The Solitude He Seeks

July Fourth was supposed to be a time for celebrating the nation's independence. It was supposed to be a chance for veterans to revel in the glory of serving one’s country. The day was supposed to be one of peace and solitude from the rigors of life, a chance to escape into the respite provided by the holiday. For Walter "Duke" Glishke, the night was the stuff of nightmares.

The orange tinge began streaming into the cove near the VA Medical Center at Bay Pines shortly after the fireworks displays along the coastlines quit. The slow-rolling fog was choking. Blinding, even.

By the time Glishke was finally able to fall asleep, he was no longer in his home, and the orange tinge was no longer coming from spent fireworks. He was back on his gunship, off the coast of Vietnam. He was in the middle of a firefight with the Vietcong and the smoke was coming from the five-inch barrels on his boat.

On nights like this, Glishke wakes up screaming. He watches movies to calm his nerves. On some nights he doesn’t sleep at all. The flashbacks to his days in Vietnam come nightly, but Friday was especially bad because of the smoke, the holiday and the people.

Glishke isn’t the typical next-door neighbor. He lives on one of two boats anchored into the cove next to the VA medical center in near solitude. His only companions are two dogs, a bird and his girlfriend. There are 13 other boats anchored within this community, but they interact only when in need.

“What peace I have, I have being out here,” the 52-year-old veteran says as he sits at his desk aboard the Seahorse. His unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt reveals a round protruding belly that’s grown with age. His graying beard grows ragged and wild. When he moves, it’s slow and deliberate and takes a great deal of his energy.

“I’m living the life of Riley,” he likes to say, a reference to a 1950s family sitcom he used to watch as a child.

Glishke served in the U.S. Coast Guard from 1968 to 1973, during the height of Vietnam and against the wishes of family, friends and his congressman. At the time, he was working as an aide for Robert J. Corbett, the congressional representative for Allegheny County, Pa.

Glishke soon found that his job status prevented him from enlisting into the armed services. It was only through a compromise with Corbett that he enlisted in the Coast Guard.

“I still remember him saying to his secretary, ‘Well Margaret, we won; he won’t be going to Vietnam,’” Glishke said. “He didn’t think the Coast Guard served overseas, but it did.”

Glishke is still haunted by his service. The same four dreams cycle every night. He explodes over common annoyances. But he adamantly believes he made the right decision.

“If I hadn’t gone, I’d probably believe the same (things) these politicians did about the war,” Glishke said. “They didn’t even call it a war; they called it a police action. Well, newsflash, when you’re picking up somebody and he’s dripping blood, I don’t know if he makes the distinction between this.”

Glishke has a series of conditions that worsen when he’s around people. His post-traumatic stress disorder becomes hypersensitive during the daily grind of ordinary chores. He’s suffered from epileptic seizures since he was a child, although he wasn't officially diagnosed with the condition until the last few years. And with age comes cardiovascular problems that are worsened by his inactivity.

When Glishke first moved onto a boat in 1995, it had the bare necessities -- an eight-inch thick mattress, a kitchen and some books. He called his kids from a pay phone during stops at a marina for gas or food. Eventually, they talked him into getting a pager.

“I really should’ve never done that,” he said.

The pager grew into a desktop computer with wireless Internet service, a laptop, two cell phones, a fax machine, printer and satellite television. While he is more accessible now than ever, his peace still comes from sitting on the deck of his ship feeding ducks. Alone.

While the lifestyle allows Glishke to regulate his health problems, it’s not always easy making getting everyday necessities.

It’s a Sunday afternoon and he pulls out two diet Pepsis from his cooler only to find they are lukewarm.

Every eight days he makes trips to the Madeira Beach Marina to buy gasoline for his boats and power generator. All his consumption must be tightly regulated because if something runs out, it marks the beginning of an hour-long trek to get more.

Glishke waddles his way onto a powerboat, starts up the engine and sails to the marina. The trip goes smoothly, a marked contrast from the afternoon of the Fourth. On his way back from a boating trip near the gulf, Glishke’s boat stalled at the mouth of the cove. He had to be pulled in by one of the residents.

“In tough times, people here will pull together,” he said. “You might not even get along with that person, and he’ll end up giving you a hand.”

The lifestyle does have other sets of problems. During storms, his boat takes in water and runs the risk of crashing against a neighbor’s. In 1996, his boats were swept away by a hurricane. He said that police at times have searched his property without a warrant.

But the lifestyle offers him the peace that the holiday's celebrations were supposed to exemplify.