest of our careers. (That’s a whole different sea story too.) I eventually promoted to lieutenant commander (on schedule). I made the cut for Executive Officer but I never got the call, so I stayed a lieutenant commander. I spent the rest of my career at staffs and training commands and was required to retire at 20 years.

Despite giving up that $100K extra pay and another promotion, my spouse and I maintained our high savings rate. Six years after our wedding, we started our family. We reached financial independence a little after our 13th anniversary, and I retired just before our 16th. A few months ago we celebrated our 35th anniversary.

Our daughter launched from the nest on schedule and started her own Navy career. (I shared this story with her during her training.) She worked long hours on sea duty, dealt with her own burnout, and maintained a high savings rate. She and her spouse (also on active duty) are now raising the world’s smartest and cutest toddler granddaughter. They’re on the cusp of their own financial independence and happily contemplating their future quality of life.

A few years ago I ran into a college classmate. As we renewed our acquaintance I learned that he’d been stationed on that old boat back in 1986, working for the Engineer with the broken leg. I mentioned my little part of that story. His response? “Oh, really?!? Hey, thanks a bunch, good buddy.”

At the time he was the Assistant Engineer. When I didn’t take the job and nobody else volunteered, he was ordered to step up. Unfortunately he was still too junior to study for his Engineer’s exam, which meant he wasn’t qualified to take over as Eng. He had to do all of the extra work under his Executive Officer’s supervision. My classmate only had the job for the 90-day patrol, and he had to give it up when they returned to port. He did all of the extra work with none of the rewards that I’d been offered.

To add insult to injury, the admiral’s staff had randomly selected that boat for a surprise nuclear inspection at the end of the patrol. It went so badly that they nearly failed, but the inspectors appreciated that the boat didn’t have a “real” Eng and was overdue for overhaul.

I’d dodged a bullet. Heck, I’d ducked the entire clip.

Perhaps my classmate gained valuable experience. However he got no credit for a department head tour, no spot promotion to the next rank, no extra pay, nothing. To nobody’s surprise, he left the Navy as soon as he served his time.

I told him about my work/life priorities. He understood.

In retrospect, the potential glory of that 1986 career opportunity can’t hold a candle to any of my actual life since then. I reacted by reflex but I still made the right work/life choice.

What if my spouse and I had married later rather than sooner? What if I’d seized the Engineer challenge, delayed shore duty for two years, helped the other boat, promoted early, made lots of money, maybe been selected for Executive Officer, and earned yet another promotion?

Don’t ask my spouse. I didn’t even share this story with her until we were safely in Monterey together.

Don’t ask our daughter. My spouse and I started our family because after six wonderful years together we felt ready for parenting.

I’m eagerly anticipating the day when I can share this story with our granddaughter. Eventually she’ll slam head-first into a similar work/life choice, and I hope she’ll be ready for it!